Although the optics are bait for partisan politics, I agree that the AOC/Mamdani laugh fest, while the names of the deceased were being read, was not as bad as portrayed; however, I believe that neither politican gives a damn about 9/11 and the catastrophic impact it has had on our country from the moment the first plane hit the tower. The unity expressed on 9/12 will probaby never be witnessed again. And today, we have a political divide that would rival the Grand Canyon.
The blue Cayman R sold for $67,000 plus premium on BAT. Low price but it was a PDK. Another R just sold for $99,000 plus premium, with a stick but no buckets (which add about $10-15,000 per car). For perspective, I got a green Cayman R with buckets and stick in 2018 for $58,000, sold it a couple weeks ago for $93,000 in a private sale. I priced it a little low.
The Cayman market is rising for all models, not just the newer engine. Some folks think the base 2.7 is the one to get, no risk of bore scoring. I think that risk is grossly overrated. I paid over $50,000 for a PTS 1 of 1 Cayman S last year in Nordic Gold. https://bringatrailer.com/listing/2007-porsche-cayman-s-144/ Since then a number of basic but nice 987s that aren't R's or Spyders sold for over $50,000.
The $79,000 ask for the yellow is too much but two years ago it was a $35,000 car and now its not.
Here is a neat trick: take a Cayman S (or even a Boxster S, I've done it) and put on the Cayman r suspension (or most of it, the sway bars are trivial), and a software tune, and you have a car that weighs about 100 pounds more, about 20 hp less, that drives pretty much the same. The 987.1 (2006-2008) with the older engine sounds better than the DFI on the 987.2.
The big difference between the 987s and the 981/718s that followed is the steering as well as the cabin you mentioned. The hydraulic steering on these is as good as any rack south of Sydney.
Fun fact: the 987 is the same length and height as a 911 SC. Few inches wider. You sit in that cabin, looking over the low cowl and have the same fender sight lines.
The studio lights catch the faint dusting of powdered sugar on Jiminy Glick’s double-chin as he leans so far forward his nose is nearly touching a deeply uncomfortable Paul Niedermeyer. Jiminy is aggressively unwrapping a chocolate eclair, his breathing heavy and erratic.
JIMINY GLICK:
(High-pitched, breathless giggle) Paul! Paul, look at you. You look like a retired geography teacher who secretly hoards diesel fuel in his basement. It’s marvelous. Now, we were talking about your alleged digital empire, Curbside Classic, and your bizarre, almost erotic obsession with re-running Tom Klockau’s old articles four thousand times. But let's lift up the hood, shall we? Let's check the oil on a little something that’s been bothering me.
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
(Shifting in his chair, smiling nervously) Oh? And what’s that, Jiminy?
JIMINY:
(Voice dropping to a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper) 2014, Paul. The year the music died. The year the velour went cold. The departure. Tom Klockau packed up his broughams, his landau roofs, his miniature die-cast models, and he left your little internet garage. Why, Paul? Why did he flee? Did you refuse to pay him in vintage hubcaps? Did you tell him his love for the 1978 Chrysler New Yorker was a psychological defect? Or did he just like 1976 Cadillac Sevilles so much your tiny ego couldn’t handle it?
PAUL:
(Waving his hand, trying to keep it light) Oh, come now, Jiminy. It wasn't like that at all. Tom just moved on to other writing opportunities. There was no grand drama. We still have an immense appreciation for his archive, which is why we—
JIMINY:
(Interrupting with a loud, sharp snort) Moved on? Moved on! Paul, darling, he didn't just move on; he moved in with your sworn enemy! He went over to Jack Baruth’s playground at Avoidable Contact! And let’s be honest—because honestly is all I have since my thyroid went rogue—he spends his days throwing digital tomatoes at your head!
PAUL:
(Fidgeting and coughing slightly) Well, the automotive blogging world is a small ecosystem. People poke fun. It's all in good—
JIMINY:
(Shrieks with delight, slapping his own thigh) Poke fun? Paul, he makes fun of you all the time! It’s delicious! I had Bram—my assistant, the one who looks like a disappointed turnip—print out the comments. They treat you like an old, stubborn German monk who refuses to look at any car made after 1971 unless it’s a rusty 1982 Toyota Starlet with a blown head gasket! They roast you, Paul! They roast you like a cheap chestnut on a New York street corner!
