Ferrari my ass...
revisited
Nine years ago, I moved from
Sebastopol, California to Austin, Texas. The week
before I moved, I typed up my last article, a screed
about high-performance cars for Sonoma Style
Magazine.
It never got published. Apparently,
my editor thought it sucked. It might have too,
since I penned it under a phony name: Bob Baxter.
Although the name is fairly common, I took it from
someone I knew. Bob Baxter used to work as the bar
manager at Sourdough Rebo's in Santa Rosa,
California, and I despised the fucker. So whenever I
printed something I thought might be below my usual
standards, I always used his name.
Bob Baxter is the worst fuckin'
writer in Sonoma County, California. Bar none.
Being professional, I sent a cover
letter in with the article. Being an asshole, I'm
reprinting that letter now. (Note: At the time I
wrote the article, prostitutes used to work several
blocks of Santa Rosa Avenue, across the freeway from
the Corby Auto Mall. I understand that doesn't
happen anymore. See? You can't go home again.)
Dear Boss Larry,
I bet you think I missed my
deadline, but here it is, 11:59 and some seconds
and I'm sliding this bit of mischief under the
door.
After considerable thought, I
decided the only person qualified to write the
sidebar was Tom himself, since you and I hate cars
and he seems to like them. I realize this might
surprise you, since I often don't show good
judgment or initiative. Enclosed are brochures,
just to make the sidebar business all the easier.
Should you decide to use this
story, I think fifty bucks is fair. I really hope
you do decide to do this story, or else I've spent
a useless afternoon at the fucking Corby Auto Mall
while I could have been on the other side of the
freeway getting a blow job!!!!!!!!
Should you have any questions
regarding the article, you are shit out of luck,
because I'll be in Austin by the time you read
this and you will never, ever find me. However, I
assure you that everything is accurate and nothing
is made up (except for my thoughts and other
flights of fancy).
PS - I asked all the dealership
people about a photo, but they all told me in
their own way to fuck off. See you when I get
back. If you want me to write something in Austin
from the Sonoma Style point of view -- or if
you've been looking for that Texan correspondent
-- drop me a line. I'll send you my new address if
I ever get one.
Take it easy,
Jasper
FERRARI MY ASS
by Bob Baxter
"So how does this car compare to
the Ferrari?" That was the question I was hired to
ask for this article. I always got the same answer,
something I came to call -- The Look.
The Look conveyed surprise,
suspicion, and often deep-seeded anguish. I could
see in each person's eyes the temptation to give
into their innermost urge and just blurt out the
first thought that came to mind.
"HOW DOES THIS CAR COMPARE TO THE
FERRARI???!! WHADDAYA, FUCKING CRAZY!!!???"
And naturally that would be
followed by a few questions of their own, such as,
"Who sent you here really?" or, "What's this story
supposed to be about?" or even, "You're not a
reporter at all, are you?"
But after that millisecond falter
wherein each interlocutor nearly caved into a deadly
Skinnerian reaction, they all regained their
composure, pondered the situation gravely, and
answered the question with the consideration it
deserved.
"Well, it's right up there with the
Ferarri, you know. Except for the price, of course."
Salesmen. Lying sacks of shit to the end.
But I'm getting way, way ahead of
myself. For this article did not begin as a
commentary on the driving psychology of
high-powered, souped-up, nasty, noisy,
gender-astounding vehicles priced within the price
range of proud-but-not-yet-rich yuppies.
No, as far as I can tell, this
article came about because my boss's boss gets
tailgated a whole bunch.
THE MAKING OF THE FERRARI CLONE
STORY
And since the boss's boss, Tom, is
the guy who writes the paychecks, I immediately
agreed to take on his point of view for the
article's angle. Then distort that point of view
beyond all recognition.
Tailgaters happen. Every morning
when our noble publisher makes his commute from
Berkeley to Sonoma County, he looks up in his
rear-view mirror to see a menacing piece of Michigan
steel closing in with deadly accuracy on his rear
bumper. Being a gentlemanly sort and a survivor of
the 70s, Tom obliges said speed demon and pulls to
the slower lane so the morning maniac can pass.
And what does the driver do? He
(it's always a male) slows his vehicle to a trot and
maintains a consistent speed along Tom's car without
so much as a Howdy Do or a
please-pass-some-of-that-tarnished-looking mustard.
Free association and the creative
mind being Tom's forte, he takes this irritating
situation, mulls it over and comes up with, "What we
need is a story on the new Ferrari clones."
Ferrari clone story? A paid gig?
You got it.
