Showing posts with label Saabstory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Saabstory. Show all posts
Sunday, March 28, 2010
SAABstory on notice
As he has noted previously, the werewolf is stuck in a rather loveless and stress inducing relationship with an uncooperative 2003 silver SAAB 9-3 he has driven for the last seven years. This automotive beast from Scandinavia is known as the SAABstory. He has likened her to a spiteful and vengeful ex-wife that is out to undermine your bank account at every corner, while simultaneously stressing you out, and rattling your cage for perverse shit-and-giggles. She has no remorse, no emotion, no accountability to anything other than the proliferation of headaches and misery on the werewolf. Lately, the SAABstory, clocking in 93K miles, has begun to show signs of leprosy. The air-conditioning and heating motors crapped out last February in the dead of winter leaving the werewolf to rely on the heated seat feature. There is a flaw in the seal of the passenger door causing a small flood on the floor with each rain. The passenger side floor is beginning to resemble the 9th ward of a post Katrina NOLA. The CD player is beginning to act ticky and skips when it pleases. On principle, the werewolf refuses to bend over and sink scarce cash into this venomous and vindictive bitch, and he intends to drive her into the bloody ground, yet, she has been trying his patience lately. He would hate-crime her her if could, but sadly, the need to have a modus transportation trumps the righteous blood-lust for the time being. Read it here first, the werewolf is like an elephant. He keeps score and never forgets. When granted the ability for just vengeance an on account of the years this loveless and abusive relationship has subjected him to, he will take his many of pounds of flesh!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A week in review: New burger joint, a few decent laughs, exile looms
Yet another week has droned by for this werewolf in exile. Beyond the standard routine of job hunting, cover letter writing, networking, task list execution, and for the sake of stability and sanity, daily gym trips, the werewolf has a few semi-note worthy things to share.
There is a woman who bears an eerie resemblance to Helen Hunt at his gym. She's always on the same treadmill. If it is her, the last few years haven't been kind. Not from a horizontal perspective, it's just the woman's face has huge bags under the eyes. As Good as It Gets is still one of the werewolf's favorite films.
The werewolf has applied to four distinct opportunities in the energy, extractive mining, and steel industries. He hopes for at least one call-back.
An old flame turned nemesis emailed the werewolf out of the blue bitching about the tobacco industry. It caught the werewolf flat-pawed. He doesn't like being unnerved. She still lacks a sense of humor.
While on a recent visit into NYC, the werewolf discovered something new, the Black Shack: A Burger Joint. Few things excite the werewolf as much as unapologetic greasy burger joints. The Black Shack satisfies. The joint is sparse; service is attentive and quick; the burger is meaty, filling, and cheap; and the fries are crispy and salty. He'll go back. The werewolf actually met the owners while they were pouring over their spread sheets and talking market strategy one booth over. They seemed like nice and driven entrepreneurs. One of them claimed a USC MBA.
While enjoying drinks at a bar with his brother and a good friend, the trio engaged in a brief but fascinating conversation about what foreign accent on a female is the most seductive. The werewolf's brother, the Shark, voted for an Australian accent. The werewolf recalls his friend, Patrick Bateman, suggesting a preference for a Teutonic accent. The werewolf is highly predictable. He goes bananas for ladies with either an Anglo or Afrikaans accent from South Africa. They command a very high premium in the werewolf's valuation book.
The werewolf crossed paths with a dear friend from business school who will be completing his JD/MBA this May. Smart guy. He hates the law and has vowed never to practice it. He's looking for a finance job in NYC. Easier said than done. The werewolf and his friend commiserated about an exceedingly debaucherous New Orleans bachelor they both attended in late March of 2009. Few things make for male bonding like recalling shared memories of improbable and grotesque mischief.
It has been colder than an icicle on a polar bear's ding dong this past week. In a fitting twist of fate, the Saabstory's air conditioning died. At least it has heated seats.
As this week ends, the werewolf begins the next week with the hopes of something to liberate him from exile. Here's to something better.
There is a woman who bears an eerie resemblance to Helen Hunt at his gym. She's always on the same treadmill. If it is her, the last few years haven't been kind. Not from a horizontal perspective, it's just the woman's face has huge bags under the eyes. As Good as It Gets is still one of the werewolf's favorite films.
The werewolf has applied to four distinct opportunities in the energy, extractive mining, and steel industries. He hopes for at least one call-back.
An old flame turned nemesis emailed the werewolf out of the blue bitching about the tobacco industry. It caught the werewolf flat-pawed. He doesn't like being unnerved. She still lacks a sense of humor.
While on a recent visit into NYC, the werewolf discovered something new, the Black Shack: A Burger Joint. Few things excite the werewolf as much as unapologetic greasy burger joints. The Black Shack satisfies. The joint is sparse; service is attentive and quick; the burger is meaty, filling, and cheap; and the fries are crispy and salty. He'll go back. The werewolf actually met the owners while they were pouring over their spread sheets and talking market strategy one booth over. They seemed like nice and driven entrepreneurs. One of them claimed a USC MBA.
While enjoying drinks at a bar with his brother and a good friend, the trio engaged in a brief but fascinating conversation about what foreign accent on a female is the most seductive. The werewolf's brother, the Shark, voted for an Australian accent. The werewolf recalls his friend, Patrick Bateman, suggesting a preference for a Teutonic accent. The werewolf is highly predictable. He goes bananas for ladies with either an Anglo or Afrikaans accent from South Africa. They command a very high premium in the werewolf's valuation book.
The werewolf crossed paths with a dear friend from business school who will be completing his JD/MBA this May. Smart guy. He hates the law and has vowed never to practice it. He's looking for a finance job in NYC. Easier said than done. The werewolf and his friend commiserated about an exceedingly debaucherous New Orleans bachelor they both attended in late March of 2009. Few things make for male bonding like recalling shared memories of improbable and grotesque mischief.
