It's spring. Do you know what you're gonna wear? - Car and Driver

[Klaus]

It's spring. Do you know what you're gonna wear?
BY PATRICK BEDARD
APRIL 2003

This page, last year, mentioned a few attributes of SUVs that are exceptionally convenient—for example, the narrow swing of their doors in crowded parking slots and the way their high-riding seats lift the driver above most headlight glare.

From the scolding tone of letters from readers, you'd think I passed out how-to instructions for barbecued dog.

What is it about SUVs that turns otherwise amiable neighbors into scolding Mrs. Grundys? One complainant, proselytizing in cramped longhand for his own preferences, had me nodding yes as he explained the joys of light weight and low center of gravity and the importance of keeping everything in proportion—too much power demands humongous brakes which leads to exaggerated tires and pretty soon you've concocted a Viper. Yes, yes!

Then he said all his research turned up nothing on the market that approached the superb balance achieved by his own 1991 Ford Probe.
Whew. People know what they like, and they know that everybody else is wrong. This old magazine game still works the crowd as reliably as it did when I first put fingers to keyboard in, well, Honda wasn't selling four-wheelers here yet. Car and Driver is about self-expression with cars. Once you get beyond trusty transportation—what's a Corolla showing six figures on the odo cost, a few large?—your choice of what to drive really comes down to, "What shall I wear?"

Cars are costume. Cars are the way we tell friends and strangers what to think of us.
Some folks don't want to be seen in sensible shoes. So they shun minivans. Others drive American to make a patriotic statement. Two-seaters send a jaunty message. Or maybe you were born to be bad. Jack your pickup so high you can look into second-story windows. Or drop your Civic lower than the crotch of your dungarees.

I haven't even touched the topic of Bimmers and Benzes.
Still other folks see our highways as a morality play. "What would Jesus drive?" And as religious extremists everywhere think, anyone who disagrees is a sinner. Repent for your SUV or perish!

When we stand before the Almighty on judgment day, I doubt He will be checking our lives against the EPA Gas Mileage Guide.
Personally, I wouldn't buy a daily driver that gets less than 25 mpg (the conservationist instinct runs deep in farm boys, even fallen-away ones). But I wouldn't argue, either, that the oil supply is precarious. Give it the common-sense test: The world's oil experts know better than the rest of us how much petroleum the planet has secreted away. They make their livings finding and marketing oil. And they're willing to sell all we want—bring your tanker—for less than the price of Coca-Cola. The Mrs. Grundys may feel that oil is more precious, but let's not confuse guilt feelings with hard data.

Even if the petro pumps were sucking air, I'd still believe in a driver's right to choose. If you don't like SUVs, don't get one. But America wasn't created so that a few stiff-necked prigs could tell the rest of us what to wear.

If I could have any costume I wanted, for everyday getting-there wear, I'd choose a minivan. Those fearing they'll be seen in a minivan have it all wrong. Nobody will see you. Nobody will even look. Minivans are invisible. Nobody wants to see them. They shed witnesses like DuPont's SilverStone sheds bacon fat. Give me a light gray one, a little dusty, and I'll get down the road beneath all notice. Ever see a minivan pulled over by the speed squad? Of course not. Enforcers click on interesting cars, not appliances.

Still, there could be a better choice. Instead of minivan stealth, what about a car that says, "You don't wanna know." I'm talking rolling don't ask, don't tell. In New York you see big sedans, usually black, running red lights or parked flagrantly on the sidewalk or blurring past you on the BQE. They all have "diplomat" plates. Drive a "DPL" car, and you're untouchable.
Only one other type of car can be parked in forbidden places and turn into keep-out driveways. You've seen the signs. "No parking. Authorized vehicles only."

Authorized vehicles can do anything.
How would you know an authorized vehicle if you saw it? Easy. It doesn't smile, and its sheetmetal bulges ominously.

