Why I dislike Hipsters.

1. Mustaches should not, and honestly cannot be ironic.

2. Bicycles are for poor people and children.

3.  Knit wool caps should not be worn with a safety tip on the end like cranial prophylactics.

Fast and Furious has done more harm than good.

When The Fast and the Furious (TFATF) first came to theaters, I must have watched it 20 times. I remember spending more money on movie tickets than on rent. The cars, the clothes and the cool were intoxicating. I loved that movie.

Then I learned that the movie was about as factually accurate regarding cars as Twilight is regarding vampires. If that green Eclipse from TFATF were an actual 10 second car, then it wouldn't be a front wheel drive with a 420A (low horse 4 cylinder). It would have been an all wheel drive with a turbocharged 4G63T. And there's more.

Remember when the green Eclipse starts burning after Johnny Tran and his cohorts shoot it? Paul Walker turns to Vin Diesel, shouts, "NAWWSSS!!!" and the car explodes. Well, it turns out that Nitrous Oxide is not flammable. The car would be more explosive it were freshly waxed than if it were filled with Nitrous canisters.

There's plenty of little car geek factoids that TFATF producers didn't care to examine like the above examples, but now we, the car geeks of the world, have to listen to people like my new coworker who think that he can't drag race a manual transmission because he granny shifts and doesn't double clutch like he should. And he's convinced that 'NAWS' is the most fantastic substance on the planet.

Now I'm going downstairs to steal some DVD players so I can afford my overnight parts from Japan.

Sometimes $7 is worth losing.

Hypothetically, in a fictional style, and with no characters, names, places or dates being in any way factual, I have one helluva story to share.

I deliver pizza as a second job. Usually, I really enjoy the job. Tonight was the exception. Tonight I got stuck behind not one or two but three horse trailers doing at least 15 mph, I was yelled at by a man who was very angry that I was driving on his dirt road, I got lost twice while delivering otherwise hot pizza, and I delivered pizza to a man dressed only in his underwear (I assume it was his). For the sake of brevity, we'll focus on this aspect of my evening.

The man lived in the deepest, darkest part of the fictional town where I hypothetically deliver non-factual pizza. Only the lights of my little red Audi (lone fact in an otherwise entirely fictional story) illuminated his lack of clothing in the remote location where he lived. It was dark. And he was too immodestly attired.

When the naked man handed me $7 less than the amount due for his food, I gladly accepted and leapt into my idling Bavarian cruiser. I wasn't going to argue with a man who had no pockets.

After returning to the fictional pizzeria, I was informed that the nude fella was aware of his accounting blunder, and that should I be willing to return to his deserted outpost, I could have $10 more. It took me nary a moment to decide that I didn't want to learn how little clothing this man found to be necessary, and I passed.

So, here's an insider's tip: If you want a discount on freshly delivered food items to your door, all you need do is answer the door in your (or possibly someone else's) undergarments. Unless you are an attractive human. Or if you are met at your door by a delivery person who is likewise attired. Then you may end up paying far more than full price.

My descent into fatness.

Masters and I visited Harbor freight today. For only $2.49, I bought a 36" pick-up and reach tool. I bought other things, of course, but the Fat Stick (as it will hereby be known) was the prize of the bunch. And the inevitable future cause of my increase in girth.

With my Fat Stick, I don't have to sit up to grab beer, remote controls, telephones or magazines. The only time I have to get up at all now is if Masters (the evil bastard) hides my Fat Stick. Which he is doing for fun now.

Fat Stick, I thank you.

Is James May (of Top Gear) designing clothing?

Buy one and support FinalGear.com

http://www.redbubble.com/people/finalgear/t-shirts/7733043-oh-cock

Pusher Truck Tryouts

What is Brouwer's: This is the reason you will have no paycheck.

If Alex Trebek tried to describe Brouwer's, aside from being in the question:answer format, it would clearly look like the title to this post. You see, Brouwer's is a bar in which high end beers, wines and whisk(e)ys are sold. The alcohol on tap is so high end that I have yet to receive an unpleasant drink. And when I order, I literally state that I want a dark brown liquid.

Located in Fremont, Brouwer's should be filled with hipster douches. Instead, there is a pleasant array of fat old people (yours truly), middle-aged couples, young non-douchers, scary older women, and everyone else in between. The beer selection on tap is second to none, and the bar staff are cool.

