American cars

As a child of the 50s and 60s I was obsessed with cars. I filled notebooks with drawings of how I thought they should look. The highlight of my year was going to the Indianapolis Auto Show with my dad. Back then, “foreign cars” were odd, small, and to my thinking, not very appealing.

Through my adulthood I’ve always bought American cars (except for that one kind-of-regrettable Saab.) My 1984 Mustang Turbo convertible was probably my favorite, and driving it solo across country with our dog Lola for company was sublime.

It makes me sad to see the state of the big three today. In September I thought about buying a new Ford Focus, but when I went to the dealer to take a closer look I discovered they are just a shadow of the original models, of which we’ve owned two: dumbed down styling, a reduced choice of body types, and little, if any improvement in mileage. They scream “bland!” so I walked away.

I hope the government rescues the car companies so they can try again. I want them to succeed. I want to buy their products—just not the ones they’re offering now.

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I’m much too young to feel this damn old

That’s the title of my current favorite country song. Why? I reached the august age of sixty last week. Besides the inconcieveability factor of such a thing, I still visualize myself as thirty.

My wife took me to Chicago for the weekend of my birthday. We stayed in my favorite hotel (the Intercontinental on Michigan Avenue), friends from Indianapolis came up and joined us, and we went to the Vic to see Steve Earle and Tom Morello of Rage Against The Machine. We did the galleries in River North on Saturday afternoon. We took the El to go to dinner. The whole weekend made me feel young again.

There’s been a sudden burst of energy regarding my physical condition. I bought a tape measure and took stock of the sorry sight of my gut. The measurement shocked me. I rejoined the Rec Center and have been swimming a half mile three times a week. I bought a weight bench and put it in the alcove in our bedroom. I’ve actually used it—frequently. My goal is to have a “six-pack” at sixty. (I'm not there yet.) Maybe I can market myself as Mike Six-pack.

Thanksgiving came and went. We drove to Indy and were hosted by my gracious sister and her husband, twenty-five in all. There was a bit of political tension because about half those in attendance are Republicans, and there was this Obama thing that had taken place a couple of weeks earlier.

On Saturday, they threw a party for my sixtieth birthday. It was eight days after the fact, and I tried to feel festive. It was sweet, and a little sad. I can’t help but obsess about the (maybe) two productive decades I have left. And why do they have to be in what looks like one of the most challenging periods in our history? Why couldn’t they have been easy sailing?

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