What a Haute Car!

My father would just die if he saw this post. He's a die-hard, self-proclaimed "car guy"; forever enamored by the timelessness of the American muscle car and all it represents. I was raised by a guy who swoons over the thunder of engines, the thrill of 700 horsepower and the chrome-embossed distinctiveness of classic bodies. He's fallen for Yanko and ZL1 Camaros, Hemi Cuda's and Superstock Dodges; his own pink-slip portfolio, spanning over 30 years, includes classics like the '66 GTO, '68 Corvette, '69 Camaro and '71 Chevelle. In fact, I fear that, if it weren't for the unfortunate reality of being human, he would bleed gasoline and boast a 15-car garage of classics.
And yet, here I find myself completely disenchanted by the culture of cars.

To be fair, I have never been thrilled by the automobile in and of itself. I just can’t get over my own caustic perception of cars as mere instruments of consumption. From a financial viewpoint, I’m skeptical that the habit of "investing" in stereo systems, chrome wheels or leather interior is as worthwhile as some like to argue. Instead, I’m suspicious that these expenses are actually a fiscal suicide made commonplace by society; they indicate nothing more than an adolescent misconception of finance. (Commited by millions of people who have learned desperation in keeping up with the Joneses of their parents' generation.)

I apologize for failing to see the monetary virtue in paying tens of thousands (plus interest) for something that will only be worth a fraction of that amount at resale. As odd as it may seem, depreciation is one tremendous turn-off for me. In fact, in terms of toxic first impressions, an adherence to “investing” in depreciating assets is right up there with Frito breath and black socks with tennis shoes.

My concern isn’t even soothed by arguments on the “emotional reward” of driving; personally, every car ride is a mental war as I juggle the rising cost of gas and the plummeting value of the car, and I fail to find a balance. As I’m toiling over these theoretical numbers at the red light, I notice the guy cruising ever-so-hautily up beside me in his pimped-out Camaro or lifted F450, and I find myself stifling a gag reflex. It’s probably only a fault of my own that I can't help but see through the shiny paint job to a vehicle that will only be half paid off when it’s obsolete in two years. And as he’s glancing ever-so-coyly at me through his nifty shades, I grimace as I visualize his meager financial health and evident ignorance.

Then, of course, I am thoroughly frustrated when I think of our unbridled addiction to finite resources. I cringe at the hyper-masculinity of revved engines, dual exhaust and lift kits; I hear an engine running superfluously, and my mind fogs over with thoughts of oil consumption and CO2. Not only am I immune to the thrill of the “sick whips” out there, but I am actually nauseated by the show of pride associated with them. In terms of their repulsiveness, I compare the common “car-guy” (who tosses half of each paycheck to car payments and insurance) to the guy with an un-relinquished Star Wars figurine collection… or the one who goes out and buys the newest phone, just to strap it tragically to the belt loops of his size 38-28 pleated khakis.
(Yea, it really is that bad.)

Apparently, cars have somehow become the socially-acceptable baseball card or Nike shoe; the child’s commodity, bought and exhibited with pride with very rare possibility of appreciating. The only difference is that your allowance is a lot bigger now, and you get to gloat while in rush hour.

When it comes down to it, though, you shouldn’t listen to me. After all, who am I to talk? I may be critical, but I’m also the one easily titillated by hearty non-fiction, granite quarries, tofu, and guys with full mountain-man beards. Even more disheartening, I will probably forever be cursed with a basic comprehension of the time value of money, which may indeed prove to be my downfall. (It’s not an exaggeration to say that spreadsheets are my guilty pleasure.)

It’s probably safe to say, though, that the car manufacturers will survive without my business. And my silent scoff at the traffic light will, in the long run, undoubtedly have very little effect on the inflated egos of the proud drivers in the Hummers and BMW 5's. My time will come, though. When the inflation of the economy is greater than that of those guys' egos, I’ll be the one laughing all the way to the bank.