A New Perspective

A televangelist in Louisiana by the name of Jesse Duplantis has opened my eyes—if not my wallet. He has taken my thinking to a plane I never knew existed. Where the world once seemed cloaked in mundanity and limitations, it is suddenly a fantastical place awash in possibilities.

Yes, the Right Reverend Jesse has liberated me.

Regular readers of this blog will recall that I recently purchased an automobile. A new-to-me 2015 Honda Accord Sport. It was a sensible acquisition; one entirely grounded in economic prudence.

But thanks to Jesse, I now understand: why drive when you can thrive? Puttering around in an Accord is certainly a modest and decorous way to comport oneself. But in this, the Age of Trump, far-gaudier vehicularization is possible. Necessary, even.

Thanks to a strain of Christianity known as the prosperity gospel, the wealthy can now be relieved of their guilt. It's okay to be obscenely rich. And wantonly greedy. It's what God wants. Yes, God wants his chosen few to enjoy luxury penthouses, fresh-cut flowers delivered daily and eight-figure incomes—even at your expense.

It's the Old Testament filtered through Wall Street.

It's how Duplantis is justifying his request that his congregation buy him a new $54 million-dollar private jet. Lest visions of Las Vegas strip joints and gambling and illegal substances infest your cranium, rest assured this is expressly to enable the word of God to be spread further and faster. 

Jesse himself says so. 

Imbued with this new school of thought, it occurred to me that I could likewise spread the word of The Square Peg further and faster if I enjoyed the use of an upmarket conveyance. Something along the lines of a Ferrari. A 458 Italia or a V-12 Berlinetta would be nice. 

They don't even have to be red.

With distribution times slashed, the staff at The Square Peg could dedicate itself with renewed vigor to creating the kind of content that brings you, dear reader, to The Square Peg day in and day out. I think you'll agree this is a win-win. 

But I can't do it by myself. I need your help.

Ferraris aren't free. They appreciate quickly. In fact, the newer, low-mileage examples I prefer hardly depreciate at all.

This is where you, the highly-valued reader of The Square Peg, comes in. With your generous donation, the scope of your favorite blog could be expanded. With a rip-snorting, 500 horsepower Ferrari at our disposal, the time it would take to schedule and perform interviews, research, fact-check, write, proofread and edit could be cut in half.

All of which leaves you, dear reader, with a timelier and more-comprehensive version of The Square Peg. It is The Square Peg, re-imagined. It is The Square Peg you deserve.

It's almost close-enough to touch, isn't it?

There's just one more thing to do.

Simply leave your bank or checking account number in the comments section, along with your bank's routing number. Our staff of recently-parolled CFOs and former public officials will take care of the rest.

All you need to do is wait for the new and improved Square Peg to appear on your device!

I think America just got great again!

Feeling the Heat in May

In 2016, the Cubs approached the league like eager med students completing their surgical residencies. With the opposition seemingly under anesthesia, the Cubs made expert incisions, extracted wins and sutured with a fast, laser-like precision. There was no stopping them.

At least until that year's World Series moved to Wrigley Field.

If contending for a World Championship isn't challenging enough, imagine playing for a franchise that hasn't come close in over a century. In front of rabid fans and an over-heated media while the nation looks on expectantly; all of them ready to pounce if sport's most infamous dry spell isn't broken.

The once free-flowing Cubs, who dismissed history when they weren't professing ignorance of it, looked stiff and self-conscious. They managed just five runs in the three games at Wrigley, eventually squeezing out a desperate 3 – 2 win in game five.

Removed from the pressure of clinching at home, they exploded for a 9 – 3 win in game six, and gritted-out an extra-inning game-seven clincher.

A year and-a-half removed from that glorious November night in Cleveland, the Cubs are struggling again. Sure, they've positioned themselves mid-pack in the NL Central and are theoretically ready to strike. But several glaring, high-priced failures consistently subvert them.

The pitching staff is struggling to incorporate two free-agents, Yu Darvish and Tyler Chatwood. This to replace free-agent departure Jake Arrieta and the newly-retired John Lackey.

Chatwood leads the league in bases on balls, and last night walked 5 in just two and-two-thirds innings. 