THREE GUYS AND A STORY
Larry, my boss, assigns me the
article, and we meet with Tom at the Sonoma Style
offices for a story meeting. As usual, it's up to me
to get the ball rolling.
"I forgot exactly what cars you
mentioned before. Sorry."
There are three Ferrari clones by
our count -- The Dodge Stealth, The Mitsubishi 3000
GT and the Acura NSX.
"And you want what?" I ask.
He tells me to compare these cars
to the Ferrari. I give him The Look.
"Sounds like a good idea," I
mumble. I look up at Larry. He's wearing The Look as
well.
After some consideration, Tom
decides not to go along with the Toyota MR2 as a
fourth candidate.
"It looks like a Japanese
toothpaste tube," he says.
"Quote that," Larry says.
I do.
LEAVE MY CLONES ALONE
I cruise up to the Corby auto mall
as suspicious and paranoid as a drunk buying a
three-in-the-morning bottle of vanilla extract. I'm
unshaven, my clothes are wrinkled and funky, my
hair's uncombed and I know the first thing the
salespeople will think is, "This schmuck's not going
to buy a car. And he might rob me."
I'm supposed to be posing as a
customer. What to do, what to do?
With the reluctance of a Dead Head
taking his little sister to a Madonna concert, I
creep into Don Zumwalt's Santa Rosa Dodge showroom,
which looks from the outside like a miniature state
building. At least from my miniature point of view.
I collar a salesman and ask him if
he has any brochures on the Dodge Stealth. He tells
me he'll be right with me... sir.
He calls me sir unctuously, as if
he can sense I haven't been called sir since the
Viet Nam War.
He comes back with the brochures,
asks my name, then tells me he'll mail the brochures
to me. I say no, I'll take them now. He asks, are
you a customer? I say no. He asks me what I'm doing
then, and I say maybe writing a story, maybe not. He
asks who I'm writing the story for, and I say Sonoma
Style. I spill my guts and blow my cover. He's not
impressed. Then he tries to steal my pen. He says
it's his, I say it's mine. He says it's his, I say
it's mine again. Then I show him the red ink. Proof!
He goes to the drawer, pulls out a red pen, and says
how about that? Then he tells me that in the future
I should talk to Don Zumwalt himself, since the
Donster owns the place. Then he points me in the
direction of the Stealths. I find the Stealths, take
copious notes and leave.
My name's Baxter. I'm not a cop.
LIKE A VIRGIN
"Do you want to sit in it?"
"Sure," I say, and there I am,
behind the wheel of a Mitsubishi 3000 GT.
"Bet I look like a guy who made his
money illegally," I offer.
"Or a record producer," he says.
Close enough, I think.
In my humble opinion, this is the
car for me, and not just because the salesperson at
Manly Mitsubishi was the only one I saw that
afternoon who would let me touch a vehicle. Nope,
the reason is this: I just happen to look damn good
in a 3000 GT. I don't want to drive a fast car fast
anyway. I want a fast car so I can get a lot of
attention when I park it. Particularly in downtown
Santa Rosa Thursday nights at the Meat Market, or
whatever they call it these days.
I get out of the metallic-silver
phallic symbol and ask him about the hot-looking red
number parked outside.
"That's an automatic moving
violation, isn't it?"
He says no, not at all. He says he
once talked to a police officer who told him it
didn't matter what color or make the car was, but
only whether any violation had occurred.
Oh yeah? Well I talked to a cop
once, and he told me if he ever found me in a fancy
red sport car he'd chase me down Highway 12, jerk me
from the wheel, beat the livnin' hell out of me with
a night stick, mace me a little just for the visual
effect and record the whole thing on Fuji videotape
so he could play it for the other boys and girls
hanging out at the police station.
Guess it's all in who you know.
YEAH, SURE, RIGHT
Bob Benson Acura runs a fine
dealership. When I entered the showroom, I was
impressed with its palpable opulence. In short, I
didn't belong there and wanted out immediately. I
hailed a passing salesperson and asked for info on
the Acura NSX. He gave me the brochure and then
showed me the vehicle. I have to admit -- it did
look like a Ferrari. When I asked him how it
compared to the Italian original, he said favorably.
Very favorably. The NSX also costs about as much as
a small condominium.
SO I CALLED HIM UP
I called up the Ferrari dealership
and asked for a salesperson. When I got him on the
phone (aren't there any female salespersons selling
high performance cars?) I asked him how the Ferrari
compared to the other three cars.
"Whaddya?" he asked. "Are you out
of your fucking mind?"
I am. I really, really am.
In next week's issue: Sonoma Style
compares Sebastopol's Apple Blossom Queens to
Playboy Playmates.
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can
read anything else into it, you're on your own.
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