What Makes Your Car Ugly? Pontiac Aztek Edition

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This particular post has taken a lot of thought on my part, because I wanted to do more than just say "Hey, this car is ugly." I now live on the same block as an Aztek so I am given to dwell upon its status as an icon in the automotive industry more often than I'm comfortable with. I believe I can now say I have found the donors which have lent their genealogical makeup to this vehicle, and I can tell you that none of it is pretty.


To begin with, The Aztek was a crossover. In this case that means it isn't quite a minivan. Although it can be painful to look at, the hood line is generally longer, and they scraped off some of the back to "sportify" the rear and keep the "wagon" label from attaching too firmly (this way it rather slides off). On the plus side (some may prefer using the word size instead of side), this vehicle offers a similarly commanding view of the road which has made SUVs so popular in the U.S.A. In my opinion, the Aztek begat the beginning of the end for Pontiac's styling trend taken up in the nineties, whereby they thought that they could make anything look good by adding lower body-side cladding. It worked for many of Pontiac's models, but could not help the Aztek.

The Aztek was supposed to carry on Pontiac's "outdoorsy theme" inspired by the Trans Sport Montana, which was also not very well inspired. The original Trans Sport would have been a revolution in family transportation, which I think was the only reason that Pontiac used the same name for their minivan, as it bore no other resemblance to the concept. Too bad for that. We really lost out folks, but that's nothing new where corporations are concerned.

Back to the topic at hand. Where did the Aztek really come from then? They started with the idea of appealing to folks who really needed a minivan, but couldn't own up to it. But how could they characterize these folks? What features could they add to an existing vehicle to tap a new demographic? It would need to embody independence, flexibility, and use design principles perfected in the previous 20 years. What other cars could they draw from for these elements?

You really didn't need to read this far.

Really. You will be sorry if you go any further.

Don't say I didn't warn you.


The Chevette/T1000 family of cars had been sitting idle for a few pleasant years, and were chomping at the bit to be loosed upon the world once again, so Pontiac made it taller, wider, and updated the interior to match the best in modern adventure vehicles, but kept the same basic shape. There had been previous exeriments with turning standard Chevettes into exciting vehicles, but they were usually panned due to poor placement of bottle openers under the hood.

So we have the basic outline of the vehicle, but what could Pontiac do to keep the masses from exclaiming that they had just seen the Chevette reborn? They had to find a way to disguise it so that nobody would realize what it really was. Unfortunately they drew inspiration from a shining example of movie-making: National Lampoon's Vacation. I'm sure we'll never know the true reasons for doing this, but I'm certainly looking forward to the next car they try to sell with the same styling cues as the Griswold's wagon.

Wait. I think somebody already did. Does this look familiar? I think it might. If you look closely you can see the redundant set of tail lights that accent a very similar rear facia featured on the Lincoln Navigator. How odd!!

Now that we have exposed the Aztek's questionable lineage, I will tell you what was good about it. It could double as a tent! How many cars can do that? There was a boy racer version planned as an Anniversary Edition (a la Fiero), but it didn't convey enough of the Chevette's natural charisma, so it was left in the round file.

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I Piss On Your Flag!

I was eating lunch yesterday in one of those chain restaurant establishments after which "Chotchskies" in Office Space was modeled, and among the deluge of knick-knacks and other "pieces of flair" bedecking the staff and the walls around me was a giant American flag. I found myself initially noting its garish size, but then admitted that I really do appreciate the aesthetic nature of our stars and stripes. It's bold, edging on boisterous, and its symbolism is pretty self-evident without being too on-the-nose. It could also never be confused with the flag of another country, like a lot of those "three color blocks and nothing else" flags. Yes, I'm talking about you Mexico, Russia, and France! This is not a patriotic statement in the slightest. Viewed simply as a piece of cloth, Old Glory is attractive.

I then began to ponder the flags of other nations, and I realized that while some of them were also notable in the aesthetic sense, others were just downright silly. I'm not insulting your nation by insulting your flag, but come on; if a flag is supposed to encapsulate the greatness of your country via fabric, then I think it's pretty easy to say that Canada blows. A maple leaf? Boring! Leaves are not only exceedingly bland, but they make your lawn all messy in the fall. They're also weak. A baby can tear one in half, for crying out loud! Look, I have a lot of Canadian friends. They are good folks, but their flag is ridiculous. Sorry Canada. Fail.