PAUL:
(Chuckling defensively) Look, Avoidable Contact has a very specific, aggressive tone. It's a different crowd. We focus on the social history of cars at CC. If they want to spend their time needling my editorial style or my affection for the Ford Falcon, that’s their prerogative.
JIMINY:
(Stuffing half the eclair into his mouth, talking through the custard) Mmm! The Falcon! See? You can't help it! But doesn't it sting, Paul? Doesn't it hurt your little radiator to know that while you are dutifully clicking "re-publish" on Tom’s 2012 article about a triple-maroon Imperial LeBaron for the forty-two thousandth time, Tom is over there laughing at you with the bad boys? It’s classic irony! It’s Shakespearean! It’s like a husband who keeps his ex-wife's portrait on the mantle while she’s down at the local tavern calling him a cheapskate nerd!
PAUL:
(Laughs nervously) I think you're over-dramatizing a few internet comments, Jiminy. The traffic on those reprints is still fantastic.
JIMINY:
(Wiping chocolate off his thumb onto Paul’s sleeve) Of course it is, darling, because your readers are all eighty-five and they forget they read it on Tuesday! You’re a genius, Paul. A cheap, repetitive, beautiful genius. Guess the extra $7.25 in ad revenue per month makes it all worthwhile, eh!
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
(His smile stiffens, his posture going rigid as his face turns a shade of maroon usually reserved for a 1979 Buick Electra) Now, look here, Jiminy. I’ve been very patient, but Curbside Classic has built a highly respected, deeply analytical community over the last fifteen years. We don't resort to low-brow, sensationalized internet gossip. Tom and I simply had creative differences regarding the editorial direction and—
JIMINY GLICK:
(Leans completely out of his chair, flapping his hands wildly in Paul’s face) Paul, Paul, Paul. (Breathless, high-pitched giggle) Highly respected?! That's as delicious as the Black Forest chocolate eclair I had earlier! You can deny all you want, but the fact is you're an unfunny old poop and Tom absolutely hates you. (Shrieks with pure, unadulterated joy, slapping his chest) And it's marvelous! It is absolutely, deeply, profoundly delicious!
PAUL:
(Sputtering, adjusting his glasses furiously) I am not an "old poop," Jiminy! I have a very dry, ironic sense of humor that our core demographic thoroughly appreciates! And Tom does not hate me, he just—
JIMINY:
(Interrupting, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth) Oh, he detests you, darling! He despises you with the heat of a thousand faulty Pinto gas tanks! He’s over there at Avoidable Contact with Jack Baruth, drinking artisanal gin and writing five-thousand-word fictional comedies about how you forced him to look at rusty Datsuns and wartlike little Scion xBs with red wheels until his eyes bled! You’re a tyrant, Paul! A beige, Plymouth Colt Vista-loving dictator! One might even say, a Happy Honda humper!
PAUL:
(Genuinely huffy now, crossing his arms) If he hates me so much, he’s welcome to ask me to take down his articles. But he doesn't. You know why? Because deep down, he knows Curbside Classic is the only place that truly understands the cultural weight of a Brougham!
JIMINY:
(Staring at him with a mix of pity and horror) Oh, Paul. Honey. Angel. He wouldn't waste his time. He doesn't ask you to take them down because he wants you to re-run them! It’s his ultimate revenge! Every time you hit republish for the forty-two thousandth time, you're admitting to the whole world that you can't survive without him! He’s living rent-free in your archives, Paul! He’s rearranging the velour furniture in your mind!
(Suddenly gasps, clutching his chest as if having a medical emergency, his eyes widening to the size of saucers) But wait! Oh, my goodness, Paul, hold onto your hubcaps because we have a special guest!
(The studio monitors momentarily flash a garish, pixelated graphic of a 1976 Ford Elite as the curtain parts. Out steps Tom Klockau.)
Tom is dressed like a wealthy 1950s tourist who got lost on the way to the country club: a mint green golf shirt, paired with blindingly white slacks and Bass Weejuns. He looks like he just stepped out of a 1978 Cadillac brochure. He carries an aluminum pie tin piled high with what appears to be a mixture of shaving cream and cool whip.
Paul’s jaw drops. He begins to rise from his chair, a protest forming on his lips.
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
Tom? What are you—
Tom doesn't say a word. He doesn't even make eye contact. Wordlessly, with the cold, calculated precision of a man who has spent a decade documenting the downfall of the American sedan and the rise of the potato-shaped crossover, Tom steps up to the desk. He delivers a textbook, full-palm pie directly into Paul’s face. SPLAT.
