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.

Money Doesn't Talk. It Runs.

Whenever Illinois leads the nation in something besides population loss or unmet pension obligations, it's something to take note of.  For instance, did you know that Illinois fell for the idea of an elected billionaire two full years before the rest of the nation did?

Yep, we in the Land of Lincoln voted Republican vulture capitalist Bruce Rauner to our state's highest office way back in 2014. And just like our current president's, Rauner's tenure has been a sparkling success.

First and foremost, he has failed to resolve the state's budget impasse, which is the leading cause of our state's population loss and uncertain financial future. In that special way that billionaire businessmen have, Rauner has also failed to forge any kind of working relationship with the powerful speaker of the house, Democrat Mike Madigan.

While I am not a fan of Madigan's in any way, shape or form, Rauner's inability to develop a partnership speaks to his interpersonal ineffectiveness.

Thankfully, his 44 attempts at enacting his toxic Turnaround Agenda have been fruitless. As has his desire to reduce the state's minimum wage to match that of the fed's.

If you haven't already guessed, Bruce is just a real people person. A regular guy. You can tell by the way he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirts. And by the way he drops his g's when he says things like this:

“I'm just sayin' you need to get behind what I'm plannin' here, 'cause otherwise y'all are goin' down with the U.S.S. Madigan. I'm talkin' serious change here, folks. I call it the Turnaround Agenda because liberals and Democrats will be so turned around they won't know if they're comin' or goin'! Heh heh heh.”

You suppose he speaks that way at his class reunions at Dartmouth and Harvard?

And despite his family's generous contributions to the city of Chicago, Democratic gubernatorial challenger Jay “J.B.” Pritzker also sports an oily veneer. 

Like Rauner, he is a vulture capitalist. He is a player. He was pragmatic enough to lay with uber sleazeball Rod Blagojevich in an attempt to secure a political position for himself.

Let's face it: Rauner and Pritzker didn't become billionaires by taking the high road. They made deals. They cut corners. They did what they had to do to achieve their goal.

So yes, Illinois will now be the first state to feature two billionaires facing off against each other. Mano a mano. Rauner and Pritzker will throw enormous gobs of money at each other to determine who will call the newly-renovated Governor's mansion home.

So thank you, Citizen's United. Thank you for ensuring that from this point forward we will have the best leadership money can buy. 

And where do we put the statue of Anthony Kennedy, anyway?

In the cynicism which is the unavoidable byproduct of this whoring-out of the electoral process, I propose we who constitute the electorate demand our cut. Instead of billions of dollars going to the production of attack ads, how about the voter getting cash for their vote?

Rauner? Pritzker? How much is my vote worth to you? You're businessmen—I'm sure you appreciate the profit-swelling potential of eliminating middlemen and going straight to the source, which in this case would be me.

Whaddaya think? A grand? Ten? How about fifty?

Sadly, as the distressing figures from Rauner's 2014 campaign make clear, that would be thirty-six. Not grand—bucks. Thirty-six bucks. Yep—that's what each of Rauner's 2014 votes cost.

When you're a billionaire and you can buy a vote for the cost of an oil change and a couple of Italian beef sandwiches at Buona, what's not to like?

As in previous posts, this reminds me of a joke: You know what sucks about being rich?

Nothing.