Japan's flag is equally mundane. A red dot on a white field. Oh the unsavory things this symbolizes for me. Namely waking up in the morning to find you've had a bloody nose on a pristine pillow case, or that Charlie's come blazing out of the bush and you need to bring in the reinforcements (if ya know what I mean, ladies). Look, I know Japan is all minimalist and Zen-like, but their flag inspires me to do nothing more than stock up on Kotex.


You want a much better suggestion for the Japanese flag? Look no further than the Karate Kid. That's right. Cobra Kai, bitches. Strike First. Strike Hard. No Mercy.

Then we have copy-cat countries. The ones who decided to look at the guys next door and go: "Well, what's good enough for you is good enough for us. We'll just change the colors around a little bit and no one will notice. Chief offenders: Sweden and Denmark. Granted, both countries are homes to things I love. Ikea and delicious breakfast pastries, respectively. But this is no excuse to have flags that look like poorly-wrapped gifts. If I received a present wrapped in the style of a Swedish or Danish flag, I'd set it on fire. That's right, kids. Besides, everybody does giftbags now.


Oh, but the atrocities don't stop there. In fact, there is a whole world out there to cover. If only I had the time to pick on them all. But don't worry, I've saved the worst for last.

Poland. Please, do your countrymen a favor and try to do your part in eliminating the ancient stereotype that your citizens are retards, once and for all. Changing your flag would be a good start.

Northern Marianas has a flag that could only be described as infinitely tacky. I could sit here and stare at it for hours and still not figure out what it's trying to tell me about that particular nation. What is that stone thing behind that giant star? Why the bridal garland ripped off from the local Renaissance Festival? Listen, I'm sure all of this gaudiness is significant to the people of Northern Marianas in some way, but to the casual observer, it looks like something stitched together during arts and crafts hour at a nursing home. Oh, and in case you think I'm getting too cocky, remember that Northern Marianas is an American territory. Marianas needs to do a better job of representing. Just sayin...


Technically, the following flag is not for a specific country. It is for an organization of countries. This is the flag for OPEC. Nevermind that it makes the work of Salvadore Dali and Picasso look completely logical, and that it makes the wrinkled ass of John McCain look nearly appetizing. To me, it looks like four heads, one of which is being eaten alive while the other is running away screaming. I guess is kind of appropriate, though to be more accurate, the bite should be coming out of the ass. OPEC's flag would be cool if it featured Chuck Norris engaged in a sword fight with Charlton Heston, but still it wouldn't even matter. This flag fails just for the fact that OPEC was partially to blame for making me pay nearly $70 to fill up my gas tank. Screw you, OPEC.


The worst offender on this list is miles ahead of all the rest when it comes to making the visual senses nearly vomit. I don't even know where to begin, but Brazil has really done their nation a disservice with this doozy of a flag. The color scheme is putrid. The layout is awkward. What's with all of those stupid stars? And the words across the middle? Very bad form. This fail is bigger than the biggest shaking ass at Carnival.

I'd hate to sound biased. After all, the only flag in this entire blog I've praised so far is the American flag, and some of you might think this is incredibly unfair. But in my research, I found a flag that trumps any other. I don't even need to see the other flags to know this. And why? Because this is the kind of flag that everyone wishes they had. Especially someone like me. Libya, you may be full of insane people and are on my personal Top 5 List of countries in which I fear being stuck. But no matter. Your flag is fucking genius. Oh yes, some might call it a tad plain. Perhaps uninspired. Empty, Spartan, or downright depressing, even. But no... your solid green field with absolutely nothing on it is the pinnacle of flaggy awesomeness. It means I can make your flag say anything I want it to say. It's so ironic, really, from a country not particularly heralded as a bastion of freedom, that your flag allows me to have so much of it! Here's my tip of the hat to you, Libya! Hope you like the falafel.

Paging Doctor God!

Dear God,

I'm sure you're pretty busy playing craps with the universe and all, but I need to ask for your attention on a very important matter. See, there are some people on our humble little planet under the impression that you hold a medical degree. Now, I know you're all-powerful and stuff. After all, you created the planet a few thousand years ago, and there is some evidence you have a bit of a brutal temper, but nowhere on your credentials did I see you attended a reputable medical school. Granted, your son had some healing experience, but he seemed to deal mainly with lepers and resurrecting the dead, so he's a little limited.