If you notice your step quickening as you pass, yep, it's authorized, all right.
I have a fantasy going here. It starts with a Mercury Marauder, a cop car in Saturday-night duds, all black, wearing just a touch of jewelry around the side windows. This thing moves like a fullback earning fun money as a bouncer at Hooters. Leg into the four-cam V-8, and a happy howl comes out. I remember the days when big Detroiters could outrun and outswagger anything the foreigners could throw at us, and this 4300-pound jock takes me back to them. I'm thoroughly amused. Even the driver seat works for me, something I haven't said about a Ford in this millennium.

All the Marauder needs to pass for "authorized" is a few wardrobe items. Black is good, but the hey-lookit-me glittering five-spokers have to go. This is a job for steelies and dog-dish caps. And antennas. An authorized vehicle looks prickly, black wires poking out, short ones, kind of like the Russian trawlers of the Cold War. Just don't go too far on this overt stuff. Don't seem to be "telling." The look can't cross the line into impersonating an officer. Think of the overall effect as having both feet right to the edge of the "don't ask" line. Ask at your own risk.

For the extroverts among you, the hottest costume for 2003 is the Hummer H2. I loved it in photos. Then I saw a real one in the, uh, well, "flesh" is not the right word. I saw it in the plastic.

Those cake-pan bumps on the hood? Plastic. You can pop 'em off with your fingers. Those black extenders on the ends of the front bumper? Tupperware tuff for those brutal commutes! Inside, the window sills are high. You look at the world through slits. For the first time ever, you see door-sealing rubber being used as a styling element. The message is "functional," get it? Ten man-size socketheads make a big show of securing wispy plastic cladding to the dash. The shifter lever looks like something borrowed from a marine winch.
Well, why shouldn't Power Rangers technology be scaled up for Big Boys?

Hey, girls need costumes, too. A TV commercial shows a honey-haired sweetie cruising the shadowed, steam-plumed canyons of Manhattan accompanied by bouncy music. Then the punch line: "Threaten men, in a whole new way."

Probably you can tell the H2 is not my kind of costume. But for the Mrs. Grundys, it's a rolling infarction. You gotta love it.

[Klaus]

It's spring. Do you know what you're gonna wear?
BY PATRICK BEDARD
APRIL 2003

This page, last year, mentioned a few attributes of SUVs that are exceptionally convenient—for example, the narrow swing of their doors in crowded parking slots and the way their high-riding seats lift the driver above most headlight glare.

From the scolding tone of letters from readers, you'd think I passed out how-to instructions for barbecued dog.

What is it about SUVs that turns otherwise amiable neighbors into scolding Mrs. Grundys? One complainant, proselytizing in cramped longhand for his own preferences, had me nodding yes as he explained the joys of light weight and low center of gravity and the importance of keeping everything in proportion—too much power demands humongous brakes which leads to exaggerated tires and pretty soon you've concocted a Viper. Yes, yes!

Then he said all his research turned up nothing on the market that approached the superb balance achieved by his own 1991 Ford Probe.
Whew. People know what they like, and they know that everybody else is wrong. This old magazine game still works the crowd as reliably as it did when I first put fingers to keyboard in, well, Honda wasn't selling four-wheelers here yet. Car and Driver is about self-expression with cars. Once you get beyond trusty transportation—what's a Corolla showing six figures on the odo cost, a few large?—your choice of what to drive really comes down to, "What shall I wear?"

Cars are costume. Cars are the way we tell friends and strangers what to think of us.
Some folks don't want to be seen in sensible shoes. So they shun minivans. Others drive American to make a patriotic statement. Two-seaters send a jaunty message. Or maybe you were born to be bad. Jack your pickup so high you can look into second-story windows. Or drop your Civic lower than the crotch of your dungarees.

I haven't even touched the topic of Bimmers and Benzes.
Still other folks see our highways as a morality play. "What would Jesus drive?" And as religious extremists everywhere think, anyone who disagrees is a sinner. Repent for your SUV or perish!

