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. I 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. No, 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. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.