Knowing this, why is it there are so many human beings allowing their children to die of curable illnesses under the belief that you and only you can heal them? I read of a Wisconson family who let their eleven year old daughter die of diabetes because they had faith that God running through her veins would serve as sufficient insulin. Not too long before that, a 15 month old girl died from a common bronchial infection because her parents were more comfortable setting up camp in the Lord's waiting room rather than one here on the earthly plane.

Now, I could be mistaken. Maybe you do have a medical agree, but I don't recall reading the part of the Bible that said it was your job to heal every sick person on the planet. Silly me, but seeing as how millions of people die every day, I just figured family practice wasn't high on your list of priorities and that to get by this problem, you made a few of the human beings on this planet smart enough so they could treat the sick.

The only thing I really notice is that the world is chock full of ignorant, arrogant assholes who think that they are special enough to receive the Lord's special healing tonic before the glut of otherwise decent folks who wither away from stupid diseases on a daily basis. Don't they realize that with 6 billion people on this planet, you're kinda busy? But what makes this most egregious is that these freaks aren't even acting on their own behalves. It would be easy enough to shrug off such fanaticism if they were using their own lives as the chips, but they're allowing their children to die for their dogma, and this is appalling.

I read a few stories about your intolerance for bullshit. Does Sodom and Gomorrah ring a bell? You also flooded the whole planet to wash away the idiots, for the love of You! Isn't there something you can do about these negligent, child-killing assholes? I mean, I know you haven't really done a whole lot about the other evil bastards plaguing this planet. Dick Cheney is a prime example. But there has to be something you can do here. These people are not only too stupid to live, but they're totally wrecking your reputation!

I know you've probably chilled out from the days of antiquity, but I think you've got some good old fire and brimstone left in you, and it's been a long time since you've done a major clean-up operation around here. These people seem like a great place to start.

Blasphemously Yours,
Allie

What Makes Your Car Ugly? Dodge Caliber Edition

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Chrysler's Dodge brand has managed to build quite a styling empire for itself. On the topic of Value, they go head to head with GM's Chevrolet and... er, Ford. When Styling becomes the deal maker, they seem to have lifted themselves to the level of Pontiac from about 4 or more years ago. I'm not saying I don't like the particular vein they have followed in general, but they have largely adapted a boy-racer look to almost every passenger vehicle they sell, which I have found myself rather tired of when seen strapped onto anything less assuming than a Viper, Charger R/T, or Ram Truck.

I won't deny that it has certainly been successful in terms of brand recognition, and what better passive safety feature is there than to have a handy verb spring to mind for any pedestrian facing down a large metal contraption with a over sized set of cross hairs approaching them at high speed? Wouldn't you want to dodge as well? I've been run over (or under, as it were) by a car, and I would have done much better to have received the subliminal advice offered by a Dodge than any given by a Ford Escort.

Back to the topic at hand: The lovely and soft-spoken design of the Dodge Caliber. I'm going to change over to some Firearm and Artillery lingo to help describe it as well. I hope you don't mind.

The Caliber has a face only it's mother fellow Dodge brethren could love. It is by far the most aggressive looking car in it's class, which also defies definition. Can you believe this car replaced the Neon? It seems to be about twice the size. When staring down the gaping grill in front, you can almost pick out the lands and grooves. It is hard to blame Dodge specifically for this though, as Dodge hasn't had much choice. Chrysler has forced its divisions to use the same barrel across a multitude of firing platforms, seeming to change the length to fit everything from derringer to hunting rifle. It is shared with no less than 6 different models, although one might argue the merits of calling the Jeep Compass and Patriot separate models. The other vehicles occupy the mid-size sedan and (believe it or not) full-size crossover-utility segments.

At least we now have word from Chrysler that relief is on the way. If you want a small Dodge in the near future, you may be able to pick up one built by Nissan or Cherry. I don't know if that means the Caliber will stay in the breach to continue firing for future model years alongside the new outsourced compact car(s), or if this signals a retreat for this model. My opinion is that the bore length of this "small" vehicle exceeds that of the larger stablemates (and it isn't very exciting, either).

I'll leave you with what I think is one of the best shots of the Dodge Caliber, so that the wounding sight of it isn't so painful.

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What Makes Your Car Ugly?

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Editors note: This is the first of many explicitly editorial pieces dedicated to those vehicles that rub me the wrong way. Later on, I may have another series called What Makes Your Car Not-So Ugly to round it out, but not on this blog.