After five seasons in Colorado, perhaps he is lonely when the bases are empty. Whatever the reason, putting the opposition on base without requiring them to even slap the ball through the infield is not conductive to winning baseball.

Then there is Yu Darvish. Darvish's well-chronicled struggles originated in the 2017 World Series, where he failed to last beyond the second inning in either of the two games he started for the Los Angeles Dodgers.

While he has lasted beyond the second inning in several of his starts for the Cubs, his new unlucky number is five. It is in this inning that Darvish falls prey to his internal demons and does a remarkable imitation of Santa Claus, gifting the team in the other dugout with run after run after r, well, you get the picture.

Further torturing Cub fans is the fact that Arrieta is off to a great start in Philadelphia, where the surprising Phillies are in the thick of contention. But before we submit to having another limb pulled from its socket, Cub fans need to embrace the fact that Arrieta didn't have a snowball's chance in Phoenix of re-upping with the hometown heroes.

The truth is that outside of a trio of fine seasons in Chicago, Arrietta never threatened to make anyone forget Christy Mathewson. Or even Bert Blyleven.

But tell that to agent Scott Boras.

Boras' determination to sign his client to a contract appropriate for an ageless hybrid of Walter Johnson, Bob Feller and Tom Seaver relegated Jake to a team without any other big contracts, I.E. the Phillies.

The Cubs still have two strong starters and an occasionally decent third, as well as a largely-reliable bullpen, which should be more than enough to keep them in contention in the middling division they are fortunate enough to inhabit.

But then there is that facet of baseball known as hitting.

It is important to get hits. And where possible, to cluster them in an inning where other players in the same uniform have also done so, thereby increasing the odds that some of them might cross home plate, resulting in a run.

But like the products of a severely dysfunctional household, this edition of the Chicago Cubs is reluctant to send anyone home. The fact is the Cubs strand more men in scoring position than any team in baseball. Their .230 team batting average under these conditions likely has something to do with that.

Like many sports, baseball is reciprocal. Give a pitcher a little breathing room and a steady defense and they no longer fear that a single bad pitch will send the game rushing into the nearest sewer grate.

Give an offense a pitcher who can consistently put a lid on the opposition while the batters puzzle out the opposition's hurler and they no longer feel the need to imitate Babe Ruth each and every trip to the plate.

While Ben Zobrist has returned to form and Javier Baez and Willson Contreras are in the midst of breakout seasons, key run producer Anthony Rizzo is mired in a deep slump while Jason Heyward continues his offensive struggles.

But like the pitching, the team is hitting—enough. (They rank fourth in MLB in runs scored.) The problem is when they hit. Over the course of the season, only the woeful Cincinnati Reds have left more men on base.

Yes, it's only May. And it is my unswerving belief that no team has ever won a division or a league or a world championship before Labor Day. If baseball is a marathon, the Cubs are at least positioned to make a move when the time is right.

But it is also my belief that however heavy the pressure was to win a World Series, it has only increased in the season and-a-half since. And that these Cubs are feeling it—bad.

Being Careful What You Wish For

It's confusing being a sports fan. Take the Bulls, for instance. 

Last fall, I was relieved the team had finally jettisoned the awkward acquisitions of Dwyane Wade and Rajon Rondo and sent Jimmy Butler packing for Minnesota.

Fine players to be sure. But not the ones who were going to replace Derrick Rose and Luol Deng and Joakim Noah. That star-crossed group had been dispersed to the four winds, and nothing the aforementioned trio did was going to make the Bulls contenders again.

Especially with an overmatched coach in a fractious locker room.

Gar Forman pulled off a sweet deal with the Butler move, receiving three talented youngsters in return: Kris Dunn, Lauri Markkanen and Zach LaVine. They showed significant promise for much of the 2017/18 season.

To the point where after a horrific 3 and 20 start, the Bulls actually played some good ball, going 24 and 35 the rest of the way (which included an impressive seven-game winning streak in December featuring victories over Cleveland, Philadelphia, Utah, Milwaukee and Boston).

