The death of the automobile

Americans have had a century-long love affair with the automobile. Ever since Henry Ford introduced his Model T, granting motoring access to the working masses, the automobile has been interchangeable with the American experience.

Around the same time that Henry Ford masterminded the assembly line process of automobile manufacturing, General Motors was creating its own iconic brand, Chevrolet. Even today, people classify themselves as “Chevrolet,” or “Ford” people in their loyalty to the competing brands.

General Motors, as American as baseball and apple pie, is in serious trouble. With its stock price at a half-century low, GM is faced with the prospect of cutting many of its eight various brands. Rivals Ford and Chrysler have recognized that being smaller is necessary if they have hopes of surviving the restructuring of the U.S. auto industry. While some GM executives and board members have talked about the need to possibly jettison their Saab brand, much the way Ford unloaded Land Rover and Jaguar, Chief Executive Richard Waggoner has resisted.

An article in today’s Wall Street Journal by John Stoll intimates that the company’s structure, still overly heavy with mid-level managers, many responsible for GM’s recent woes, is to blame for the company’s inability to reach consensus and make quick decisions. Consequently, GM’s continued listing and Waggoner’s critics are legion.

Ironically, the company has put a great deal of import in the development of the Chevy Volt, a plug-in hybrid. Could GM, still operating as an automotive dinosaur, see its fortunes intertwined with lithium-ion batteries?

Oil’s escalation in price will require new ways of thinking, from what our future cars look and how they drive, to possible new models of transportation beyond our current, one-car, one-person way of doing things.

Fearing fear itself

"The fearmongers of both sides offer no solutions, they just want us to crouch in our foxholes and be scared."
[Comments posted on the The Smirking Chimp blog]

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
[FDR-from his first inaugural address, March 1933]

Americans are panicked. Maybe it's the 24/7 drumbeat of the doom and gloom, mainstream media, hoping that the citizenry will succumb to its bludgeoning.

Sadly, our lack of historical perspective seems to make it worse. Oil is high, gas is expensive, but at least we're not limited to buying it on odd, or even-numbered days, depending on what number your license plate ended with.

I'm planning on enjoying Independence Day, with the people I care about. I'm happy to have a new book out that's selling. My appearance on the 207 program validates my efforts on the writing and publishing side. My daytime gig is bearing fruit and I'm making a difference in helping people begin to empower their own lives.

I've never been a big fan of flag waving, or chest-thumping patriotism, but I'm going to hang out the red, white, and blue at the compound, and enjoy some deserved downtime, and offer my own silent "thanks" for the opportunities still available in America.

Small beers and small presses

I don’t know much about Small Beer Press, other than Book Dwarf dropped a reference to them, and I thought I’d Google them. Oh--they hail from Northampton, MA, best known as the setting for Tracy Kidder's Home Town.

They are a publisher of fiction and fantasy, and they appear to have a fairly substantial catalogue of interesting books, like this one.

Apparently Maureen F. McHugh is a big deal, as she uses her middle initial in her name, and also lumps mothers in with monsters, of which, given the technologically-fueled death of imagination, there seems to be a dearth of these days, other than the run-of-the-mill creations of modern Hollywood. According to the blurb from McHugh's book, mothers and monsters have become one and the same.

I liked this title because I could alter it to read, The Baum(er) Plan for Financial Independence, of which I’ve been spending some time launching.

Since I’ve spent my life evading money at all costs, I thought it time to begin laying up some resources for my later years. Not that picking up bottles on the side of some abandoned highway, in a post-apocalyptic world doesn’t sound romantic.

Moxie and the launch of summer in Maine

June’s ending, and the approach of July 4th usually means one thing for those of us in northern New England—the start of summer.

While our southern brethren (in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Connecticut) always are six weeks ahead of us in spring warmth, and growing capacity, this time of the year is when the playing field gets leveled, and visitors begin flocking northward.

In addition to summer, this begins a busy time for me, and the subsequent release of my new book, Moxietown.

Currently, it awaits me at the printer, and I’ll be picking up copies on Monday morning. I had hoped to have them yesterday, but I had other Moxietown matters to attend to.

Yesterday afternoon, I was at WCSH to tape an interview with Rob Caldwell, for the station’s 207 program. Caldwell co-anchors the station’s locally-produced magazine show, which highlights local authors, musicians, and pseudo-celebrities, but more and more, nationally-known entertainers, and others, with ties to Maine are now appearing on the show. In fact, I learned that this program is the only local program of its type in the country.