Welcome to the first installment of What Makes Your Car Ugly! You may wonder how one like myself may be justified in asking (and answering) such a bold question, but be assured that I am as well qualified as anyone that might make uneducated and horribly uninformed opinions of somebody else's stuff. I have no business doing it, really. But I like to have fun with it anyway.

Today's topic: The Toyota Yaris.

I don't know if you have had the pleasure to enjoy their incredibly cute little commercials, but the advertising wizards were able to give this car so much "personality" that you forget how ugly the cars are. The hatchback reminds me of an overstuffed bubble about to pop, and the sedan is a stretched version of the same. In some of the advertisements, they actually do pop, as a form of asexual reproductive function.

In giving credit where it is due, I absolutely love the commercial where the lonely Yaris is pondering little MP3 players buzzing about. That one Rocks!

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Screw You, Optimus Prime!

I like to think I'm moderately intelligent. A few years ago, I had my IQ tested somewhere in the 130s, but I believe it's more in the 120s, which is where it was when I had it tested in Junior High, when IQ tests are typically more accurate. My strengths tend to lie in analyzing human behavior and applying logic to philosophic situations. I'm good at recognizing patterns. I'm pretty evenly divided between being detail and concept oriented, although if I had to choose one, I'd prefer to look at something as a whole. I gravitate toward politics, the study of interpersonal relations, and love examining the world in a sociocultural context. My weaknesses? The mechanical stuff, such as spatial reasoning, math, and other activities that require me to apply my analytical skills to physical objects like mind-benders and Rubix Cubes. I'll never be able to build the bridge, but I could provide a hundred and one reasons why one should be built.

My latest mental conundrum? Transformers.

Yeah, that's right. Transformers, and since I am the mother of a precocious little boy who has recently celebrated his fifth birthday, I have been reminded that there is no shortage of ways in which a mother can be reminded that she is not necessarily the smartest person in the parent-child relationship. I can't stand these toys. It's not that I think they are inappropriate or because I have a problem with robots in general. It's that Transformers have a way of making me regress to having the mental prowess of a tree stump.

Elias received an Optimus Prime Transformer toy for his birthday. I looked, or rather glared, at the piece of articulated plastic secured behind the clear bubble of its box (which proclaimed rather prominently to be appropriate for kids aged 5 and up), and I said a little prayer of thanks to whoever was listening that my son had a father who could show him the way.

But I am not always one to back down from a challenge, so when I saw Ken taking ol' Oppy out of his cardboard shelter today with all of the vigor of a die hard nerd aching to relive a chunk of his childhood, I knew that I too must finally prove myself. I took glances at him over the ten minutes or so it took for him to figure out the toy's bewildering multitude of bending joints that would turn it from a semi-truck into a fearsome robot, and I began to get a little discouraged. Undoubtedly, when it comes to my weaknesses as a thinker, Ken, the guy who spends his days looking at specs for gigantic motherboards, has them as strengths. If it was taking him that long to figure out how to transform this thing, then I would bound to be like the ape before the monolith for over an hour, and would likely give up in disgust in half that time.

When I finally got my hands on it, I was determined to turn it back into a truck. But where to begin? Curses ranging in vulgarity from "What the effing h?" to "Shit on toast in a bucket" flew from my mouth at a record pace as I managed to nearly break the toy in two spots and then hand it back to Ken in a fit of desperate stupidity. I was heartened by the fact that it more resembled a truck than something shat out of the asshole of a robot-eating troll, but given the fact that this is a toy for children of single-digit age, I felt more retarded than accomplished.

Tonight I took a gander at doing the reverse--transforming it from truck to robot. That was even harder, and my IQ took another opportunity to remind me that I was perhaps operating out of bounds. I managed to finish the job, but if I'd been graded on it, I would have likely received a B for my efforts. It was the best I could hope for under such brain-melting circumstances.

I have waged that perhaps I'm bad at manipulating these toys because I have a vagina. Undoubtedly, if one peruses the predominantly pink and purple aisles of the neighborhood Toys R Us, one will find nary a Transformer. Not to say that a person couldn't traverse the store to procure an Optimus Prime for their little girl, but I'd say it's pretty fair to assume that these toys are generally not marketed toward the female segment of the population. No, today's little ladies are busy creating mental conundrums for their parents by squeezing tiny dolls into polyurethane outfits the size of a thumbnail. Those are Polly Pockets, but those deal more in the issues of fine motor skills than sheer intelligence, which is another blog for another day.