With the fruit of what is rumored to be one of the all-time great NBA drafts as yet-unplucked, I was seized with mild panic. Were the Bulls getting too good too fast? I mean, shouldn't they pick-up DeAndre Ayton or Marvin Bagley III before they lay waste to the NBA Finals?

I needn't have worried. However nicely they were jelling, schisms existed. First and foremost the one between Bobby Portis and Nikola Mirotic, the result of a bitter training camp incident. It was bitter-enough that Mirotic insisted on being traded.

This was done, with the Bulls receiving a conditional first-round draft pick from the New Orleans Pelicans. Unfortunately, New Orleans went on a tear after Mirotic's arrival, going 21 and 11 and fighting their way into the second round of the playoffs despite the absence of rejuvenated center DeMarcus Cousins.

Ironically, that success served to drive down the value of the Bulls' pick, which I'm sure gave Mirotic great pleasure.

So in this most-bizarre of seasons that saw a young core getting its groove on in fine and fabulous fashion, this was not perceived as a good thing. Winning was in fact, losing. In the league-wide race to the bottom the Bulls were struggling to compete.

To compensate for the front office's success, starters sat. Curious DNPs littered box scores. Even more-curious injuries cropped up. Bad basketball happened. In ways you don't ever want to see, the Bulls (among others) attracted the attention of NBA commissioner Adam Silver.

He acted the only way he could in an attempt to preserve the league's integrity, fining Mav's owner Mark Cuban 600K for even broaching the topic of tanking. The remaining teams were advised they would be met with the swiftest and harshest response possible from the league office if losing-on-purpose evidence was unearthed.

Regardless, the sugar plum fairies of wingspan and multi-position athleticism continued to dance in GM's heads. Fueled by hype and social media, the 2018 draft has come to represent the Holy Grail; a GM's best opportunity to lead an NBA franchise out of the darkness and into the light of career-making contention.

This, of course, is not true. There are no guarantees in the draft. Hall of Fame-studded All-Star teams can be drafted from players chosen well after the first round in baseball, football, basketball and hockey.

It is perhaps the most wondrous aspect of our humanity that we resolutely ignore what others say we can or should achieve. Fourth-round draft picks upend conventional wisdom and become all-time greats. Can't-miss first-round picks fail and drift into obscurity.

Contrary to what the talking heads at ESPN and elsewhere say, the truth is that we just don't know. Tank if you want to, but a high draft pick is all you're guaranteed.

The next Ben Simmons and Anthony Davis are not.

Which brings me back to the Bulls. Their widely-disparaged selections at seven and twenty-one could net them a very talented starter and a reliable guy off the bench. The right pick could even pave the way to moving the defensively-challenged LaVine.

If not quite requiring shades, the Bulls' future is looking pretty bright—even without a top three pick. Micro-managing draft slots and stifling an athlete's natural urge to compete is dangerous stuff.

Can we just play basketball next year?

Buying a Car (part two)

Part one left off after two fruitless visits to CarMax, two more to Honda dealerships, a Mazda outlet and four test drives.

In part two, the winding and serpentine search continues.

Through the wonder of technology, I am theoretically able to visit a remote dealership's inventory, peruse their offerings, indicate interest and schedule a test drive.

Not surprisingly, it doesn't go that smoothly.

I am first alerted to this fact when an agent e-mails me back saying no specific car had been indicated in my message. I again go to the car's page, click on 'Schedule a test drive' and supply the requested information.

After work I find another e-mail, this one expressing delight at my presumed visit later that day. Were I as intelligent as I like to think I am, I would see this as the precursor to disaster that it is. Instead, I naively blunder ahead, unaware of the train wreck that awaits me.

Once the details of my visit are confirmed, I check in the pre-dawn hours before work that the car is still listed. It is.

We set forth on a sunny Friday afternoon. In keeping with Illinois statutes that forbid the sale of blue and red Accord Sports within thirty miles of my home, this dealership is over sixty miles away.

Granted, it is an outrageous distance to travel to test drive a used car. But this is the low-mileage (22K), recently-reduced (17K), Certified Obsidian Blue Pearl Accord Sport of my dreams.