It has been colder than an icicle on a polar bear's ding dong this past week. In a fitting twist of fate, the Saabstory's air conditioning died. At least it has heated seats.
As this week ends, the werewolf begins the next week with the hopes of something to liberate him from exile. Here's to something better.
Monday, December 28, 2009
A Saab-story's final chapter.
GM recently announced that Saab, like its stablemates, Pontiac, and Saturn, is to be wound down into oblivion. It makes sense. Saab, despite a certain cache and decent potential, reminds me of B-movie actor Michael Biehn. They both always dwelled on the cusp of potential, developed a decent reputation, and loyal following, but never achieved the star status that always seemed within their mutual reach. Biehn played prominent roles in well known films like "The Lords of Discipline," "The Terminator," "Aliens," "K-2," "The Abyss," "Tombstone," and "The Rock." Yet nowadays, he can be found working for a case of hard liquor doing voice-overs for computer games and flunkie films for the Sci-Fi channel.
Traditionally, Saabs have been quirky. (This statement excludes the heinous rebadging GM engaged in) Their engines are small, but turbocharged, the ignition is located on the center console near the transmission between the front seats, and they have bizarre Nordic design features and ergonomics. Cute quirky differentiators that meant something once upon a time, but were lost long ago in the bureaucratic labyrinth that encapsulates GM. Over the last few years, Saab had morphed into a useless Scandinavian appendage on the GM collective. Like the Borg, GM has been known to assimilate its acquisitions and totally strip them of any distinctive value added features in order to more quickly ruin them. Over the last few years, Saab's were nothing more than rebadged Chevy's and Subaru's. Even Saab's brand managers lost the quirky Saab brand image by vacillating between two abortive advertising campaigns that overemphasized a "state of independence" or being "born from jets." Neither was great, but the fact that they couldn't stick to one certainly added to the mayhem of Saab's identity in the GM stable.
My experience with Saab's go back to my day's as a boarding school student in New Hampshire. My girlfriend during senior year was one of the few day students where I was enrolled. She had a winterized blue 1990 Saab 900 coupe with a 5-speed manual transmission. One of the many things I learned from her was how to drive a stick shift. It's a very fond and positive association for me, and while she is long gone, her gift keeps on giving.
In 2003, I bought a new silver Saab 9-3 linear sedan that I affectionately named the "Saab-story." Despite looking halfway decent and aging well visually, the car is a mechanical nightmare that has pillaged my checking account on several occasions. Since the warranty ended several years ago, it feels like I have been stuck paying alimony to an bitter and undeserving ex-wife. All these ludicrous expenses, constant nagging and bitching, with no benefits, pleasure, or piece-of-mind. Despite the fact that the werewolf is obsessive compulsive about maintenance and keeping an orderly car, little things that are absurdly expensive frequently fail on the Saab like clockwork. It reliably starts about 80% of the time. Not to mention that every Saab dealer I have been to in Georgia, Tennessee, and New York finds a way to shake you down worse than a Jersey mafioso. I have been detached from the Saab-story for years, but as an underemployed, recently minted MBA, I am in no position to jettison the gray lady. I look forward to the day where I can wind down my own Saab-story. That being said, it's sad that the such a quirky and iconic brand has fallen victim to GM's quest for mediocrity and sub-standard automobiles.
Someone remind me why we bailed GM out?
Traditionally, Saabs have been quirky. (This statement excludes the heinous rebadging GM engaged in) Their engines are small, but turbocharged, the ignition is located on the center console near the transmission between the front seats, and they have bizarre Nordic design features and ergonomics. Cute quirky differentiators that meant something once upon a time, but were lost long ago in the bureaucratic labyrinth that encapsulates GM. Over the last few years, Saab had morphed into a useless Scandinavian appendage on the GM collective. Like the Borg, GM has been known to assimilate its acquisitions and totally strip them of any distinctive value added features in order to more quickly ruin them. Over the last few years, Saab's were nothing more than rebadged Chevy's and Subaru's. Even Saab's brand managers lost the quirky Saab brand image by vacillating between two abortive advertising campaigns that overemphasized a "state of independence" or being "born from jets." Neither was great, but the fact that they couldn't stick to one certainly added to the mayhem of Saab's identity in the GM stable.
My experience with Saab's go back to my day's as a boarding school student in New Hampshire. My girlfriend during senior year was one of the few day students where I was enrolled. She had a winterized blue 1990 Saab 900 coupe with a 5-speed manual transmission. One of the many things I learned from her was how to drive a stick shift. It's a very fond and positive association for me, and while she is long gone, her gift keeps on giving.
In 2003, I bought a new silver Saab 9-3 linear sedan that I affectionately named the "Saab-story." Despite looking halfway decent and aging well visually, the car is a mechanical nightmare that has pillaged my checking account on several occasions. Since the warranty ended several years ago, it feels like I have been stuck paying alimony to an bitter and undeserving ex-wife. All these ludicrous expenses, constant nagging and bitching, with no benefits, pleasure, or piece-of-mind. Despite the fact that the werewolf is obsessive compulsive about maintenance and keeping an orderly car, little things that are absurdly expensive frequently fail on the Saab like clockwork. It reliably starts about 80% of the time. Not to mention that every Saab dealer I have been to in Georgia, Tennessee, and New York finds a way to shake you down worse than a Jersey mafioso. I have been detached from the Saab-story for years, but as an underemployed, recently minted MBA, I am in no position to jettison the gray lady. I look forward to the day where I can wind down my own Saab-story. That being said, it's sad that the such a quirky and iconic brand has fallen victim to GM's quest for mediocrity and sub-standard automobiles.
Someone remind me why we bailed GM out?
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