Shaving cream explodes across Paul’s glasses, filling his ears and dripping down his 1978 Sears flannel shirt. Without a single glance back, Tom turns on his heel, adjusts the collar of his mint green polo, flashes the peace sign to the studio audience, and leaves the stage in absolute, majestic silence.
For a second, the studio is dead quiet except for the sound of whipped cream ploinking off Paul’s nose.
Then, Jiminy collapses.
JIMINY:
(Shrieking, a sound like a kettle boiling over) OHHHHH MY GOD! OH MY— (He falls out of his chair, rolling onto the plush carpet, laughing so violently his entire body vibrates) HE PIED THE MONK! HE PIED THE BEIGE MONK!
Jiminy laughs so hard his face turns a deep, alarming shade of eggplant. He gasps for air, clutching his stomach, his face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The sheer physical force of his amusement creates an unprecedented biological anomaly. POP.
With a sickening, hollow sound, a miniature cream eclair shoots clean out of Jiminy’s right tear duct, bouncing off the armrest of his chair and landing directly into Paul’s cream-covered lap.
JIMINY:
(Wheezing from the floor, pointing a trembling, sticky finger at Paul) Look at you! You look like a Brougham that went through a car wash with the windows down! Oh, the humanity! Bram, call an ambulance, my vision is creamy! Somebody hose off the beige monk!
Any guesstimates to speed at impact, because it doesn't look that high. I see brake lights and then hopping the curve should scrub some. That is a Pinto or GM side saddle tank level boom.
I find the discourse around the Mamdani/AOC thing to be painfully, unhelpfully partisan.
When you meet a friend or family at a funeral it is not uncommon to offer them a quiet greeting or moment. It’s not disrespectful to share a quiet smile or laugh at a funeral unless it’s at the expense of the dead, or disruptive to the mourning.
Similarly, there is no scrutiny from conservative media being applied to a similar greeting shared among Vance, Giuliani, and Lutnick. Visible at 1:30 here.
Exactly right. They can't have a human moment between them because they are “actors”? Most interactions at funeral homes are hopefully like this, with a warm embrace and support, instead of “keep your eyes down”.
I can see her as VP candidate. Winning or losing will depend on the top person, the Rep candidate, and the economy and war situation over the next 2 years.
FYI/FWIW/ICY(will)MI: Will be traveling over the next 11 days so I will be 12-14 days late applying ♥ to future posts due to timezones, daily commitments and spotty cell signal(s).
“Wehr’s acknowledged status as a pillar of the Orange County auto-enthusiast scene speaks ill of automotive enthusiasm in general”
I try to keep an open mind and see it all
as one hobby but c&c and concors are an anthems to me.hey look what I bought, can’t replay drive ifor shit or enjoy other than Showing my trophy purchase.
Porche seems anything. With the crest like ai it just goes up in value. I’m trying not to either laugh or cry after decades of squibs insisting that their paddles (which were an excuse for an at)are faster=better and making manuals along with steering that felt connected and brakes with pedal feel exitiimct. Now this lyear is the year in which a manual is suddenly it as in gotta have it. Maybe peole will also learn how to drive and not kill hooters girls. Nah it’s all just for show
In oter news ruff has make a fake off-road 911 for 3 mill. It’s all off-road pretension these days from Honda SUVs to jeeps rolling around with pristine shovels strapped to the side
Does anyone know why McLaren sell road going cars to the general public. Previously Living in DC metro for 20 years not a month goes by without some McLaren owner putting his car into a tree or an embankment on the road that leads to Great Falls Park. The road along the West Bank of the Potomac to Great Falls is an elementary school version of The Tail of The Dragon except in this case it is lined with behind the trees $30,000,000 homes. In fact my wife’s best friend worked for a dentist that waited six months to get a McLaren and the first week he had it out on the road, he put it into a retaining wall (luckily on the passenger side). McLaren production cars do not appear to be very safe fore the owners or the public.
The Dentist just has no idea how to drive. See it with motorcycles all the time. Somebody buys a big ass powerful sport bike and if the don't wreck it leaving the dealership, they kill themselves a few days later.
It's not the car. It's the morons buying it who don't know how to drive it. That accident went from a simple spin out to death and destruction because he probably never lifted his foot off the gas or pushed the clutch back in.