I wash the Nissan, clear-out all non-essential belongings and secret the title and spare keys in the console's storage space. I am confident my spouse and I will drive home in a new-to-us Accord Sport.

The second harbinger of ill-fortune arrives when we hit Google's drive time estimate of an hour and fifteen-minutes still thirty minutes away from our destination. Traffic is obnoxious. I feel like a blood cell in an artery begging for an angioplasty.

Weary and wrung-out, we arrive at the dealership in mid-afternoon.

After lingering near a used 2016 Civic for a moment, a young man bounds out of the showroom. “Hi folks! What can I help you with today?”

I tell him we have an appointment with Aldo (not his real name) to test drive a blue 2015 Accord Sport.

“OK. Give me your name and I'll let him know you're here.”

Several minutes later the young man returns. This time he is not bounding.

“Um, Aldo is busy with a client. But I'm afraid the blue Accord has been sold.”

In addition to the gut-wrenching drive, I did not sleep well the night before. A variety of emotions well-up inside my chest cavity. They are not pleasant ones.

I, too, have been the messenger. I, too, have borne the anger and frustration that were the byproducts of circumstances and events and policies over which I had little—if any—control. So I am reluctant to vent to this young man with a coward for a boss. I go to plan B.

Not having driven one before, I ask to test drive a used example of the redesigned Civic. The young man retrieves an EX-L sedan, lets the interior cool and gives us a rundown of its features. I feel a bit guilty as the kid is genuinely enthused and is doing a helluva job.

Then I recall the torturous drive and the lack of communication and my guilt subsides.

The car is appealing, and a model sans leather seats and the electronic goop that passes for driver enhancement would be tempting. As it is, there is more on this car than I want. Or need. The subsequent offer is resistible.

We excuse ourselves and head for 8433 S. Pulaski, the better to enjoy a pizza at Vito & Nick's. There, the futility of the day falls away in an orgiastic symphony of cheese, peppery sausage, tomato sauce and green peppers resting on a cracker-thin crust.

Why can't car-shopping taste this good?

The return trip is substantially less-congested. I ponder whether chasing a specific color on a used car is the best use of my time. There are low-mileage, Certified, black, white and grey Accord Sports to be had much closer to home.

I wake Saturday morning with the sour taste of non-communication still fresh in my mouth. Despite the excellent pizza, yesterday was a long slide for an out. I fire-off a rude e-mail to Aldo.

One Sport remains. We again set out for a far-flung dealership in hopes of finding The One.

In contrast to the previous dealer, this outfit not only has a functioning web site, but people who can discern my garbled, ESL-speak and understand not only what car I'm interested in but when I'd like to see it.

Plus it remains unsold.

This is a refreshing change.

The salesperson is middle-aged, direct and largely well-informed. (I don't have the heart to tell him this car does not use a double-wishbone suspension.) He directs my mate and I to the Basque Red Pearl sedan on the lot.

While there are a distressing number of scratches in the hollows behind the door handles, and a fair amount of scuffs elsewhere, the body is free of dents and pockmarks. The interior fares even better, and remarkably even bears a trace of new car smell.

We take a lengthy and thorough test drive. The car is again impressive. It feels responsive. Alive. The driving experience is sharpened, like graduating from a butter knife to a scalpel. I fight to maintain my poker face.

“So whaddaya think?”

“It's nice” I deadpan. We head back to his office.

There is impressive documentation about the car's inspection, subsequent maintenance and a CarFax report. With only ten-thousand miles on the odo, a hefty share on the original drivetrain warranty remains. Then there is the twelve-month, twelve-thousand mile Honda Certified warranty.

I feel a deal cookin'.

I hand over the keys to the Altima and wait for the trade-in valuation. I want at least two grand.

Check.

The car is now at a reasonable price. But there remains tax, title and licensing. And the nefarious, indistinct fees that get tacked-on like pork to congressional legislation.

We dicker. We haggle. Still no deal.

I am losing it.

The cool detachment I exhibit for the car at the outset of negotiations has turned into white-hot lust. To demonstrate my frustrated ardor, I climb atop a shiny, new Odyssey positioned outside the salesman's office.

I now have the undivided attention of everyone on the showroom floor.

