Mini Searches for the Perfect Shade of Beige That Nobody Doesn't Dislike

I really don't understand it. But then, there are so many things I don't understand.

When BMW assumed control and revived the Mini nameplate in the early years of this century (2001 to be exact), it was an accomplished update of a much-loved original that immediately commandeered the hearts of car-lovers everywhere.

At the center of its appeal lay a surprising degree of utility and a playful sense of whimsy, that when combined with traditional automotive attributes like nimble handling and robust acceleration, made the Mini that rare sports car which appealed to men and women alike.

And when a 6' 3'' individual could sit inside with posture to make a teacher proud, well, the Mini became something truly unique. The critics loved it, the public loved it.

What could go wrong?

In a word, businessmen.

Before long, BMW was succumbing to the most-tired cliche in commerce: bigger is better. The Mini's singular appeal was then diluted by model variants, including the ridiculous Countryman, whose very existence contradicted the ethos the Mini was created to serve.

The latest Mini's bloated appearance evokes memories of cladding-encrusted SUVs of a not-so-long ago vintage, the clean lines of the original replaced by a lumpy, bulging exterior that is a fun-house mirror distortion of the original.

Of course, since SUVs and crossovers seem to be the Mini's developmental target, perhaps this shouldn't be a surprise.

Worse, quality control has taken a back seat to marketing. In this case, it means broadening the model range until it has reached the lowest common denominator critical mass prized by brand managers everywhere: a model for everyone.

Mini's handlers have decided it's better to be a car a large number of people could conceivably have a use for rather than be an automobile cherished by a smaller, but more-fervent target audience. Call it safety in numbers. Decentralization. Diversification.

Call it anything but successful.

Several car magazine's long-term tests have revealed shoddy workmanship apparent not only upon delivery of the vehicle, but which continues to assert itself as the car accumulates thirty and forty thousand miles. And despite the base car's MSRP, fixes aren't cheap.

Popular perception has yet to catch up with reality, as Mini sales continue to steam along (at least when they're taken as a group and not compared year-to-year on a per-model basis). But if consumer's unpredictable and ever-changing tastes don't doom the Mini, poor word of mouth and a blurry sense of purpose will.

Whether you blame German management or English construction, the Mini's fall from icon to also-ran has been difficult to watch. It only heightens one's appreciation for Mazda and their tightly-focused Miata MX-5, which has admittedly grown a bit larger and more-powerful over the years, also.

But Mazda has resisted the temptation to stray from its original mission statement and has only refined and sharpened the Miata's approach, which is why we continue to see the still-vibrant roadster show up on Ten-Best lists long after the Mini has lapsed into premature middle-age.

There's a lesson in here somewhere, if only someone would listen.

The Square Peg's Guide to Vehicular Hazards

We at The Square Peg are committed to keeping our readers as safe as they are informed. Which is our motivation for compiling the following guide to vehicular hazards.

Through careful observation and rigorous analysis, we have identified the three most dangerous types of vehicles and have provided handy personality profiles of the people who drive them.

While admittedly guilty of painting with a broad brush, The Square Peg stands behind its findings and maintains that a majority of the following vehicles are piloted by drivers injurious to your continued well-being.

Jumping right in, first place goes to the Jeep Wrangler.

When they aren't rock-climbing, fire-walking or bungee jumping over a pit of starving salt-water crocs, the hyperactive twenty-somethings who gravitate to Jeep Wranglers can be found attempting to replicate these sensations en route to their part-time jobs at REI.

It is usually while blasting Slayer and chugging espresso that the similarities between their favorite driving-based computer game and actual roadways becomes apparent. Competing against a timer only they can see, they zig-zag through traffic in a furious quest to record their best score ever.

Road signs, pavement markings and traffic signals don't apply to them because, like, the Wrangler can go off-road, you know? Seriously. Besides, even if they crash, it's just a matter of pushing the reset button. 

No worries, dude.

It should be noted the Wranger's high ground clearance and short wheelbase makes them prone to rollovers.

We can only hope.

Just half a notch below Wrangler wranglers are the drivers of pick-up trucks. In fact, they are so closely related you could think of pick-up truck drivers as former Wrangler owners who have impregnated someone (often female and human) and no longer live with mom and dad.

(In-laws are another story.)

They have likely shaved their head and now sport a goatee. They enjoy accessorizing with baseball caps which sport the NRA logo. My next paycheck says they can quote dialogue from Duck Dynasty—verbatim.