I first appeared on the program back in 2005, for When Towns Had Teams. Since then, landing a slot has become increasingly competitive, so I was pleased to have the chance to talk about the book, and the upcoming Moxie Festival, in Lisbon Falls. 207 producer, Becki Smith, informed me that my interview will run Wednesday, July 9, just prior to the festival. The program airs at 7:00 pm.

Speaking of the Moxie Festival, which takes place July 11-13, in my hometown, I’ll be at Frank Anicetti’s Kennebec Fruit Company (aka, the Moxie Store) on Friday, July 11, signing copies of Moxietown, from 2:00 to 4:00 pm. I’ll be signing in the very spot where Frank Potter sat, during the event, back in 1982 that launched the entire Moxie phenomenon, now known at the Moxie Festival. I’ll then make my way uptown to the Lisbon Historical Society, to be on hand for their evening open house, at 6:00.

The day before, you’ll find me in Waldoboro, at one of Maine’s summer tourist destinations, Moody’s Diner. I’ll be there with the New England Moxie Congress for their annual day of Moxie memorabilia, Moxie Horsemobiles, and other related items that pay tribute, and promote one of the world’s most unique drinks. This is the initial event for the Congress, as they descend on Maine for four days of celebration, and spreading the good news of Moxie. I’ll have books with me, and once again, I’ll be signing, and hoping to meet folks interested in the book, as well as the history of Moxie.

On Saturday, RiverVision Press will be set up on Main Street, just up from the Moxie Store, selling copies of Moxietown, as well as remaining copies of When Towns Had Teams. If you’re in town for the festival, please stop by and say “hi.” I enjoy Moxie each year, as I see people from high school, and my past that I wouldn’t get to catch up with, otherwise. It’s become a special day every year, as 20,000 people (and sometimes more) descend on Lisbon Falls to pay tribute to Moxie, and all things orange. This year is really special as it is the town’s 25th anniversary of the festival.

There may be other events that come along, and when they do, I’ll pass them on via this blog. Lastly, I have another Moxietown excerpt posted here.

[Be on the lookout for the official RiverVision pace car on Maine's highways and by-ways, this summer]

George Carlin: More than seven dirty words

Hyperbolic hyperventilation has become the norm, whenever a celebrity passes on. It probably won’t be much different for George Carlin.

The comedian who excoriated American politics, culture, and consumerism, through black humor, satire, and his keen sense of observation, will now be hailed by the same suits that he enjoyed mocking. Like many counter-culture heroes, the latter years, just prior to death tends to find them gaining some measure of mainstream success. Carlin certainly had a large audience, and fame found its way to his door. He achieved success, however, on his own terms.

His routines, informed by place, people, and the parochial environs of Catholic school, found an outlet in comedy clubs in West Texas, after his discharge from the Navy in the late 1950s. Like many with an eye towards performing, Carlin first cut his teeth, however, working as a disc jockey, back when being a DJ was more than pressing a button or two. You ran your own board, were responsible for tight segues, and actually had some control over your music, and your between song banter.

Much of what will pass for eulogies will focus on Carlin’s “seven dirty words,” which is what brain-addled news poseurs will glom onto. Lost in much of the Carlin suck-ups, will be his amazing understanding of language, and the ability he had to cut to the marrow of American superficiality. As Carlin remarked to Art Bell, in an interview in the late 90s, about the human race, “I think we’re already ‘circling the drain’ as a species, and I’d love to see the circles get a little faster and a little shorter.”

Basically, Carlin saw life for what it was—shit—and didn’t soft sell it—a nihilist with a deadly sense of humor.

Carlin was married to his first wife, Brenda, for 36 years, before losing her to liver cancer, the day before his 60th birthday, in 1997—happy birthday! They had a daughter, Kelly. He remarried in 1998, and they would have celebrated their 10th wedding anniversary, two days after his death.

What saddens me about the passing of someone like Carlin is that he was one of a kind. While he cites obvious influences like Lenny Bruce, he worked diligently to develop his own material. Not pre-packaged for television, like many of today’s non-talents and poseurs, passing for funny in today’s world of the scatological and the stupid, there won’t be another like him.