2009 Toyota Camry

My dad’s got a Camry. It’s a 1997, with 135,000 miles on the odometer its second coat of paint. He had the gas filler door spring replaced and the interior cushioning has gone a little soft. It’s still on its original brakes. The On knob for the radio broke a while back and he hasn’t bothered to replace it.

And it will never die.

Sure, he could wake up tomorrow and decide to drive it into a tree, but barring some kind of catastrophic event, he’ll eventually have to decide which of my brothers to leave it to in his will.

Which brings us to the current model. By all accounts, it’s a better car than Dad’s. Bigger, more powerful, with a well-designed cockpit and the ergonomic efficiency one expects from middle management, i.e., the Camry’s natural environment.

It drives fine. Its range is good (almost 500 miles for a base four cylinder with a manual transmission). It’s available in several colors. If you ever need to tail someone, a tan Camry is the car for you. No one—I repeat no one —will even see you in traffic. It’s automotive camouflage.

Which is why I hate this car. Oh, sure, it’s reliable and comfortable and won’t damage your wallet with mileage of 21 city and 31 highway, but to be even mildly interesting you’d have to get the manual transmission.

I double-dog dare you to find a new Camry with a stick at your dealer. I couldn’t. Honda has the decency to keep a stick or two on hand at all times, but Toyota doesn’t. I was told that this is due to the fact that no one ever asks for one.

I did.

C


I clicked my seatbelt in place and waited. Nothing. I looked at the Generalissimo.

“Ready when you are, sir,” I said.

The Generalissimo stared at the steering wheel.

“More trouble at home, sir?” God I hoped not.

He shook his head, then he sighed.

“Okay,” I said, resigned to trying to get him out of whatever funk he was in this time. “Well, I promised the dealer we’d have the car back sometime in the next three hours, so we should probably go.”

He shook his head again. The key was in the ignition. His seatbelt was on. His mustache was glorious, as always.

“Sir, is there a—”

“We cannot test this vehicle.”

The normal tone of voice should have given me the head’s up, but I’m not all that bright.

“But we have to,” I said. “It’s, like, one of the most popular cars in the country.”

“No.”

“I know, it’s a little bland, but so’s the food in the ARDVARC cafeteria.” He always enjoyed jokes about the Ant Hill’s pathetic culinary option.

Not even a smirk. He simply sat there, waiting.

“Did the car offend you in some way?” It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

Then he sobbed. Ah, crap. He wiped what I assumed were tears from behind those mirrored aviators.

“Sir?” Uncomfortable isn’t descriptive enough for this one.

“I apologize, young Thurman.” Another sob. He balled his hand, then brought it up to his mustache, whereupon he bit into his knuckles.

“Did you take the blue pill this morning, sir? Because Doc Hanway told you that she was switching you to the red ones.” Like a change in his medication was going to help.

“No! My herbal supplementation is not the issue!” Herbal supplements my ass. “No, you have inadvertently discovered my secret shame!”

“Secret...um, come again? This time in English.”

“I...I...I cannot speak the words.”

“It’s okay; you’re among friends.” And anonymous blog readers. Like he’d ever find that out. Man thinks a computer is some kind of little person whose savant-like mathematical skills forced him or her to live inside a beige plastic case, where it communicates with the outside world through a strange television set that doesn’t get reruns of Sesame Street.

“I...I don’t know how to drive an automatic transmission.” He slumped forward in his seat until his head hit the horn. I pulled him off it before the sound scared the other customers or added to my burgeoning migraine.

“You’re kidding, right?” I begged.

“Alas, no. My father, as you know, was a journeyman racecar driver in his youth. He taught me to drive when I was twelve. He believed automatics were for communists and the French. As a result, he never taught me how to drive one of these.” He gestured at the gear selector.

“Okay...”

“This is why I have asked you to procure conveyances with manual transmissions. My failure has dishonored you. I apologize!”

H pulled a ceremonial dagger from inside his tunic. I tore it from his hand.