I just drank three amazing beers there. If I were a pusher truck driver I'd be upset that there 'weren't no gawtammed Coors Light' available. As I'm not a pusher truck driver, though, I really enjoyed myself. Please do the same yourself and support an amazing monger of fine ales.

A 2011 Wrangler and how it affected my value system.

A sweet little 2011 2 Door Wrangler came into the shop the other day. It is as base model as you can get, from manual windows and locks to a soft top and no A/C. The only optional extra was an automatic transmission, which, eh, whatever. The owner installed some 33 inch mud tires on cheesy looking 18 inch wheels, but aside from that, it is almost exactly the Wrangler that I'd order.

I was excited when I learned that it needed to be moved, as I'm hankering to own something similar (with 3 pedals, though, and without the cheeseball 18s). As I opened the door, I was assaulted by one externally unapparent modification.

Someone had installed bright pink seat covers.

I wept.

The Jeep seemed otherwise undamaged, so I moved it from point A to B with little fanfare. Remember, I love Jeeps. Always have. Then I saw what would come to offend my very core.

The license plate frame read: Silly Boys, Jeeps are for Girls.

I wept bitterly.

Who has the right to claim an entire range of vehicles for one gender, I ask you? Sure, Girls can have Jettas and Miatas. Enjoy. They can't Bogart trucks, Jeeps, or Mustangs, though. Those must be shared.

After much consideration, I came to a solution. With masking tape and a magic marker, I covered the license plate frame with a slogan of my own design. It reads:

Silly Girl, Jeeps are for Mud.

I feel vindicated.

A shouting match on the side of the road.

I lost my temper and yelled today. I yelled at someone who was yelling at me. We, together, were yelling on the side of the road with hazard lights flashing and horns around us honking.

I was wrong. He was too. We both knew equally that we were each wrong and each not going to back down. The rage within found voice. Gestures flew. Names were called.

Now, having had time to chill out, time to resolve the issue that caused us to be standing on the side of the road shouting, I have no anger within me.

Sometimes a good old fashioned argument solves the problem.

Bicycles suck.

I have a favorite driving road. It's tight, twisty, and heavily wooded. And bicyclists are ruining it.

On a road without shoulders, bicyclists tend to ride on the wrong side of the white line. They also pedal along lazily at 18 miles per hour. Try to imagine the danger that deer represent to cars, then add a sense of entitlement right before they pop through my windshield. That's the level of danger bicyclists represent on country roads.

Last night I rounded the bend on a section of Kelly road, outside Duvall, WA. I was doing 40mph in a 45 zone, the sun was out, and my windows were down. As I kissed the apex of the corner with my passenger front tire on the white line, a bicyclist came into sight just ahead, sitting a good 3 feet into the road. I lifted off the throttle, lost my exit line on the corner, and swung the wheel wide so that I was now on the wrong side of the road and losing speed rapidly.

Then he flipped me off.

I drove around him, his beady little bicyclist eyes trying to bore a hole through my skin. I waved and drove on. The rest of the trip, I dropped my speed even further and approached each blind corner as though another wingnut who can't afford gas was clogging the road.

Here's my thought: let's start enforcing minimum speed limits on all roads, especially small country back lanes with high speed limits. Or, in the same line of thought regarding safety, we could require bicyclists to wear bells around their necks so we can drive safely around them.

Why I want to build a Hot Rod.

Dad gave me a box of old car magazines last week. Since then, my time spent in the smallest room has developed a strong pull from within myself to build one of the marvels displayed on the once glossy pages. As such, I've narrowed my choices to the following styles:

All three above pictured cars are Model Ts with V8 engines and very little else. The top one is a 5 window, the middle a Track T (the nose and windshield are streamlined) and the bottom image is a fairly traditional T Bucket. What do you guys think? Are any one of the above cool enough to attempt?

I'm fairly certain I can trade my 1959 AMC Rambler wagon to make a Model T build happen. The resulting hot rod would be purely a toy, with no major transportation responsibilities. I'd keep the Audi, Boat and Suburban tow vehicle.

The Wrong Kind of All Wheel Drive.

Just look at that car. Take a second, clear your busy schedule for 10 seconds and look at the above imaged vehicle. It's beautiful.

Remember, that is an American luxury car. The kind of car that 30 years ago would have been stuffed with horrible couch-like seats, crushed velour upholstery, and anemic 150 horse 500 cubic inch V8 engines. This new breed of American luxury cars are rippling with muscle, all taut and quivering. They snub their noses at the Japanese, the Italians and even 'Ze Germanz.' That Cadillac you've been looking at is a perfect example of this new found exuberant rebellion.

