[FWDLK] driving an Actuary ?

[Wayne Graefen <wgraefen@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Author: Dave Barry
June 30, 2003
Newsday


So the other day I was waiting at a stoplight in my car, which is
nice, but,
like most cars today, boring. For example, when you turn the key, it
starts.
Every time! It has one of those modern, quiet, dependable engines.
At least
I ASSUME it has an engine: I've never had a reason to look under the
hood.
For all I know, there's a small alien spacecraft in there, or Vice
President
Cheney.

Cars were different back when I got my first driver's license, just
after
the invention of roads. In those days, cars were powered by an
insane system
called "internal combustion," which involved gasoline actually
EXPLODING
INSIDE THE ENGINE. Naturally this was very hard on engine parts such
as the
"carburetor" and the "pinions." Cars were always breaking down,
which meant
that, if you were a male, you were always opening the hood so you
could
glare manfully at the engine until somebody came along who actually
knew how
to fix it.

In those days, you did not expect perfection from a car. For
example, in
1971, I bought a Chevrolet Vega, which was the result of a bet among
General
Motors designers to see if they could make a car entirely out of
plastic and
rust. If a Vega had a head-on collision with a moth, the Vega would
be
reduced to a small pile of subatomic particles, while the moth would
flit
away, laughing. For several years, the only way I could start my
Vega was to
raise the hood and use a screwdriver to connect two pieces of metal;
any
thief could have done the same thing, but no thief ever did. "He's
so
stupid, he'd steal a Vega," was a popular expression among car
thieves.

So, by today's nitpicky standards, the Vega was not so much a motor
vehicle
as a paperweight with a horn. And yet I vividly remember that car,
unlike
the cars I've had in recent decades, all of which have the
personality of a
pension actuary. In fact, that might be the formal name of my
current car:
The Actuary.

So anyway, I was at this stoplight, and a guy about my age pulled up
next to
me in a Pontiac GTO convertible, 1964 or 1965 I believe, light blue,
top
down, engine rumbling. I was openly admiring his car, and he looked
over at
me, and I lowered my window and said: "Nice Goat." Lest you think I
am some
kind of pervert who was trying to fondle this man's livestock, I
should
explain that "Goat" is the hepcat slang nickname we used to use for
the GTO.

"Thanks," said the GTO driver, and the light turned green, and he
rumbled
off, gasoline exploding audibly in his large internal-combustion
engine,
while I glided forward in my eerily silent Actuary, which I think
runs on a
computer hard drive powered by nuclear fusion. I knew the GTO guy
would
probably have to pull over within the next 150 yards for gas, oil,
new
pinions, etc., but I was jealous of him. I found myself humming
"Little
GTO," the 1964 hit by Ronny and the Daytonas, in which Ronny
describes the
GTO in loving technical detail ("Three deuces and a four speed, and
a 389")
and the Daytonas, not quite in tune, sing: "Turnin' it on! Blowin'
it out!
Turnin' it on! Blowin' it out!" That was from the Golden Age of Car
Songs,
songs like the Beach Boys' "409" ("My four speed, dual quad,
positraction
409!") and of course Chuck Berry's "Maybelline," in which Chuck's
V-8 Ford
(pronounced "Foad") chases down a Cadillac, and Chuck displays his
grasp of
automotive thermodynamics

("Rain water blowin' all under my hood; I knew that was doin' my
motor
good").

Nobody will ever write a song like that about my Actuary, or any
other
modern car. Modern cars are just not songworthy.

"The other guys are all jealous of me/When I cruise in my Hyundai
Elantra
GT/And the girls always feel a romantic explosion/When they learn
that my
warranty covers corrosion." No, today's cars are just not exciting.
I've
thought about getting a fun old car, like a GTO, or a vintage
Mustang. But
then I'd have to keep it garaged, find a mechanic, etc. So maybe
instead
I'll just get a vintage Vega. I'll keep it in a Tupperware
container, which
I'll carry in my glove compartment. When I encounter other
vintage-car guys,
I'll lower my window, and shake my Vega at them. That way they'll
know that,
inside my Actuary, I am still cool.

Dave Barry's column appears every Monday in Part 2.
Copyright © 2003, Newsday, Inc.

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