When we stand before the Almighty on judgment day, I doubt He will be checking our lives against the EPA Gas Mileage Guide.
Personally, I wouldn't buy a daily driver that gets less than 25 mpg (the conservationist instinct runs deep in farm boys, even fallen-away ones). But I wouldn't argue, either, that the oil supply is precarious. Give it the common-sense test: The world's oil experts know better than the rest of us how much petroleum the planet has secreted away. They make their livings finding and marketing oil. And they're willing to sell all we want—bring your tanker—for less than the price of Coca-Cola. The Mrs. Grundys may feel that oil is more precious, but let's not confuse guilt feelings with hard data.

Even if the petro pumps were sucking air, I'd still believe in a driver's right to choose. If you don't like SUVs, don't get one. But America wasn't created so that a few stiff-necked prigs could tell the rest of us what to wear.

If I could have any costume I wanted, for everyday getting-there wear, I'd choose a minivan. Those fearing they'll be seen in a minivan have it all wrong. Nobody will see you. Nobody will even look. Minivans are invisible. Nobody wants to see them. They shed witnesses like DuPont's SilverStone sheds bacon fat. Give me a light gray one, a little dusty, and I'll get down the road beneath all notice. Ever see a minivan pulled over by the speed squad? Of course not. Enforcers click on interesting cars, not appliances.

Still, there could be a better choice. Instead of minivan stealth, what about a car that says, "You don't wanna know." I'm talking rolling don't ask, don't tell. In New York you see big sedans, usually black, running red lights or parked flagrantly on the sidewalk or blurring past you on the BQE. They all have "diplomat" plates. Drive a "DPL" car, and you're untouchable.
Only one other type of car can be parked in forbidden places and turn into keep-out driveways. You've seen the signs. "No parking. Authorized vehicles only."

Authorized vehicles can do anything.
How would you know an authorized vehicle if you saw it? Easy. It doesn't smile, and its sheetmetal bulges ominously.

If you notice your step quickening as you pass, yep, it's authorized, all right.
I have a fantasy going here. It starts with a Mercury Marauder, a cop car in Saturday-night duds, all black, wearing just a touch of jewelry around the side windows. This thing moves like a fullback earning fun money as a bouncer at Hooters. Leg into the four-cam V-8, and a happy howl comes out. I remember the days when big Detroiters could outrun and outswagger anything the foreigners could throw at us, and this 4300-pound jock takes me back to them. I'm thoroughly amused. Even the driver seat works for me, something I haven't said about a Ford in this millennium.

All the Marauder needs to pass for "authorized" is a few wardrobe items. Black is good, but the hey-lookit-me glittering five-spokers have to go. This is a job for steelies and dog-dish caps. And antennas. An authorized vehicle looks prickly, black wires poking out, short ones, kind of like the Russian trawlers of the Cold War. Just don't go too far on this overt stuff. Don't seem to be "telling." The look can't cross the line into impersonating an officer. Think of the overall effect as having both feet right to the edge of the "don't ask" line. Ask at your own risk.

For the extroverts among you, the hottest costume for 2003 is the Hummer H2. I loved it in photos. Then I saw a real one in the, uh, well, "flesh" is not the right word. I saw it in the plastic.

Those cake-pan bumps on the hood? Plastic. You can pop 'em off with your fingers. Those black extenders on the ends of the front bumper? Tupperware tuff for those brutal commutes! Inside, the window sills are high. You look at the world through slits. For the first time ever, you see door-sealing rubber being used as a styling element. The message is "functional," get it? Ten man-size socketheads make a big show of securing wispy plastic cladding to the dash. The shifter lever looks like something borrowed from a marine winch.
Well, why shouldn't Power Rangers technology be scaled up for Big Boys?

Hey, girls need costumes, too. A TV commercial shows a honey-haired sweetie cruising the shadowed, steam-plumed canyons of Manhattan accompanied by bouncy music. Then the punch line: "Threaten men, in a whole new way."

Probably you can tell the H2 is not my kind of costume. But for the Mrs. Grundys, it's a rolling infarction. You gotta love it.