“No seppuku!” I said. “They’ll never get the blood stains out of the upholstery, and I’ll have to pay for it.” I put the dagger in the glove box. “Okay, I’ll teach you.”

“No!”

“It’s easy. A monkey could do it. Hell, the French obviously can.” Even though his counterpart was French, he had little love for their kind. Cheese eating surrender monkeys.

“No! Evil awaits! Time is of the essence! Let us be off!” He got out of the Camry and ran toward his parked LM002.

“But you haven’t evaluated the Camry yet!” I called after him.

“Not until it has a clutch pedal! My left foot might become bored! And as you know, boredom is Satan’s alchemy!” Yeah, I had no idea what the hell that meant, either.

I rubbed my face. For some reason, none of this surprised me.

Fred Meyer cheese Danish

I had such high hopes for this one.

“As did I!” The Generalissimo paused to wipe some frosting from his mustache. “It looked better on TV!”

“Um, okay.” But I sorta understood his point. Individually wrapped snack treats fall into two categories: bland rest stop food, or unexpected treasures. This was definitely the former.

The bread was dry and tasteless, but had a touch of sweetness to it that most Danishes shy away from. It gave me hope, which was then dashed by the pitiful amount of cream cheese filling. The filling wasn’t bad. It also wasn’t great. It had a pleasant tartness to it that the sugar tried to mask—unsuccessfully I might add—but the texture was too grainy for my tastes.

“Mine too!”

“Good to know.” The frosting wasn’t as good as its volume would suggest. The white drizzle crisscrossing the top turned out to be less than ideal, but when combined with the rest of it, left me wanting something else.

“I’d eat another!”

“Of these?”

“Not on a bet!”

“Then why would you eat another?”

“Another what?!”

Never mind. If you’re in a hurry at Fred Meyer, and you have a hankering for a cheese Danish (and ready access to a microwave which is the only way to eat one with any pleasure), then you might want to...nah. I’d get something else.

C+

2009 Mini Cooper

This car took us all by surprise. My impression has always been that the Mini is a chick car: cute, nonthreatening, and small, the kind of car you want to paint bright pink and put a set of magnetic eyebrows on above the lights. A VW New Beetle for people with a little style.

Then you get inside. The tach gauge sits above the steering wheel, right where it should be. It moves up and down with the steering column, like the old Porsche 928. The center stack, dominated by the massive round speedo and the other controls, sticks to the retro-cool theme. The buttons and switches scream “Apollo moon landing.” The sport seats (a must have option at $250) hold you in place without squeezing.

The trunk will only hold a small child, or a medium size adult if you take a chainsaw to their limbs. The backseat only works if you don’t have legs, unless you move the front seats way forward. I’m six-one; no one is sitting behind me in this car.

Not that I’d care. This is a driver’s car. Power, while not in Corvette territory, is sporty enough. It’s quick, with a nimble character similar to a go-kart. I used to have a 1971 BMW 2002 that cornered like this, faster than it had any right to. The engineers cranked the fun dial up to eleven ad ripped off the knob. It’s even better than the S-models. The turbos are great, but when they say there’s no lag, they’re being generous. With the base car, lag isn’t even an option.

I’ll take mine in blue, please...

A-


I fastened my seatbelt. The Generalissimo did the same. Our new intern, Zak, sat in back. Maybe sat is too strong a word. Wedged in place is closer.

The Generalissimo put the fob in the slot and pressed the Start button next to it. He jiggled the stick back and forth.

“Let us commence!” he cried.

The front tires spun as he got in the gas and dumped the clutch. We shot out of the lot and onto an access road, cutting off a cop. The lights and sirens came on in our wake.

Zak looked out the rear window. “Is this a bad time to mention I’m holding for someone?”

“Shit,” I breathed. I closed my eyes and went through the list of people who hadn’t posted bail for us yet.

The Generalissimo looked in the mirror. At least, I think he looked in the mirror. Hard to tell with those mirrored aviators on.

“An officer of the law! An opportunity to test my skills!”