My last car accident was because a woman did the same thing, her car spun out and she Never Lifted Her Foot. So as soon as the car got traction, she rocketed right into my car, ripped the side off, and nearly got my leg in the process.
Call me heartless, but regarding the Wehr situation, I find myself getting more than annoyed whenever anyone talks about the “car community” as if it’s some monolith; the custodians of which have apparently been selected by follower counts and algorithms and exclusively reside in affluent SoCal enclaves, where their bills are paid not by the culture they claim to run but by family trusts enriched by God only knows what.
As far as I’m concerned, what happened to that young man is a tale as old as time: dude gets fast car gifted to him by his parents and then proceeds, one night, to kill himself and his passenger. Taken at face value, I find that sad, but completely unremarkable, and by no means does it affect how I feel about anything automotive related.
We need some watch company to do a collab with New Balance to extract some Boomer money. For the record, just bought my first pair of them in decades and I like them, but that doesn’t change the stereotype.
My orthotics solved my severe plantar fasciitis 20 years ago, but lately I had the start of some minor soreness, and it turned out my carbon fiber orthotics had lost their stiffness over the years. I had my foot rescanned so a new pair of orthotics should fix things.
The first thing my orthotic maker does is take your shoes and flex them to see if they are stiff enough. Most shoes are way too flexible.
I tried on Brooks shoes but they don’t fit me well.
I’ve seen those but my orthotic maker suggested the NB’s as he’s a big fan of stiffer soled shoes with little flex. I will check out the Adizeros for their stiffness, as even though I’m not very brand conscious and don’t like to wear logos or brand identifiers, I do like Adidas products.
"The black-faced Vinyl Record is a limited edition, priced at $16,300 with both straps."
I think I'll hold out until they do a Cassette or Compact Disc edition.
Re: Wehr crash.
I got the impression from the wording in the original news story that he may have been in the passenger seat, but Grok says he was driving.
Although the optics are bait for partisan politics, I agree that the AOC/Mamdani laugh fest, while the names of the deceased were being read, was not as bad as portrayed; however, I believe that neither politican gives a damn about 9/11 and the catastrophic impact it has had on our country from the moment the first plane hit the tower. The unity expressed on 9/12 will probaby never be witnessed again. And today, we have a political divide that would rival the Grand Canyon.
Re the Caymans.
The blue Cayman R sold for $67,000 plus premium on BAT. Low price but it was a PDK. Another R just sold for $99,000 plus premium, with a stick but no buckets (which add about $10-15,000 per car). For perspective, I got a green Cayman R with buckets and stick in 2018 for $58,000, sold it a couple weeks ago for $93,000 in a private sale. I priced it a little low.
The Cayman market is rising for all models, not just the newer engine. Some folks think the base 2.7 is the one to get, no risk of bore scoring. I think that risk is grossly overrated. I paid over $50,000 for a PTS 1 of 1 Cayman S last year in Nordic Gold. https://bringatrailer.com/listing/2007-porsche-cayman-s-144/ Since then a number of basic but nice 987s that aren't R's or Spyders sold for over $50,000.
The $79,000 ask for the yellow is too much but two years ago it was a $35,000 car and now its not.
Here is a neat trick: take a Cayman S (or even a Boxster S, I've done it) and put on the Cayman r suspension (or most of it, the sway bars are trivial), and a software tune, and you have a car that weighs about 100 pounds more, about 20 hp less, that drives pretty much the same. The 987.1 (2006-2008) with the older engine sounds better than the DFI on the 987.2.
The big difference between the 987s and the 981/718s that followed is the steering as well as the cabin you mentioned. The hydraulic steering on these is as good as any rack south of Sydney.
Fun fact: the 987 is the same length and height as a 911 SC. Few inches wider. You sit in that cabin, looking over the low cowl and have the same fender sight lines.
The studio lights catch the faint dusting of powdered sugar on Jiminy Glick’s double-chin as he leans so far forward his nose is nearly touching a deeply uncomfortable Paul Niedermeyer. Jiminy is aggressively unwrapping a chocolate eclair, his breathing heavy and erratic.
JIMINY GLICK:
(High-pitched, breathless giggle) Paul! Paul, look at you. You look like a retired geography teacher who secretly hoards diesel fuel in his basement. It’s marvelous. Now, we were talking about your alleged digital empire, Curbside Classic, and your bizarre, almost erotic obsession with re-running Tom Klockau’s old articles four thousand times. But let's lift up the hood, shall we? Let's check the oil on a little something that’s been bothering me.
