The Atlanta Auto Show: It's All a Blur

Media day for the Atlanta Auto Show was Wednesday. Actually, it's more like media morning because the show officially opened at noon that day. But the morning was packed with press conferences with a handful of manufacturers.

If you follow this blog at all, you probably are well aware that I'm not keen on media day(s) at auto shows. It's a lot of walking around listening to carmaker PR and marketing types talk about cars that either I've already heard about or will hear about ad nauseum in the coming months.

Catching up with folks in the business and doing a little networking is a plus. Sometimes a car manufacturer will put me up in a hotel for a car show, as Nissan did in Chicago. And usually a carmaker will take me out to wine and dine me, as Volvo did in Chicago and Toyota in Atlanta. I'm all for that!

But the actual auto show event usually isn't as much fun as it sounds.

This year was a little rougher than years past.

Historically, I've driven the 150 miles to Atlanta's convention center from Greenville at O'Dark-thirty, the day of the event, arriving in time for breakfast at 8 a.m.

This year I broke from tradition. I discovered that I have Marriott points left from my days of traveling with "Discover America." Toyota hosted a pre-show dinner on Tuesday night at Atlanta's High Museum of Art, so I gave up some points to stay at a Mariott property in Buckhead. So far, so good, right?

After dinner, I joined some PR types from four or five car companies, a couple of guys associated with the auto industry and who-knows-who else at the lounge in the W Hotel in Atlanta.

We partied like a heavy-metal rock band. We did everything but set the place on fire.

Things began tamely enough in a little alcove seating area off the main lounge. As our group swelled, they moved us into what would have been the Champagne Room if this had been a strip joint.

This is where the evening took a sharp left turn, rapidly deteriorating.

Drinks just kept piling up. At one point I had a Maker's and water in my hand, and two fresh ones on the table in front of me. Every time one of the server's -- we had two trying to keep up with us -- would gamely enter the room somebody would order another round.

Don't get overly concerned, though; more drinks were spilled that night than consumed. It was like being in the front row at a Gallagher concert.

Even though everyone in the room had attended one dinner or another earlier that night, someone got the bright idea to order food. Just something else to hit the floor.

I won't go into all the gory details because, as you well know: What happens in Atlanta, stays in Atlanta; but, even by my measure, it was an epic train wreck. I have no idea who picked up the tab, but I was glad my name wasn't on any of the paperwork. I suspect the W is still hosing out the place.

The auto show breakfast began at 8 a.m. at the convention center, which was about 10-Atlanta-rush-hour-clogged miles from my hotel. My eyes popped open at 8:15. It was Mr. Toad's wild ride getting to the show.

I was not at my best at the press conferences, but did manage to stay on my feet and respond whenever someone engaged me in conversation.

Yeah, this auto show was a little tougher than usual, but a heck of a lot more fun.

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Designing the Camaro ZL1: Putting Passion on the Pavement

Sometimes what I do to keep a roof over my head is pretty cool.

A week or so ago, I got to hang out with the creative forces behind the new Camaro ZL1.

I won't bore you with all the details, but the ZL1 the track-ready version of the Camaro with 580 horsepower and 556 lb-ft of torque. It slingshots to 60 mph from a standing stop in less than four seconds. Yeow-zir!!!

I sat next to Al Oppenheiser, Camaro's head engineer at dinner that night and spent some time with Tom Peters, the design director for GM performance cars, at the track the following day. These are guys who nurtured their passion for performance cars on the muscle cars of the 60s and 70s.

Their enthusiasm for what they do is infectious and the envy of wannabe carguys like me.

While Oppenheiser could pass for an engineer on just about any project for any brand -- after all, what the heck does an engineer look like -- Peters is far from the stereotypical car design head. I've met a few of them and been around a bunch more. Often they are younger guys -- or older guys trying to look younger -- with spiked hair, Ferragamo loafers, red glasses frames and unstructured sport jackets.

Tom Peters? Not so much.

Peters is an unpretentious, middle-age guy who you wouldn't give a second look if you passed him in the aisle at Lowes.

Dressed in a white shirt, black jeans, black tennies and a black ball cap at the track, he might have been on his way to a backyard barbeque or to do a little shopping at Sears. He's a tall, lanky guy -- sort of the Ichabod Crane of hot rodding.

Even as a kid, he felt compelled to draw things -- all sorts of things. His teen years coincided with the height of the muscle-car era. He muses about muscle cars -- Camaros, Super Bees and Roadrunners -- with a far-away look in his eye. "They were like super heroes on the street," he told me.

He began drawing Big Daddy Roth-like images from photos of muscle cars, and made a few bucks selling them for a quarter a piece at school. At age 15, he began painting cars.

Nature took its course and he headed to the Art Center College of Design in California. Graduating in 1980, he went to work for GM; but almost immediately left for a two-year stint at Texas Instruments. He also spent some time on the film E.T. before getting the call from GM's vice president of design, Chuck Jordan, that brought him back to General Motors.

He has remained there for 30 years working on such projects as the Corvette ZR1, Trans Am, Bonneville, IROC and the Cadillac V16 concept.