“Oh please no,” I said. I double-checked my seatbelt. I was good.

“Indeed!”

The Mini picked up the pace. The cop kept up; no surprise there. Then we got into the twisty bits along the river. The Mini took the turns with aplomb. The cop fell back.

“Sir,” I said, “we should pull over.”

“And miss the chance to hone my edge? Never!” We got on the freeway, where two other cruisers joined the pursuit. “It’s the Italian Job! But not!”

The Mini slotted into gaps that no one in their right mind would have considered adequate. Then I remembered who was behind the wheel. Then I remembered that he Mini has the wheelbase of a hot dog cart. I looked back. Zak had his head between his knees. Pretty sure he was chanting or praying. Man was I wrong.

“They’re gonna make me pay to clean that up,” I told him.

“Indubitably!” The Generalissimo started playing with the switches. That we were in the middle of a high-speed chase didn’t seem to bother him; that we might miss something on our road test did. He held the toggle above the mirror and both glass sunroof panels tilted up. “Ah! Fresh air! A gentle breeze! A kiss from Mother Nature’s supple lips!” He hit the toggle again and sent the main panel all the way back. The sirens fought the wind noise and his screaming for auditory supremacy. He won.

“Can we pull over now?” I yelled.

“Prison can’t be worse than this,” Zak said. He was green. Not lime, but a pretty shade of forest. He pulled a plastic bag from his trousers.

I looked it over. “Zak, that’s oregano.”

“Huh?”

“Oregano.”

“I know, dude.” He shook his head. “The finest Bolivian green you can buy.”

“The cops aren’t gonna arrest you for holding a dime bag of spaghetti seasoning.”

“Seriously, dude?”

“Pull over, sir.”

He licked his finger and stuck it out the roof. “South-southwest!”

He downshifted, tapped the brakes, and cut off four lanes of traffic to take the off ramp.

Safeway cheese Danish

Safeway’s bakery makes some pretty good deserts, including today’s subject, a cheese Danish. I managed to arrive at our local store just as the baker was putting the frosting on the morning’s pastries. It was still warm when she put the bag in my hand, and I skipped out the door to the car. The Generalissimo was less than amused.

“You mean I have to wait to eat this scrumptious morsel of righteousness?!”

“Yep.” We went back to my place, where the Generalissimo stared at the Danish for three hours, barking my name from time to time so I’d check the frosting for the appropriate amount of dryness.

The bread was quite good, scoring a respectable 23 out of 30. Moist, but not real moist. Smooth, but not smooth enough. The flavor was nice, but bland. Same with the cream cheese filling. It was quite sweet, and a little clumpier than expected, and its volume was poor.

The frosting was—

“Tell them about the cinnamon!”

“I was about to.” The frosting was good, but volume was an issue once again. The Danish got bonus points for the addition of cinnamon to the bread, giving a little more flavor to an otherwise dull pastry.

“Tell them about the cheese!”

“I did.”

“You did?”

“Yep.” The result was a mediocre Danish, something you’d expect from a store brand, which, it is. If you’re looking for the best Danish in the world, this ain’t it. If you’re looking for a Danish to eat on the way to work, one that won’t break the bank (not at $.99), then this might be for you. Just remember: you get what you pay for.

C+

(The Generalissimo was too busy watching reruns of Taxi to give us his rating. When asked later on, he had no memory of eating it, which should tell you something.)

2009 Subaru Forester

The Forester is the taint of the automotive world: taint a wagon, taint an SUV. It’s the embodiment of the notion that one car can be all things to all people.

But it isn’t.

As a wagon it succeeds, right until you start driving it. It’s got plenty of space for five adults, and a trunk that will hold a body and a half with the seats up and the cargo cover in pace. The rear seats recline for passenger comfort, which would be a lot cooler if they were comfortable or had, say, an actual cooler to hold all the beer you’d have to drink to like this car.

It fails as an SUV for oh so many reasons. It’s tall, but not as tall as even the smallest of comparable SUVs. It’s got more ground clearance than an Outback, but not as much as you’d want if you spend quality time in the sticks.

