Every morning, at about a quarter to six, my daughter and I have breakfast together. It’s a ritual. I stand at the counter, chug bitter black coffee and watch the clock on the stove- don’t want to miss the car pool - while she slurps down a bowl of sugar cereal and tells me about her exploits at school. All the while, in the background, the radio bleats out an invariably despairing account of the world’s condition. This is our unhealthy way of kicking off the new day.

This morning the news was dominated by the woeful tale of the so-called Big Three. If you recall, GM, Chrysler and Ford have their figurative backs to the wall. And so, the CEOs of America’s auto manufacturers have returned to Washington for some more corporate panhandling. It seems the first $17.4 billion of tax-payer’s money loaned to GM and Chrysler was not enough. Boy, I didn't see that coming. Surprisingly though, Ford has not needed to take advantage of its $9 billion life line. The night, however, is young.

It now appears that GM and Chrysler need another $21.6 billion. Congress has imposed conditions, or else the American public might think that this is all a great big handout. One of Washington’s stipulations is that the automakers present restructuring plans to congress that navigate the Big Three back to the land of viability. The deadline for these plans was yesterday.

The plans are broad, vague and light on details, but they do outline changes, some of which are predictable, some of which are drastic. There will be lay-offs and factory closings. Lots of people will be out of work. Those who retain their positions will lose benefits. Product lines will be altered, certain models will be dropped and - in the case of GM - weaker brands will be phased out. This bothers my daughter because the radio correspondent lists Saturn as a brand slated for oblivion.

Recently, she has re-discovered her love for my ‘94 Saturn SL. See, a few weeks back I implanted a “wild-berry” air-freshener under my little car's passenger seat to cover up it’s otherwise pungent odor. This particular freshener can be bought at any Advanced Auto Parts store. Just look for these urinal-cake-shaped air-fresheners at the counter. They'll be next to the Snickers bars and below the row of dollar tools. They come in a variety of scents including vanilla and “new car.” You won’t be disappointed.

Previously, due to environmental conditions beyond my control, my beloved Saturn had taken on an compound odor comprised of a cocktail of smells with ingredients including - but not limited to - bilge water, rock salt, mold, animal dander and sweat socks - think low tide crossed with wet dog. Hey, carpooling is a nasty business. This, of course, soured my daughter’s opinion of an otherwise fine automobile. Now, that the car smells like a fresh stick of juicy fruit bubble gum, she’s willing to forget the past and forge ahead into the endless future with a newly instilled fondness for all things Saturn. That was, until that jerk Rick Wagoner - who, by-the-way, earned a base salary of $2.2 million in 2008 - gave Saturn the ax.

“Julia,” I comforted, “ No one’s going to come take our Saturn. Besides, the junkyards are full of them, we’ll always be able to find used parts, even if GM and all the third-party suppliers stop manufacturing new parts.”

This seemed to sooth her. I, however, could not stop a certain feeling of dread from creeping deep into my bones. These restructuring plans detailed the closing of an additional five manufacturing facilities and the destruction of more than 50,000 jobs worldwide.

I’m a child of the Cold War. My grade school was a fall-out shelter. I grew up watching movies like Red Dawn and reading books like Red Storm Rising(for the record, Jack Ryan was kicking pinko ass while Jack Bauer was still slurping grape juice from a sippy cup.)

Throughout my childhood the fear of nuclear war was pervasive. The unimaginable consequences of a nuclear holocaust was on everyone's mind. They called it the Nuclear Winter. It is a scenario where the mass discharge of nuclear weapons kicks up enough dust into the sky to choke out all sunlight. This in turn sparks a rapid cooling of the Earth that makes the entire world uninhabitable. Those that survived the initial holocaust and the radioactive fall-out would die due to drastic, world-wide climate changes.