Tom told me that he had two core challenges in designing the Camaro. One was meeting the huge expectations of what Camaro means to its loyal followers. Two was somehow making it relevant to new, younger customers. "There's a huge level of expectation out there," he said.

As he walked me around the ZL1, he pointed out the grille that was inspired by modern military rifles and machine guns. "I wanted the front end to have a weapon feel to it," he explained.

The hood scoop is actually a reverse intake. Rather than collecting air, it faces backward, serving as an exit for air coming through the engine compartment from the grille and front air dam.

He talked at length about how many of the exterior's lines were actually sculpted from clay rather than on a computer. "We used some hand sculpting," he said, "Creating those subtle shapes took a long time."

Tom's a down-to-earth guy who doesn't seem caught up in the trappings of his office.

He is exactly the guy who should be designing traditional American iron.

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Yard Work: It's Summer's Buzz Kill

It's time to begin thinking about getting my lawnmower up and running for the summer dirt-mowing season.

I bought the thing almost four years ago and have never replaced the spark plug. I think it is about time. The last time I started it, I almost pulled my arm out of its socket. It took me about 15 pulls. It only took one when new.

I did put a new blade on it a couple of years ago. Despite running over all manner of roots, rocks and assorted junk that winds up in my yard, I think the blade is still in reasonably good shape.

I'll also change the air filter and oil.

All this to push the damn thing around the half acre or so of my lot that the house doesn't occupy. Very little of this is grass. It's square foot after square foot of red clay interrupted every few inches by a dandelion or some other weed. If it weren't for the weeds, I could get away with only mowing four or five times a year. The good news: Dirt doesn't grow.

I am determined this year to buy a spreader and put down some weed killer. I hate to spend the money on such a stupid thing, but I have no choice. The weeds multiply with the ferocity of rabbits.

I might have planted grass if I thought it stood a chance of growing. Throwing grass seed on the red clay that's everywhere here would have about the same result as tossing it on concrete. I could rent a machine that churns up the surface, making it more receptive to the seed, but now we're talking real work and even more expense. That's not for me.

When I'm mowing, I look something like Pig Pen in the old Peanuts comic strip. I'm just this shadow in a cloud of red dust. When I finish, I've got more crap in my lungs than a Pennsylvania coal miner. I look like a red-headed raccoon when I remove my sunglasses.

The whole taking-care-of-the-lawn thing is the one drawback of the approaching spring.

Home ownership isn't all it's cracked up to be.

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A Night in the Big Easy: Nothing Stays the Same!

I was on Bourbon Street last night. I haven't been in a very long time.

I lived in New Orleans for a year or so in the early 1980s. We didn't go to the French Quarter much in those days, but we did go occasionally.

It's still a craphole, but it's not the same Bourbon Street I remember. Here's what's different at a glance:

• In those days, you couldn't walk half a block without encountering a Hurricane vending cart. No kidding, they were everywhere. You could just saunter up, order a drink, pay for it and continue on down the street. I didn't spot one last night.
• Found in every block in those days was a Takee Outee. These were carry-out Chinese-food joints. You probably wouldn't want to eat whatever they offered -- I don't think I ever did -- but they were prolific in the French Quarter. They are gone.
• Nearly every joint on Bourbon Street had live music and more often than not it was either Dixieland Jazz or Zydeco. Last night the few places featuring live music had a rock-and-roll band. What's the point? You can go anywhere in the U.S. and listen to rock and roll.

We didn't hit any joints last night; we just walked up and down the street. I was OK with that.

The last time I was in the French Quarter was for St. Paddy's Day probably 9 or 10 years ago. I hooked up with a galpal from Dallas. Despite the fact she decided at the last minute to have some cosmetic surgery two days before the trip, and was still suffering from its effects, we had a very good time. I almost couldn't hear her groans of pain over the dueling pianos and clinking glasses.

Ah, New Orleans…

I'm good for another decade.

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You Can't Tell the Players Without a Program, nor the Speed Without a Speed-Limit Sign

Often I write here about experiences that are new to me. More often than not, they aren't anything extraordinary for lots of people; they are simply uncharted waters for me: things like frying chicken or seeing a 3-D movie.

This week I did something that isn't entirely new: I was pulled over for exceeding the speed limit. By how much, you might ask. I have no clue.

I didn't feel like I was going all that fast. Of course, it was the day after returning from the Virginia International Raceway and driving the Camaro ZL1 at 110 miles per hour.

I was on Augusta Road -- a main-drag surface street to downtown Greenville, roughly 10 miles or so from my front door.

The bulk of that 10 miles is through dense residential areas. The four lanes are narrow and traffic heavy. The speed limits vary from 30 mph to 35 mph. I don't have an issue with that and typically behave myself through that area that also includes a couple of schools.

About a mile from my house -- or more accurately a mile from where my street branches off from Augusta -- the residences disappear, the lanes grow wide, separate left-turn lanes appear and traffic thins out. Within that stretch is an entrance and exit for I-85. It is clearly a commercial area with businesses sparsely scattered about.