With the twin burdens of child support and housing, pick-up truck drivers must now confine their thrill-seeking and angst-letting to the commute to and from their job at Al's Stone & Gravel.

They carry a vague and ill-defined sense of unease which they aren't hesitant to share, using their imposing vehicles to harass, intimidate and bully. Pick-up truck owners don't operate their vehicles insomuch as they are armed by them.

Many enjoy hanging testicles from the trailer hitch of their vehicles, which only serves as proof that away from their trucks, most pick-up drivers don't have any.

Finally, third-place goes to the drivers of German luxury sedans: Mercedes-Benz, BMW and Audi.

Their expression of angst takes a different tact. Rather than intimidate you the way the driver of a black Ford F-150 might, drivers of German luxury sedans use the imperiousness of their automobiles to speak for them as they pass you and your pedestrian conveyance in a noiseless, Teutonic rush.

You're not even worth getting angry over. You are merely a speed bump on the road to wealth creation and are easily disposed of by pressing the long, rectangular pedal underneath the expensive tasseled loafer adorning their right foot.

I'm sorry—were you saying something?

My Conflicted Love

I’ve always been a car nut. In fact, I could say “car” before I mastered the two-syllable complexities of “mama”. Fortunately, I was born to a mother who, gracious by nature, forgave my misaligned priorities.

Obviously, something about the rolling sculpture of metal, glass, chrome and rubber fascinated me.

The day I discovered I didn’t possess the math and engineering skills necessary to be a car designer was probably the worst of my youth. Then why had I endured the classroom ridicule of so many teachers as I resolutely attempted to translate the cars in my imagination to paper?

This infatuation subsequently ebbed and flowed over the years, as I (in turn) discovered pop music, sports and girls. But it was never far from the surface, and reemerged in my late-twenties as strong as ever. It became conflicted as I gradually became aware of the degree to which the automobile shaped and influenced the twentieth century.

Yet my love is an egalitarian one. It encompasses everything, from old to new and up market on down. From 1929 Duesenbergs to the new three-cylinder Ford Fiesta. To my way of thinking, the Honda Accord is every bit the marvel a dazzling, futuristic concept car is.

This because the Accord fulfills its purpose in a way few things in life ever do.

But despite the perfection of its utility, there aren’t very many people who lust for the Accord. It isn’t sexy. There is no exotic racing lineage. No cache. No status. It is merely the preferred appliance of the American soccer mom. For high-status sexy, you must look to Europe: England, Germany and Italy.

BMW, Bentley, Mercedes, Jaguar, Lamborghini, Porsche and Ferrari offer status and exclusivity to their owners. Attention. Sex appeal. Validation. Ownership inspires an I-have-one-and-you-don’t sense of superiority.

But it isn’t all hand-stitched leather and finely-calibrated engines.

While the rest of us look on longingly, the owner of a Porsche 911 must cough up three-hundred-dollars for an oil change. The eager buyer of the new Porsche 918 will lay out 6K for the extravagance of a heater. 26K for “upgraded” leather. And 63K for something called liquid metal paint.

Porsche extends to prospective buyers an additional opportunity to boost its year-end earnings via the Weissach Package. What the buyer gets for a jaw-dropping 84K is the deletion of three components from the car.

That’s right. Stuff is taken off the car. For eighty-four thousand dollars.

Check-off the Weissach Package box on your order form and your sound insulation, leather upholstery and a portion of the passenger-side cooling infrastructure is removed in the interest of reducing mass.

I have just one question: is it more to remove the “upgraded” leather?

The total weight loss amounts to 90 pounds. I hope Weight Watchers is taking note. You seeing this, Slim-Fast? That’s nine-hundred and thirty-three dollars a pound.

But when you’re dropping $845,000 on a car, what’s another 84 thou? Percentage-wise, it’s like adding a GPS unit and upgraded sound to your Camry or Jeep Grand Cherokee. No biggie. Right?

Manufacturers like Porsche know intimately how desperate the well-heeled are to display their well-heeledness. The well-to-do require ever more exclusive and outrageous product, the better to stay one step ahead of the Joneses.

And brands like Porsche and Bentley and Ferrari are only too happy to charge them for it.

For those of us on the other side of the glass, we can only laugh at their desperation. While many of us would like to give it to the one-percent, it is ironic that we have Porsche to do it for us.

In this, the Age of Diminished Expectations, it’s something.