The New York Times has been running some unusually demented automobile propaganda pieces lately. The extremity and ridiculousness of these stories is a clear sign of desperation. As more and more Americans wake up to the feeling that our car-centered way of life is dysfunctional, destructive, and out of control, our culture is going into overdrive to convince us otherwise.

Sitting in hours of traffic, going broke at the gas pump, watching acres of greenspace turn into asphalt, Wal-Marts and muffler shops, Americans can see with their own eyes and feel in their own hearts that something is wrong. Something is broken. Even if we can't yet imagine another way it could be, we know that the way things are is not working for us anymore. In service to our cars we are making ourselves fat and unhappy, destroying our sense of community, turning the planet into a gigantic greenhouse, declaring a never-ending war for the energy resources necessary to keep the whole system rolling along. Even the most willfully blind among us must see that the promises of freedom, fun, power and speed made in all of those car ads just aren't paying out.

These Times stories, like the increasingly absurd ads that run adjacent to them, are so far out of touch with reality they remind me of the behavior of a late-stage alcoholic. We'll lie, steal, invade a country -- we'll say and do anything to keep feeding our addiction, pretend it's OK, and plow ahead with the very activity that is making ourselves, our society and our planet so very sick. Like the serious addict, we are a culture in denial.

In his lengthy argument for more cars, more highways, and lots of expensive new technology to make them run better, John Tierney, begins to take that important first step towards breaking the addiction and beginning the recovery process. Implicit in his Autonomist Manifesto is the admission that we have a problem. Unfortunately, the "autonomists" don't take the full first step towards recovery in that they don't recognize that the problem is totally out of their control, that they are powerless to manage the problem by their typical methods, and that they need some radical form of intervention to set things straight and get healthy again.

Tierney goes to great length to convince us (and himself, it seems) that expensive new whizbang technologies will enable us to expand our sprawled out, car-dependent, energy-guzzling lifestyle indefinitely. Just as an alcoholic tries to convince himself he has control over his problem by counting beers or switching to a different drink, Tierney's so-called "autonomists" believe they can get a handle on America's car-sprawl problem by putting magnets in the highways or switching to hydrogen. Like the blinded addict, they don't recognize that this is only feeding the addiction. More resources and technology for more highways and more cars is and has been the problem for a good 60 years now. It's not the solution.

There were so many problems with Tierney's "manifesto." The biggest ones for me were these: How can you purport to an intelligent discussion of the costs and benefits of the automobile without even mentioning the fact that 45,000 Americans are killed by motor vehicles each year? How do you just completely omit this annual Vietnam War's worth of casualties? How can the word "oil" not appear once in your essay, never mind any discussion of the fact that it is becoming catastrophically difficult to discover, secure and produce the vast, steady supply of cheap oil necessary to "keep America rolling." How do you fail to discuss any of the environmental, social and aesthetic impacts of a car-oriented life? And most of all, how do you figure that the 99.9% of the world's human beings who do not transport themselves in $45,000, 7 mpg tinted-window Chevy Avalanches are, in fact, "the elite?" Make no mistake: The alpha-elite of our planet today is the American motorist consumer. He may wear jeans, shop at Wal-Mart, and watch Nascar on TV, but he is the planet's top dog. He has the biggest ecological footprint. He uses the most resources. He has serfs the world over working overtime to satisfy his every need and desire.

Though Tierney's solutions will only create more problems, at least he takes the first half-step towards recovery by acknowledging that we have a problem. The Times' October 8 piece, "My Life, My Crossfire Roadster," didn't get that far. This amazing little article instead reflects a culture revelling fully in its illness and dependency, like frat boys sucking on a beer bong before passing out and defecating all over themselves. If there is a Pulitzer Prize for "Most Shameless Advertorial in a Major American Journalistic Organ" this story should win it. The piece profiles Donna Christensen, a 35-year-old "advertising saleswoman in Detroit." (Hmmm... I wonder who she works for?) Here's some of what Donna has to say to the Times (interspersed with my commentary):

I've always been a carefree, drive-with-the-top-down sort of person, I just didn't have the vehicle to express it...

Yes, I know how you feel, Donna. I too must have a vehicle on-hand to fully express myself. It's like, people don't really know how sad I am about the state of the world until they see me drive by in my Buick Le Sabre. When they see me in the Le Sabre, they immediately know what I'm all about.

I have two dogs and I love to garden — a real S.U.V. lifestyle — so I needed something with lots of room....

Totally! It's impossible to garden or take care of dogs without an S.U.V.

I never loved to drive; my needs were strictly practical...

Right. The gardening. The dogs.

But joy is the least practical of emotions, and while my Crossfire may not be roomy, it sure is a blast to drive....