“If anyone can show just cause why this man and this Accord should not be joined in holy matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace!” I thunder. “And by anyone I refer to you, Sir!”

I point to the salesman, glowering.

Peter Ustinov would be proud.

My anxious spouse attempts to coax me down. There is a concern in her eyes I have never seen before. A salesman rushes to her side and hands her a bottle of water. He, too, urges me towards terra firma.

It doesn't work. I want a deal.

The salesman holds up a piece of paper. On it is a figure. I reluctantly abandon my perch, having enjoyed my all-too-brief turn at public oration.

It is not a number that constitutes a steal. But getting out the door within a couple of hundred bucks of my target price is a decent value. I reason with myself: I got a good test drive. I got a fair trade-in. The salesman is working with me. It's a ridiculously low-mileage Certified Accord Sport in an actual color.

Not to mention that I am dying to plant my ass in the driver's seat.

I shut-up and shake hands. I sign my name many times. I now own a new-to-me used car I will love, honor and cherish all the rest of my days. We return Monday afternoon and hand over a check.

Once inside the car, I lovingly run my hand over the contours of the dash. I am smiling.

Is bigamy still illegal?

Buying a Car (part one)

The time has come to replace my car. The lightly-used 2006 Nissan Altima I inherited from my parents is a perfectly fine car and competent in every way. But at twelve years-old, I am worried about the onset of major repairs.

And after a succession of Hondas, all of which were lightweight, nicely sprung and gifted with high-revving four cylinder engines, the Altima feels a bit pedestrian. Yes, the seats are great. The fuel economy stellar. And the expressway-merging capacity of its four-cylinder engine completely worthy. 

Plus there are numerous and thoughtful design touches, like the removable cupholders in the front console or the niche in the trunk covered by an elastic net, which is ideal for transporting the large, economy-sized bottles of distilled spirits I currently favor.

On the area's autobahns (referred to as the Jane Addams or Tri-State Tollway on your car's navigation unit) the Altima routinely keeps up with those bent on testing the boundaries of the posted speed limit. It also does this quietly. 

So when my wife expresses her concerns, they are easily and reliably heard.

There is no rational reason to dislike this car. But therein lies the rub. I am a car buff. And like an introverted relative at a boisterous party, 'rational' doesn't always enter the picture.

This car doesn't inflame me. It doesn't make me smile in knowing appreciation of its finely-calibrated mechanicals. At speed, the Altima doesn't hunker down and adhere itself to the road like a powerful vacuum cleaner. It merely goes fast.

I am looking for the closest facsimile to a Ferrari or a Lamborghini my puny income will permit. Laugh if you must, but I have settled on the Sport edition of the ninth-generation Honda Accord.

Its four-door utility, modest insurance premiums and fun-to-drive personality make it the best compromise for a frustrated Porsche Cayman S or Jaguar F-Type owner like myself.

Not wanting to contribute to the hordes of Soviet housing bloc-inspired black, grey and white automobiles already on the road, I resolutely complicate the car-buying process by determining the Obsidian Blue Pearl and Basque Red Pearl best show off the lean, clean lines of the Accord.

The first late-model, low-mileage example I am able to locate is sold before I can avail myself of a test drive. The second, a 2017 with just 10K on the odometer makes my nostrils flare until I am aware of a growing pain in my posterior region.

It is exacerbated during the agent's post-drive demonstration of the car's onboard computer. The seat feels like a piece of chicken wire covered by a couple of weekday editions of the Chicago Tribune.

Whatever a car's attributes, they will be rendered moot by a bad seat. I abruptly end the presentation by announcing the seat is making my butt hurt.

Beyond the crappy seats, the excessively gaudy chrome pieces adorning the front and rear (which Car & Driver memorably described as “...like wearing platinum earrings to your job at the DMV”) bother me.

Disappointed, I recalibrate my strategy. I opt for the newest, not-quite-so-chrome-encrusted model, which would be the twenty-fifteen. And fortunately, a number of them are coming off lease and showing up on used car lots.

But the colors I seek are—predictably—in short supply. The five months of leaden, grey skies Chicagoans endure between November first and March thirty-first makes them sensitive to a sea of cars painted black, white and grey.