Twinkie

It was 9:30am. I had been awake for nearly two hours, and I was starving. It wasn't just "any" kind of starving, either. It was the sort where one's metabolic functions look like a steadily plummeting barometer before one bitch kitty of a thunderstorm, except instead of atmospheric pressure dropping, it was my bloodsugar. I was on the road when the shakes started to kick in, and my stomach was staging a massive revolt whereby upon the absence of actual sustenance, it was beginning to consume itself while saying: "Feed me NOW, bitch!" I was determined to wait it out, to will away the demands of my most wayward organ, but there was no more waiting. It was either divert off the road to the nearest convenience store to grab something to hold me over, or vomit steaming bile in my lap. Not a good idea. I don't know why I let myself get to such a point of ravenous hunger. Call it thoughtlessness. Call it thinking (perhaps erroneously) that a girl of my size can perhaps stand to skip a few meals every once in awhile. There is also a bit of arrogance mixed in there. I'm "tough," dammit. There are full-grown adults who weigh eighty pounds who are still breathing. I think I can go 12 hours without a meal. Well, not this morning.

As I staggered through the doors of the neighborhood junkfood haven, I didn't really have a plan in mind. Actually there was nothing in my mind. I can't even tell you that I remembered parking the car. All I knew was I needed sugar or I was going to pass out. As is the case with any junkfood haven, sucrose, fructose, and every other compound ending in "ose" is available in outrageous supply, and I need not walk more than four steps before encountering some. So here is my big "Ah-HA" moment, for as I glance near the cash register (what I think of as the honey spot for all things fattening), I spy an array of Hostess snacks, you know, those things that are more a feat of engineering than actual food. I feel the back part of my mind groan at the sight of them. I've been culturally and scientifically engrained. As much as I love food that is bad for me, even I have a limit. But that back part of my mind also knows that it's not in charge at the moment. The feral little weasel in my gut is, and it needs to be assuaged forthwith. I step up to the counter and grab the first object it lands on: a package of Twinkies. I fumble my buck and a quarter out of my pocket and without even waiting for the change, I make for the exit, hoping that I'm staggering, and also hoping (needlessly so, thanks to the bitch that resides in the self-flagellating part of my brain) that the store clerk didn't think that the fat chick was having the physiologic meltdown that she clearly was having.

I tore into the package before I even got to my car and took my first bite of a Twinkie in at least half a decade. I had forgotten what they tasted like. The first Twinkie, I didn't even notice the flavor. I was more consumed with fixing the faltering machine otherwise known as my body. In fact, I think I nearly swallowed the thing whole while thinking to myself that this ought to do the trick. I should be able to make it home without fainting from a rare hypoglycemic spell.

And then the real taste kicked in as I started working on the second Twinkie, and the only word I could muster was "gack." Memories flooded me, ones that I were shocked were still a part of my internal hard drive. Memories of remarking to myself years ago that Twinkies are perhaps one of the most disgusting foods on the planet, those rare ingestible things that should fall under the category of: "Things People Eat When They Hate Themselves." Other players on the list would include Big Macs, Easy Cheese, Wonder Bread, and Dinty Moore Beef Stew.

There is just something so inherently "wrong" about a Twinkie. It's pure science. There is not a single ingredient in a Twinkie that by itself would allow you to survive in the wild, and in many cases would actually kill you on the spot if you ate too much of it. The overall texture and flavor of the "cake" is reminiscent of a Scotch Brite sponge soaked in anti-freeze. The filling tastes and feels like sugary lard with a metallic tinge that likely came from the machine that extruded it, and it coated the roof of my mouth like Vaseline. The overwhelmingly saccharine experience of it all burnt the back of my throat, and attempts at flushing it out with water were futile, as the greasy fat that was now lining my mouth acted like a water-tight barrier, barring my tastebuds from salvation.

To put it bluntly, my soul felt like it was raped after I ate a Twinkie, and I was left with the inalienable certainty that I was summarily subtracted two years from my life, one for each Toxic Deathcake I ingested in an attempt to recover my bloodsugar to an operable level.

And the kicker, as I now sit here comfortably in my home, thankfully not feeling the shakes but more like the shadow of death has moved ever closer to eclipsing my being (at least in the larger sense. I'm sure I've got some years left), I am hungry again. It's almost like in eating the worst food known to (and created by) man, I actually haven't eaten anything at all. It's like a cruel illusion, for I know the fetid residue remains.