If you remember, I drove a previous generation CTS and loved it. You can only imagine how excited I was to pilot the 2010 Cadillac CTS4 pictured above. I almost drooled when the keys met my palm.

The car was a disappointment.

Yes, this CTS was a V6, and yes it was the more powerful version than the 2004 CTS I had previously driven was equipped with. Yes, the interior of the 2010 CTS was much nicer than in the 2004 CTS. But, as I later came to suspect, the culprit here may have been the pesky digit attached to the end of the 2010 CTS' title.

Cadillac's CTS series is rear wheel drive (RWD) across the board, unless that number 4 pops into the title. Then it becomes an all wheel drive (AWD), though everything else about the car remains largely unaltered. Think of the CTS4 as the McDonald's Quarter Pounder with Cheese to the CTS' dairy-free Quarter Pounder. That one ingredient radically changed the experience for me.

I'm a huge fan of AWD, or at least I had previously thought myself to be, given my penchant for cars with four driven wheels. But this Cadillac became a heavy, numb, and groaning tug of a boat where the regular CTS was agile and nimble. The CTS4 was not entirely unlike the Cadillac of the '80s that I've come to loathe.

Perhaps Cadillac should consider a dingle-ball headliner option for the CTS4. Oh, you know what? They should offer a vinyl roof! Yes, that's more befitting the grossness I discovered.

In the mean time, I'll take a plain CTS. Hold the 4, and no thanks on the hyphen V.

I must be getting old.

2011 Subaru Legacy 2.5i

2000 Audi A4 1.8t Quattro

1991 Eagle Talon TSI AWD

I drove a 2011 Subaru Legacy yesterday. It was a charcoal colored, 6 speed manual equipped number with no particular go-fast parts. No turbo. No 9,000 rpm red line. Nope, this was just a base model Subaru. And I loved it.

Of the cars I've owned over the years, most of the truly lovely ones were both turbocharged and all wheel drive. My 1991 Eagle Talon TSI AWD was largely stock and still a blast on the open road. The Audi is completely stock, even with an automatic, and has me cackling lately while carving the B-roads of North King County. Uncle Chris' 2002 Subaru WRX was one of the greatest all around performers that I've ever driven. And each of these cars shares the benefit of both forced induction and a transfer case.

But the 2011 Legacy, with it's natural aspiration, has proven to me without question that AWD on its own may be sufficient for motoring hijinks. The 6 speed manual transmission has well placed gears and a smart shifter with smooth and precise gear throws. The brakes are both responsive and forgiving. There's more than enough space inside for my bulbous self along with other grown humans. And to top it all off, the car can be miserly with petrol. Okay, on that last one I'll admit to my British automotive influences. Still, you'd have a hard time finding more car for even twice the asking price of under $20,000.

It seems that I'm now ranting about not needing V8 engines in Cadillacs or Turbochargers on 4 cylinders. How long until I start shaking my feeble fist at those damned kids listening to their loud rap music? Hopefully I don't forget to wear pants anytime soon.

The Joy of Pizza Delivery.

No, I'm not 18. No, I don't have a salt-water fish tank nor do I live in my parents' basement, but still I deliver pizza for a second job. And I love it.

Some people view driving as a chore; something that must be done to accomplish a goal. I view driving as the goal, I'm always at least slightly let down when I have to get out of the car at the end of the journey. To me, cars represent adventure and freedom. Driving is more pleasurable to me than is watching television, playing sports, or reading a good book.

The problem with driving for pleasure in today's world is the high expense of fuel, but rest assured that I've found the solution: get paid to drive. I already have a job that pays me, albeit only sometimes, to deliver cars. This generates another problem, in that driving is certainly fun, but when driving another person's car, there is an unspoken rule that things like speeding or power sliding are to be avoided. Naturally, the solution lies in my second job; the aforementioned pizza delivery.

My pizza delivery route allows me to push the limits of Gretchen, my lovely little German sedan. Sure, I obey the letter of the law, especially if this is being read by any member of the law enforcement community, but I've been told that there are back roads in the greater Snoqualmie Valley (Washington State) that act like a roller coaster when driven at a full 10/10ths. And here is the key; when driven to her full potential, Gretchen becomes a pure guided missile, and I get paid to push her to her limits.

Yep, I'd deliver for free if they kept my tank full. Which is what happens now, and then some. I'm pretty sure this is what retirement feels like.