Why don’t I like Toyotas?

There’s the name, for starters. Sounds like something from Fisher-Price, doesn’t it? Toyota. Then there’s the missing leg room. I’m 5’7”, not a giant by any standards, except Toyota’s. The front seat is pushed back as far as it can go and my knees are still under my chin.

Then there are the headlights. In a 2005 Matrix, you can not turn them off. I’ve tried. The police have tried. Mechanics have tried. If you want to finish listening to the radio for a minute or ten before removing the keys, the headlights will be on and you will look like a dope. Are perpetual headlights really necessary?

A Camry I had featured automatic seatbelts. I hated them passionately and irrationally. Unfortunately, they were about the only working component in the car. The windows wouldn’t go down. The air conditioning didn’t work. The heat only functioned as a windshield defroster. The radio was silent as the grave. The distributor cap leaked. But the seat belts? Tip top shape.

Near the end, even they malfunctioned. They wouldn’t return to the default position when the motor was turned off, but they’d keep trying until they drained the battery and left me stranded in some desolate, Godforsaken location at night in a snowstorm. I was on a first name basis with every road service dispatcher in the area. It took maybe a month for a mechanic to identify the problem. One guy told me no, no, it wasn’t the seatbelts. Oh?

And you know the gear shift indicator? That’s supposed to light up, isn’t it? Ha. Those lights worked in both Toyotas for, oh, twenty minutes after buying them. Then went dark. Forevermore.

Last, but not least, the blind spots. Driving the Matrix is a high stakes game of mystery and suspense at 50 mph city / 80 mph highway. The seat backs practically reach the roof of the car, seeing around them, over them, or between them requires the dexterity of Mary Lou Retton. Wide posts between the front and rear windows block out most of what you need to see on either side.

Oh, and the dashboard warning lights. At least one is on at all times. Usually two or three. Tire pressure, air bag, seatbelt, low light, door ajar, something. But aren’t they helpful? No. They’re on one day, off the next, different lights in their stead. Aaarrrggghhh.

Granted, Toyotas last forever. The engines don’t require regular repair. Mileage is good. But. The electrical systems are a joke. The safety features are intrusive and meddlesome. The interiors compare favorably only to a straitjacket. My mind is made up. If I ever get another car, I want a Harley. With a sidecar and a little helmet for the dog. Wouldn’t that be great?

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

My brief, unpleasant encounter with a PETA nut job.

Being a champion of animals is noble, don’t you think? The brave and just who speak out when they see abuse or neglect or suffering are heroes. No question. But the ones who willfully misrepresent reality are extremists endangering their own cause. Those extremists usually belong to PETA.

Not long ago I had an encounter with just such a PETA wacko, when she left a scribbled note on my windshield. In it I was berated for leaving my dog in the car on a summer afternoon. My jaw dropped. I’d been gone six minutes, eight tops.

At just that moment, a car pulled up beside me. The woman in it began castigating me, again for leaving the dog in the car. I interrupted and asked if she wrote the note on my windshield? She proudly said she had, indeed. I asked if she happened to notice that the car was running? That the air conditioning was on? She said I should have left him at home. I asked if she knew he had separation anxiety? If she knew he was a screamer? If she knew we’d be thrown out of our apartment if I left him there alone? She didn’t see that as relevant. I said my other option was having him put down. Would that work with her agenda? She huffed, drove away, and promptly reported me to animal welfare.

I don’t support PETA. The goals of the organization are admirable. The tactics they use to pursue those goals, however, are questionable and troubling. I mean, there are animal lovers and then there are over zealous lunatics just looking for a cause. The two should not mix, at least that’s how I see it. PETA, of course, would disagree.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.

Parking lots are the new demolition derby.

A simple trip to the grocery store or the mall has devolved into a rowdy and unruly game of dodge ball, only with cars instead of balls. I think I know what’s caused this transformation, too. Litterbugs.

They’re everywhere, leaving a trail of trash and detritus in their wake. Soft drink cans, fast food wrappers, shoes, clothes, plastic bags, old, rusty refrigerators. Anything and everything. That’s annoying to the non-littering public, people like you and me, but to store owners who’s parking lots get turned into giant trash cans it’s an eye sore and destroys the harmony of their business atmosphere.

So what do they do? They hire a company to sweep their lot with a truck or, more accurately, an 80-hp vacuum cleaner. It looks like an enormous steel-plated bug as it goes about its work. Scurrying across pavement which, for the sake of efficiency and time-savings, has been cleared of all parking stops, creating a barren wasteland of pavement. With no parking stops, no row upon row of concrete obstacles, no grid pattern to follow, mayhem and chaos and stupidity ensue.

You’ve got cars coming at you from every direction. Fast. You’ve got confused shoppers and wild kids and unsteady seniors and shopping carts and strollers and 2-ton cars going 30+ miles an hour. None of them are paying much attention to where they’re going or what’s in their way. It’s scary. And, I would imagine, hugely expensive for insurance companies. The question is, where’s everyone going? What’s the freaking hurry? I have no idea, people baffle me.

Let this be a warning to all you rational, sensible folks; be careful. Now, a little advice to the half-wits who can’t drive: take the damn bus.

Copyright © Publikworks 2011.