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
(Shifting in his chair, smiling nervously) Oh? And what’s that, Jiminy?
JIMINY:
(Voice dropping to a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper) 2014, Paul. The year the music died. The year the velour went cold. The departure. Tom Klockau packed up his broughams, his landau roofs, his miniature die-cast models, and he left your little internet garage. Why, Paul? Why did he flee? Did you refuse to pay him in vintage hubcaps? Did you tell him his love for the 1978 Chrysler New Yorker was a psychological defect? Or did he just like 1976 Cadillac Sevilles so much your tiny ego couldn’t handle it?
PAUL:
(Waving his hand, trying to keep it light) Oh, come now, Jiminy. It wasn't like that at all. Tom just moved on to other writing opportunities. There was no grand drama. We still have an immense appreciation for his archive, which is why we—
JIMINY:
(Interrupting with a loud, sharp snort) Moved on? Moved on! Paul, darling, he didn't just move on; he moved in with your sworn enemy! He went over to Jack Baruth’s playground at Avoidable Contact! And let’s be honest—because honestly is all I have since my thyroid went rogue—he spends his days throwing digital tomatoes at your head!
PAUL:
(Fidgeting and coughing slightly) Well, the automotive blogging world is a small ecosystem. People poke fun. It's all in good—
JIMINY:
(Shrieks with delight, slapping his own thigh) Poke fun? Paul, he makes fun of you all the time! It’s delicious! I had Bram—my assistant, the one who looks like a disappointed turnip—print out the comments. They treat you like an old, stubborn German monk who refuses to look at any car made after 1971 unless it’s a rusty 1982 Toyota Starlet with a blown head gasket! They roast you, Paul! They roast you like a cheap chestnut on a New York street corner!
PAUL:
(Chuckling defensively) Look, Avoidable Contact has a very specific, aggressive tone. It's a different crowd. We focus on the social history of cars at CC. If they want to spend their time needling my editorial style or my affection for the Ford Falcon, that’s their prerogative.
JIMINY:
(Stuffing half the eclair into his mouth, talking through the custard) Mmm! The Falcon! See? You can't help it! But doesn't it sting, Paul? Doesn't it hurt your little radiator to know that while you are dutifully clicking "re-publish" on Tom’s 2012 article about a triple-maroon Imperial LeBaron for the forty-two thousandth time, Tom is over there laughing at you with the bad boys? It’s classic irony! It’s Shakespearean! It’s like a husband who keeps his ex-wife's portrait on the mantle while she’s down at the local tavern calling him a cheapskate nerd!
PAUL:
(Laughs nervously) I think you're over-dramatizing a few internet comments, Jiminy. The traffic on those reprints is still fantastic.
JIMINY:
(Wiping chocolate off his thumb onto Paul’s sleeve) Of course it is, darling, because your readers are all eighty-five and they forget they read it on Tuesday! You’re a genius, Paul. A cheap, repetitive, beautiful genius. Guess the extra $7.25 in ad revenue per month makes it all worthwhile, eh!
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
(His smile stiffens, his posture going rigid as his face turns a shade of maroon usually reserved for a 1979 Buick Electra) Now, look here, Jiminy. I’ve been very patient, but Curbside Classic has built a highly respected, deeply analytical community over the last fifteen years. We don't resort to low-brow, sensationalized internet gossip. Tom and I simply had creative differences regarding the editorial direction and—
JIMINY GLICK:
(Leans completely out of his chair, flapping his hands wildly in Paul’s face) Paul, Paul, Paul. (Breathless, high-pitched giggle) Highly respected?! That's as delicious as the Black Forest chocolate eclair I had earlier! You can deny all you want, but the fact is you're an unfunny old poop and Tom absolutely hates you. (Shrieks with pure, unadulterated joy, slapping his chest) And it's marvelous! It is absolutely, deeply, profoundly delicious!
PAUL:
(Sputtering, adjusting his glasses furiously) I am not an "old poop," Jiminy! I have a very dry, ironic sense of humor that our core demographic thoroughly appreciates! And Tom does not hate me, he just—
JIMINY:
(Interrupting, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth) Oh, he detests you, darling! He despises you with the heat of a thousand faulty Pinto gas tanks! He’s over there at Avoidable Contact with Jack Baruth, drinking artisanal gin and writing five-thousand-word fictional comedies about how you forced him to look at rusty Datsuns and wartlike little Scion xBs with red wheels until his eyes bled! You’re a tyrant, Paul! A beige, Plymouth Colt Vista-loving dictator! One might even say, a Happy Honda humper!