I am thoroughly embarrassed about being pulled over. The state trooper was sitting in the area between the north and southbound lanes in a marked car. Stevie Wonder couldn't have missed him. But I had my mind elsewhere. I didn't even notice him until I was within 10 car lengths. I'm not even sure how fast I was going. I suspect it was 45 or 50.

I stopped at the red light to make the right turn onto my street and Trooper Smiley eased behind me. Once I made the turn, he snapped on his lights. I was not shocked.

I pulled into the lot of the Pandora's Box on the corner and powered down my window. I already had my license and proof of insurance in my hand. The registration was in an envelope in the glovebox, but I didn't want to be rifling through it when the trooper approached. They tend to get nervous about such things.

I was in a car from the press fleet, which caused the usual discussion about who the vehicle belonged to and what I was doing with it. The last time this happened to me about two years ago, it was on I-26 south of Columbia as I was driving back from Florida. The trooper who stopped me then wound up asking advice regarding what car he should buy for his recently graduated daughter. This is the land of good old boys after all.

This trooper asked if I knew why he pulled me over. I replied that I was probably stretching the speed limit. He then asked me what was my hurry. I responded that I wished I could concoct a believable and entertaining tale, but couldn't. I did manage to coax a small smile out of him.

He took my license, proof of insurance and registration, when I finally dug it out, and walked back to his car. He was back there all of 30 seconds before returning to my window and handing me all of my documents. He also had a blue warning that he handed me along with some advice about minding the speed limit.

I have no idea how fast he clocked me or even what the speed limit is for that stretch of Augusta Road. He never brought it up, nor did I. None of that info was on the written warning he gave me. The closest speed limit sign in the direction I was traveling is nearly a mile north of where this happened. It's for 35 mph, but that's the edge of the residential area.

Speed limits in and around Greenville are ludicrously low, but I can't believe that even in Greenville the speed limit for this piece of Augusta Road is only 35 mph.

I suspect if the county bothered to erect a speed limit sign somewhere in that intervening mile, it would be for 40 or 45mph. The next speed limit sign on Augusta is the equivalent of about three city blocks farther south and it is for 45 mph.

No fine, no foul. I may never know exactly the gravity of my crime. And I am perfectly happy with that.

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You're in Virginia; It's Perfectly Okay to Wine!

It should come as no surprise to anyone who follows this blog, even occasionally, that I enjoy a glass of wine from time to time. I'm no expert, but I am a gifted amateur.

Armed with only my burning desire to broaden my wine horizons and, of course, my willingness to go almost anywhere, anytime on someone else's nickle, I spent several days late in 2010 in the wine country of Virginia.

I was there for AAA; but in the spirit of double-dippers everywhere, I followed up my travel piece in AAA Go Magazine with a frugal-advice piece on touring wineries on the cheap for Bankrate.com that just posted last week.

It was actually a wonderful trip. I like Virginia a lot and the state's tourism folks are simply the best. I had a blast! That we spent three or four days slurping wine didn't negatively impact the experience either.

Here' the link to the story at Bankrate followed by a link to the same piece that was picked up at FoxBusiness.com.

Cheers!

http://www.bankrate.com/finance/frugal/virginia-wine-trail.aspx

http://www.foxbusiness.com/personal-finance/2012/03/01/uncork-virginia-wine-country-on-cheap/

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A Camera Is a Terrible Thing to Lose

I have a couple of different topics I could choose from for today's blogging opus. Unfortunately, there are photos I want to include with them. Here's the thing: The photos are on the memory card in the camera that was left in Virginia that is now hundreds of miles away. I wanted to work the phrase, "in the house that Jack built" into the end of the previous sentence, but just couldn't figure a way to do it.

The morale of the missing camera? Clearly you don't have to be bright to be a blogger or an auto journalist -- whatever in the hell that is.

Yep, I shot photos for two different blog ideas and then managed to leave the camera behind in my rush to get from the Virginia International Raceway to the airport.

As luck would have it, one of the support people at the Chevy Camaro ZL1 event I was attending found the camera, evidently scrolled through the photos, and determined the camera was mine. I received an e-mail early this morning that it was winging its way back to me.

So today's post is really a place holder of sorts. I didn't want you to feel totally cheated after taking the time to visit Clanging Bell. On the other hand, I am not sufficiently motivated to come up with yet a third idea.

The above photo is just a tease for blogs coming next week.

Now on to more pressing topics. I am somewhat ticked off that Pittsburgh unceremoniously dumped its most productive receiver of all time: Hines Ward.

That announcement came earlier this week. Certainly the Steelers will survive without him, but he has been the face of that team for several years. Apparently the Rooneys decided that at age 36, he didn't have another productive year left in him and kicked him to the curb. I hope he doesn't wind up at some other AFC team and prove them wrong.

And last, but far from least, it was announced that the Fox TV series House is in its last season. I missed the first couple of seasons that began in 2004. When I finally found it, I became a loyal watcher. A truly despicable character, House was so self-centered and nasty, he was fun. I like that. Monday nights won't be the same.

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