The Nuclear Winter, of course, never happened. But, it seems to me that we now face an Economic Winter that is every bit as real as the Nuclear Winter was abstract. The initial collapse of the financial services industry did not immediately destroy the economy. This collapse, which certainly imploded with a ferocity akin to multiple nuclear detonations, instead set off a cascade of financial events - including the constricting of credit, the mass loss of personal retirement investments, a reduction in consumerism and manufacturing and a massive weakening of confidence - that is not dissimilar, in terms of process, to the devastating chain of events that might follow a nuclear holocaust.

Presently, the economic atmosphere is burthened by a noxious miasma that is one part dread and one part fear. If the air isn't cleared of this financial stink, the economic world, as we know it, may be rendered uninhabitable. What we need now, for the short term, is an economic air freshener to, at least, mask the stench of fear and loathing. What, you ask, could freshen this foul economy? The truth.

Americans are justifiably angry with Wall Street and the financial tycoons who lived lavishly while gutting the economy and leaving the bill for the working class. Further infuriating the masses, is the realization that the only way out is to pump more money into the very institutions that caused the economic meltdown. This is the truth, and hesitating to do what is, oh so aberrant, but obviously necessary could bring on, as it did some seventy-years-ago, a great depression. If we accept this truth, and get on with it, then, we can clear the air of dread and fear and, eventually, make ready for the day when optimism returns.

Oh well, at least my old Saturn smells fruity fresh.

Ebooks are no fun at book burnings. I bet Ray didn't forsee that one.

At this temperature the air is drier than British humor and breathing it is like swallowing icy fire. Every step is a test of my resolve and I yearn for this run - this purgation - this slow-motion jaunt - through the wintry hell of a January midnight to end. But, I must keep running, keep moving, keep pushing in any direction for I am chasing away the dismal phantasma known as the winter blues. See, this run is a sort of self-inflicted treatment, a cathartic mental chemo, not aimed at destroying me - though it may do just that - but at killing off that sickly part of me that responds to depression by purchasing automobiles. No, I will not fail this time - I can not fail this time - mainly because I have no more room for discretionary auto-purchases and, secondly, because my wife will throw me out if I come home with another car.
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It was not long ago, about seven years or so, when I had a similarly acute case of the winter blues. Back then, I used to spend my nights hanging out at Ron's Shell with a friend and fellow car nut known to most as Cheeseman. Ron's was one of those old, cinder-block service stations from the '50s. The type with two work bays, a side office and a bathroom that doubled as an incubator for hepatitis, septicemia and a host of hungry flesh-eating bacteria. Can you believe they tore the place down to put up a mini-mart?

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Cheeseman worked evenings as the station's solo pump attendant. Between customers he would wrench on his own junkers or do a quick job on the side for a few tax-free bucks. The station was located in an older section of town dotted with Victorian-error houses - which a hundred-years-ago stood as resplendent testimony to Burlington's boom days as a bustling port on Lake Champlain. Over the last century, however, the social landscape has profoundly changed. These once regal family houses, the past abodes of successful merchants and industrialists, are now the dilapidated tenements of the Old North End. It is here that Burlington warehouses the disabled, the refugees, the students and all of it's other low-income folk.

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Word was out that a cheap mechanic was working nights at Ron's Shell. It was also known that Cheeseman accepted all forms of payment. And so, the parking lot became a sort of low-buck trading floor. Various goods, much of them ill-gotten or illegal, were traded in for Cheeseman's services. Frequently whole cars would be bartered for work done on a customers "roadworthy" vehicle. Most of the time these "trade-ins" were old sway-back clunkers - worth only their steel value - but, on occasion, a real gem might turn up.