PAUL:
(Genuinely huffy now, crossing his arms) If he hates me so much, he’s welcome to ask me to take down his articles. But he doesn't. You know why? Because deep down, he knows Curbside Classic is the only place that truly understands the cultural weight of a Brougham!
JIMINY:
(Staring at him with a mix of pity and horror) Oh, Paul. Honey. Angel. He wouldn't waste his time. He doesn't ask you to take them down because he wants you to re-run them! It’s his ultimate revenge! Every time you hit republish for the forty-two thousandth time, you're admitting to the whole world that you can't survive without him! He’s living rent-free in your archives, Paul! He’s rearranging the velour furniture in your mind!
(Suddenly gasps, clutching his chest as if having a medical emergency, his eyes widening to the size of saucers) But wait! Oh, my goodness, Paul, hold onto your hubcaps because we have a special guest!
(The studio monitors momentarily flash a garish, pixelated graphic of a 1976 Ford Elite as the curtain parts. Out steps Tom Klockau.)
Tom is dressed like a wealthy 1950s tourist who got lost on the way to the country club: a mint green golf shirt, paired with blindingly white slacks and Bass Weejuns. He looks like he just stepped out of a 1978 Cadillac brochure. He carries an aluminum pie tin piled high with what appears to be a mixture of shaving cream and cool whip.
Paul’s jaw drops. He begins to rise from his chair, a protest forming on his lips.
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
Tom? What are you—
Tom doesn't say a word. He doesn't even make eye contact. Wordlessly, with the cold, calculated precision of a man who has spent a decade documenting the downfall of the American sedan and the rise of the potato-shaped crossover, Tom steps up to the desk. He delivers a textbook, full-palm pie directly into Paul’s face. SPLAT.
Shaving cream explodes across Paul’s glasses, filling his ears and dripping down his 1978 Sears flannel shirt. Without a single glance back, Tom turns on his heel, adjusts the collar of his mint green polo, flashes the peace sign to the studio audience, and leaves the stage in absolute, majestic silence.
For a second, the studio is dead quiet except for the sound of whipped cream ploinking off Paul’s nose.
Then, Jiminy collapses.
JIMINY:
(Shrieking, a sound like a kettle boiling over) OHHHHH MY GOD! OH MY— (He falls out of his chair, rolling onto the plush carpet, laughing so violently his entire body vibrates) HE PIED THE MONK! HE PIED THE BEIGE MONK!
Jiminy laughs so hard his face turns a deep, alarming shade of eggplant. He gasps for air, clutching his stomach, his face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The sheer physical force of his amusement creates an unprecedented biological anomaly. POP.
With a sickening, hollow sound, a miniature cream eclair shoots clean out of Jiminy’s right tear duct, bouncing off the armrest of his chair and landing directly into Paul’s cream-covered lap.
JIMINY:
(Wheezing from the floor, pointing a trembling, sticky finger at Paul) Look at you! You look like a Brougham that went through a car wash with the windows down! Oh, the humanity! Bram, call an ambulance, my vision is creamy! Somebody hose off the beige monk!
Any guesstimates to speed at impact, because it doesn't look that high. I see brake lights and then hopping the curve should scrub some. That is a Pinto or GM side saddle tank level boom.
I find the discourse around the Mamdani/AOC thing to be painfully, unhelpfully partisan.
When you meet a friend or family at a funeral it is not uncommon to offer them a quiet greeting or moment. It’s not disrespectful to share a quiet smile or laugh at a funeral unless it’s at the expense of the dead, or disruptive to the mourning.
Similarly, there is no scrutiny from conservative media being applied to a similar greeting shared among Vance, Giuliani, and Lutnick. Visible at 1:30 here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxttexK1pJk
I am sick of this sort of partisan intellectual dishonesty.
Either share the criticism, or don’t signal boost a nothing burger.
Or accept and acknowledge that you care more about pushing your tribe’s agenda than being intellectually honest.
Exactly right. They can't have a human moment between them because they are “actors”? Most interactions at funeral homes are hopefully like this, with a warm embrace and support, instead of “keep your eyes down”.
/Polymarket, what are odds of Ms. Cortes topping out as veep of a losing ticket?
A replacement for Hochul or Pelosi, maybe. POTUS? No way.