I know you're feeling it during the AM rush, Donna. Commuting by bike, I often pass long lines of vehicles stuck in traffic. The faces behind the windshields often appear grim and angry. Most motorists don't seem to be having a blast like you, Donna. What up? Would they be happier and more joyful if they were sitting immobilized in traffic behind the wheel of a yellow Crossfire Roadster?

I didn't mean to get it...

So, you also make accidental $30,000 purchases? Man, I'm glad I'm not the only one.

The lease on my Jeep was up, so I went to my local Chrysler dealer to trade it in for something new. Then I spotted a beautiful roadster sitting in the middle of the showroom floor. It was a yellow, the color of a banana or lemon chiffon. From a styling standpoint, it was futuristic yet retro, with a sloping back and a long, elegant hood that gives it an almost delicate look. From the back the car looked sporty, but not tough looking or macho. This was a roadster a woman could love...

When you find the roadster you love, don't let go, Donna. Don't let go.

I asked the salesman to move the other cars out of the way so I could take it for a spin. I'd never driven anything like it. The car was quick, powerful and nimble, a cheetah with wheels. It was a beautiful day. My hair was whipping in the wind, and every worry I had seemed to fly away. I felt completely free...

Watch out Prozac. You've got competition. And the name is Crossfire!

My goal was to talk myself out of buying it, but I couldn't come up with one compelling reason not to. I went back on Monday and drove it home on a three-year lease. It didn't have any fancy amenities like XM radio or a navigational system, but I didn't care. They had this one; I loved it, so I got it...

And Donna, let me tell you: The automobile dealers of America appreciate your work in helping to normalize this sort of irrational and irresponsible consumer behavior. We really depend on that. It makes our jobs much easier. Thank you.

I soon discovered that top-down driving changes things. One's attitudes toward grooming, for instance...

Totally. I stopped showering after I got my new car.

The first time I drove to the hairdresser, she took one look at the car and said, "I have to give you convertible hair." And she lopped about five inches off. I get up in the morning, I spray my hair into place, and I don't care what happens to it.

Wow, Donna, it sounds like this automobile really changed your life...

If I have to choose between keeping my hair neat and loving the driving experience, I'll take the driving experience...

Yo, I hear that, Donna. Heck, I'd shave my head into a Mister T mohawk if it could get me through the Holland Tunnel on a Sunday night in less than 45 minutes.

I also bought new sunglasses — big ones, like windshields for my eyes. I feel like a different person...

Hey, this car did change your life! What a powerful story of personal transformation. I wonder if Oprah would have you on. Oh, wait, Oprah is sponsored by a different automobile maker. Maybe Ricki?

I discovered there's convertible etiquette, too. One day I was idling at a stoplight when a guy in a red convertible pulled up next to me. He looked over and said: "You realize it's sacrilegious to drive with the top down and your windows up, don't you? I just wanted to make sure you knew that..."

The transformation is complete. Thanks to your Crossfire Roadster, you are now part of a special, elite culture. You have new friends. A new identity. Who needs religion, community or any of that crap when the purchase of an automobile can provide you with all of these benefits?

The car isn't perfect...

I guess since the New York Times practices responsible journalism, we've got to talk about some of the negatives now. Let's hear it.

The trunk is tiny, for one thing; you can fit an overnight bag in it, but that's about it...

I smell a scandal. Trunkgate. Who says the Times isn't doing the big journalism anymore?

My boyfriend and I had to go up north for a wedding recently. He's a big kite-surfer, but his gear wouldn't fit in my trunk. I told him: "I'm driving my car. You can drive your own..."

Sure, driving together to the wedding would have allowed you and your boyfriend to share some quality time and burned a bunch less gasoline, but why bother with stuff like that? The important thing is that your friends at the wedding see you pull in to town in your new Crossfire. Otherwise, how will they know who you are and what you're all about?

I was going on a trip and had to drive my dogs, Max and General, to the farm where I board them. I loaded them into the passenger seat and put the top up because I was afraid they'd jump out. It was the funniest thing — they're not small dogs. That's when I realized I needed to get practical again, so I leased a Chevy TrailBlazer, too...

More and bigger cars. That is practical!

Now I have to hire an architect. I have a one-car garage. I don't like to scrape snow off my car....

Not only have your personality, physical appearance, daily activities, and relationships conformed to meet the needs and demands of your new motor vehicle, so too has your house. Donna, it's official: You're a freaking All-American hero. We shall extoll your point of view and exemplify your way of life in the pages of national newspapers.

For convertible owners, the first cool mornings are bittersweet; it means our top-down days are numbered. But so far, Mother Nature's been on my side. I'm delaying the inevitable as long as I can...

Indeed! Delaying THE INEVITABLE is good policy. Donna, you just keep driving, baby. Scientists say that all that motoring is making the planet warmer. And that means more top-down days for everyone!

10:47 PM | Link |