Then there’s the ride. Like the Outback, it stays relatively flat in the corners, but the Outback has the decency to feel taut while doing it. The Forester feels ponderous, almost detached, more so than in some other small SUVs I’ve driven (the Honda CR-V comes to mind). The ride is rough. The steering is numb. The brakes stop the car, but it all leaves you feeling rather uninvolved.

It’s a taint: taint good, taint bad.

D+


Generalissimo: Hold on!

Walter Thurman: I am!

GEN: That’s the spirit!

The Forester lumbers into traffic.

WT: Would you consider taking this into battle?

GEN: Not on a bet!

WT: But it’s a wagon. You love wagons. It’s got space for five men armed to the teeth and a trunk big enough to—

GEN: It lacks finesse!

To prove his point, he tries power sliding the Forester, but only succeeds in scaring the old man out for his morning constitutional.

GEN: The all-wheel drive is good! The space is good! The passion...is lacking!

WT: So you don’t like it?

GEN: On the contrary! I would like to give a fleet of them to my enemies, so that when we next meet in battle, I will be assured victory!

Then he takes the car off-road. Huge mistake.

GEN: It’s improving!

WT: So now you like it?

He slides it around a turn, way, way too fast for the author’s tastes. The Generalissimo said something, but the author couldn’t hear his screaming over those of the Boy Scouts he damn near ran down.

WT: Sorry, sir, but I missed that.

GEN: I said, it is the kind of car my brother would enjoy! Dull! Pedantic! Syphilitic!

WT: Syphilitic?

GEN: It is why I’m wearing gloves, my young friend!

He takes his hands off the wheel to wiggle his digits. The author snatches the wheel, just as more Boy Scouts emerge from the trees. The Generalissimo salutes them. The author steers between a pair of hundred-year-old hemlocks. The Generalissimo retakes the wheel.

GEN: Gloves are key! Remember, young Thurman, prophylactics save lives!

WT: You’re driving a car.

GEN: You can never be too careful! That’s why I’m also wearing the diaper!

The author rubs his eyes and prays for deliverance as the Generalissimo does his best Mika Hakkinen impersonation over the undulating gravel road.

2009 Toyota Yaris

The Yaris is Toyota’s attempt to get the key “I can’t afford a real car” demographic. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a fun car that will get you from Point A to Point B and do it without annoying you more than absolutely necessary.

Our test vehicle was the three-door hatchback model, but we’d spring for the five-door. The extra grand gets you a second set of doors and makes the rear seats accessible; the increase in trunk space (seats up or down) makes it a legitimate weekend hauler, so long as you’re toting small dogs or a few cases of beer back to your frat house and not, as the Generalissimo is apt to do, lug fifty gallon drums of God-knows-what to his “bunker.”

He also complained that the suspension wouldn’t take the weight of a fifty-caliber machine gun, the mount, and enough ammunition to play twenty-questions with a band of Somali pirates. He also didn’t appreciate the vibration coming from the exhaust pipe under hard acceleration. I’d agree with that last part, though it’s entirely possible that was the poor car’s way of begging the sunglassed one for mercy.

“It’s cute!” he yelled at one point. “Like a horny Labrador eating a pie!”

“Um...” Yeah, we try not to ask questions when he’s like that.

The interior is what you’d expect in a car with a base price of $12,205. Think plastic. Think cheap plastic. Think ten-year-old television casing plastic, surrounded by seats whose fabric wouldn’t be out of place in a doctor’s waiting room.

Headroom is good front and back, but rear legroom is much better in the five-door hatchback and four-door sedan models. The steering position is good, and with its low weight, compact packaging, and good turning radius, makes for a peppy little car that pleases and offends in such small quantities as to make it completely benign.

If you don’t care about what you drive, if gas mileage matters, and if you spend money only when you absolutely have to, the Toyota Yaris might be for you.

“Let’s test the airbags!” he cried near the end of our trip. Take a wild guess how close to the end...

C+