I can see her as VP candidate. Winning or losing will depend on the top person, the Rep candidate, and the economy and war situation over the next 2 years.
'the economy and war situation over the next 2 years'
Uh oh.
FYI/FWIW/ICY(will)MI: Will be traveling over the next 11 days so I will be 12-14 days late applying ♥ to future posts due to timezones, daily commitments and spotty cell signal(s).
“Wehr’s acknowledged status as a pillar of the Orange County auto-enthusiast scene speaks ill of automotive enthusiasm in general”
I try to keep an open mind and see it all
as one hobby but c&c and concors are an anthems to me.hey look what I bought, can’t replay drive ifor shit or enjoy other than Showing my trophy purchase.
Porche seems anything. With the crest like ai it just goes up in value. I’m trying not to either laugh or cry after decades of squibs insisting that their paddles (which were an excuse for an at)are faster=better and making manuals along with steering that felt connected and brakes with pedal feel exitiimct. Now this lyear is the year in which a manual is suddenly it as in gotta have it. Maybe peole will also learn how to drive and not kill hooters girls. Nah it’s all just for show
In oter news ruff has make a fake off-road 911 for 3 mill. It’s all off-road pretension these days from Honda SUVs to jeeps rolling around with pristine shovels strapped to the side
Does anyone know why McLaren sell road going cars to the general public. Previously Living in DC metro for 20 years not a month goes by without some McLaren owner putting his car into a tree or an embankment on the road that leads to Great Falls Park. The road along the West Bank of the Potomac to Great Falls is an elementary school version of The Tail of The Dragon except in this case it is lined with behind the trees $30,000,000 homes. In fact my wife’s best friend worked for a dentist that waited six months to get a McLaren and the first week he had it out on the road, he put it into a retaining wall (luckily on the passenger side). McLaren production cars do not appear to be very safe fore the owners or the public.
The Dentist just has no idea how to drive. See it with motorcycles all the time. Somebody buys a big ass powerful sport bike and if the don't wreck it leaving the dealership, they kill themselves a few days later.
It's not the car. It's the morons buying it who don't know how to drive it. That accident went from a simple spin out to death and destruction because he probably never lifted his foot off the gas or pushed the clutch back in.
My last car accident was because a woman did the same thing, her car spun out and she Never Lifted Her Foot. So as soon as the car got traction, she rocketed right into my car, ripped the side off, and nearly got my leg in the process.
Call me heartless, but regarding the Wehr situation, I find myself getting more than annoyed whenever anyone talks about the “car community” as if it’s some monolith; the custodians of which have apparently been selected by follower counts and algorithms and exclusively reside in affluent SoCal enclaves, where their bills are paid not by the culture they claim to run but by family trusts enriched by God only knows what.
As far as I’m concerned, what happened to that young man is a tale as old as time: dude gets fast car gifted to him by his parents and then proceeds, one night, to kill himself and his passenger. Taken at face value, I find that sad, but completely unremarkable, and by no means does it affect how I feel about anything automotive related.
Or suddenly wealthy man goes out and buys a supercar and kills himself within the week. Seen that one happen lots too.
Just the word “community” as it’s currently used is a red flag to me.
Gifted too for that matter.
“Holistic”
I like the tweed as well. You can tell they are targeted at Xers. If it were boomers, they would have McIntosh meters on the face.
I’d rather have a tweed amp than the watch.
We need some watch company to do a collab with New Balance to extract some Boomer money. For the record, just bought my first pair of them in decades and I like them, but that doesn’t change the stereotype.
Brooks Ghosts (finally) solved my foot pain issues.
My orthotics solved my severe plantar fasciitis 20 years ago, but lately I had the start of some minor soreness, and it turned out my carbon fiber orthotics had lost their stiffness over the years. I had my foot rescanned so a new pair of orthotics should fix things.
The first thing my orthotic maker does is take your shoes and flex them to see if they are stiff enough. Most shoes are way too flexible.
I tried on Brooks shoes but they don’t fit me well.
I like the adidas adizero. Extremely comfortable.
I’ve seen those but my orthotic maker suggested the NB’s as he’s a big fan of stiffer soled shoes with little flex. I will check out the Adizeros for their stiffness, as even though I’m not very brand conscious and don’t like to wear logos or brand identifiers, I do like Adidas products.
They are not stiff at all. More like Hokas.
Thanks, then no can do for me.