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That January, I came close to purchasing such a gem.
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Long before this continent knew the wrath of either the WRX or EVO, there was the Mazda 323 GTX. Bred for rally racing, the turbocharged, all-wheel-drive GTX weighed-in at 2600 pounds and produced 132 hp from it's 16-valve, 1600cc in-line four. With this power and weight combination, the GTX could achieve 60 mph in about 8 seconds and tick off the 1/4 mile in about 16 seconds. True, today's Mitsubishi Evo - with 291 kicking ponies on tap - could devour the diminutive GTX in one gulp. But, it's been 20 years since the last GTX pulled out of a Mazda dealership and a lot, technologically speaking, has changed in the world of rally-racing. The GTX, like the other early hot hatches - think Volkswagen GTi and Omni GLH - came from very humble beginnings. The base, grandma carting, Mazda 323 was powered by an anemic, normally-aspirated four cylinder that delivered a paltry 82 hp to the front wheels. Retaining the mundane econo-box skin of the 323, the GTX - with its drastically uprated drivetrain, suspension and brakes - was a consummate sleeper capable of embarrassing unassuming Mustang and Camaro drivers.

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Though a competent stop-light racer, the GTX's strong suit was its composure in the twisty bits of road common in the green mountains. With all-wheel-drive and a short wheel base the GTX possessed the ideal set-up for quick and accurate direction changes. A quality to which I can attest. I vividly recall the night Cheeseman completed three rather rapid and concentric orbits around the station's gas pumps using a driving technique universally known as "getting sideways." I was duly impressed as this was no small feat when considering the volatile ramifications of encountering a gas pump at speed with an internal-combustion engine.

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Cheeseman must of noticed my car-coveting mouth agape, for upon exciting the GTX - after executing a technically perfect Blue Brotheresque parking job - he announced, "It's for sale, dan."

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This was too much for me. I wanted it. I had the cash and I was already driving it in my mind - racing across Lake Champlain, beating out the competition and taking home the trophy - er . . . ten-dollar-plaque - awarded every winter to the fastest ice-racers in each class.

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My wife did not share this vision. Upon broaching the proposed purchase of said hot rod I received in response a look that would have made our then blind dog cower - god rest poor Pookie's soul. She was always more perceptive than I.

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Note: pictures above feature the actual GTX my spouse forbid me to buy, though the location is not Ron's Shell. Soon to come, a comprehensive photo collection of all the vehicles that I have not been permitted to buy - including the Porsche 924 that, had I bought it, would have been my new home. Well, not really.

A new day, a new president, a new hope.

I - like all the rest of you - was moved to the point of tears yesterday by Mr. Obama's words, but to put right the wrongs of the last eight years he'll need to do more than make me cry, after all, the last president made me cry all the time.

Another year squandered. . .

. . . and still no flying car. But, this year there are prospects. There's the Falx Air Hybrid Tilt-Rotor and the Icon A5 personal sea plane, of course these designs are neither true flying cars nor even close to production, but progress - any progress - is a good sign.

Falx Air Hybrid Tilt-Rotor

The Falx Tilt-Rotor is a twin-prop VTOL (vertical-take-off and landing) personal aircraft that weighs in at a scant 980 lbs and has a estimated top seed of 270mph. The Falx's Tilt-rotors are driven by electric motors. Due to the limitations of present battery technology, a two-stoke, gas-combustion generator produces the juice needed to keep the Falx aloft. Excess power produced by the generator is stored in batteries and released to the rotors during periods of heavy load - such as take-off or during the transition from vertical to horizontal flight.


Icon A5 Personal Sea Plane

With two, side-by-side seats and sports-car like instrumentation, the Icon A-5 is an airborne roadster that can also land on water. It's 100-horsepower engine runs on pump gas and can power the A-5 to speeds of more than 130 mph. The thing even has fold-up wings so it can be stored in a standard garage. So, "M" I guess you'll be ditching the Aston and outfitting one of these for 007's next mission.

Alas, no flying car this year, these small personal aircraft, however, are a step in the right direction. Perhaps, this will be the year of the flying car and, maybe, next year I will only write about the wasteful practice of wiping our buts with paper.

Another Brazilian beauty out of reach. Alas, if only I was an international man of mystery. I could hop on a plane to Rio, smack down some cash and have this beauty crated for the US in hours.

Look at this fine relic from the age of big bad American steel. This V-8 endowed beast, a recent addition to my menagerie of wayward automobiles, was a gift from a good friend. Now I can authentically play one-baker-eleven. Anybody got a '73 Mustang Mach I.