Exhibiting the perseverance that enabled me to survive the Great Recession, I scour the Internet for promising targets. After a momentary detour to a Mazda dealership to drive a 6 (where I find the salesman as interested as I am impressed), it's on to the nearest CarMax.

A red Accord EX-L coupe has been listed, and while the trim level is a bit rich for me, the fact that it bears only 6K miles convinces me I can live with heated leather seats and a sunroof.

I am not a total stranger to CarMax. My sister and brother-in-law have bought from them and been entirely happy with not only their purchase but with the customer experience.

I am less-enthused.

I brought my wife's car to CarMax the previous fall, intrigued by their offer to buy. It is an older model Civic coupe, but clean and mechanically sound. Nothing is broken. Everything works.

The offer is less than half the amount quoted in the Kelley Blue Book. It is also less than half of what we sell it for in a private sale.

The red Accord is sharp. I am eager to drive it and experience its V6. The salesman attaches the plates and directs me out of the lot. I expect to take it out on a nearby four-lane arterial street, where I can at least accelerate to fifty MPH.

“Oh no” he replies. “We don't drive on that road.”

Instead, he points the way to a serene network of streets that wind through a pleasant office park. The speed limit never exceeds twenty-five MPH. He ably answers my questions, but maintains the V6 only requires 87 octane, which I know not to be true.

Just five minutes later, we're back at CarMax. In a scene from an unmade Coen Brothers movie, he asks with great solemnity if I have a feel for the car.

I look at him. “Not from a five-minute drive through an office park” I reply.

Ignoring my response, he hands me his card and reiterates there is a great deal of interest in this car and that it will sell quickly. I am a prodigious manufacturer of ear wax, and despite this his words enter one and exit the other with surprising speed.

At Buona Beef, a succulent Italian Beef sandwich on a crusty, chewy roll, accompanied by a basket of golden-brown crinkle-cut fries alleviates my disappointment.

In my internal stock market, CarMax shares are dropping alarmingly. Getting to and from this test-drive devoured one-hundred and twenty minutes of free time on a rare spring-like afternoon. And for what?

On another spring-like afternoon, my wife and I venture to a remote suburb to examine two promising 2015s. Since it is Sunday, we will be unmolested by salespeople. A “dirty rain” has left the cars in the lot looking like they were props in a monster truck show.

To my wife's chagrin I inspect them anyway, determined to find beauty beneath the dirt.

The one in Obsidian Blue Pearl bears evidence of boy-racer use. Aftermarket rims, an MP3 player and poorly-tinted windows. There is also a cloud of condensation in the passenger-side tailight lens. Had it been hit?

I move on to the one in Basque Red Pearl. It appears clean and carefully-used. I make a note of it.

Despite all the travel, I still haven't driven a 2015 Accord Sport. That needs to change. I identify one I would conceivably buy if my passions were sufficiently aroused and make an appointment.

My deeply-unprejudiced nature is revealed by the fact that it resides at another CarMax. This one yet-another long drive away.

The all-black example gleams. Aside from a chip in the passenger-side rear wheel, it appears pristine, even with 30K miles and three years of Midwestern weather on the odometer.

A thorough test drive ensues which includes side streets, rough pavement and expressway merges. The Accord is composed and eager. I am impressed.

The salesman is engaging and low-key. He knows the car and professes a fondness for Hondas. But back in his cubicle, I am forced to confront the reality that the no-dicker sticker price is a bit high. And there is no warranty.

I balance those against the trade-in value of my low-mileage Altima.

An offer sheet is worked up. And despite this visit to CarMax being substantially better than the previous one, they have again low-balled me on the trade-in. I voice my concerns. I reason. “Bertrand (not his real name), if you can get me out the door for seventeen we have a deal. I love the car.”

He makes a face. He gives me many reasons why this is the best offer he can make.

I tell him I need to sleep on it (which is car-shopper speak for “I'll call you”) and leave. Were it not for two more prospects I have recently unearthed, I would be crestfallen.

The all-black Sport had been unexpectedly seductive.

To be continued.