Stories Music Pictures places

My first car show was in Bartel Hall, downtown Kansas City, the same place that housed the circus. I remember this because one in particular remains vividly burnt into my questionable memory. Circus, that is. That day I learned just what mayhem erupts when the topmost elephant of a five elephant pyramid chooses to empty its impressively ample bladder on the lower mastodons. and clowns, and ringmaster, and cute kids who got chosen over me to go down and assist. Ahhhh, car shows.

Then, as now, the Batmobile greets entering visitors. But unlike twenty-five years ago Adam West wasn't there. In tights. Thank god. But, alas, neither was "Big Daddy" Don Garlits, Rat Fink funny cars, nor outrageous bubbled contraptions of yesteryear. In short, the fun seemed to be missing.

The overarching impression was that of having spent the evening at the Cerritos Automall. No bragging rights there. What few concept cars there were -- all carry overs from last year's show -- were, well, they were just dull -- with a couple of notable exceptions.

Lincoln ran away with the prize for most amazingly ugly vehicle (of the year if not decade) with their concept car (pictured above) reminiscent of the SUX2000 (RoboCop, you fool). Admittedly, Cadillac did offer some mild competition for this distinction, but hands down Lincoln owns this category once dominated by K-cars. What was most amazing was the enormity of the tires. We are talking gihugic, easily confusable with those off a semi. The reasoning for their oversizatude must lie in the pronounced need to compensate for the front and rear ends which would seem designed to negate all the learning on aerodynamics of the past sixty years. They stopped just short of concave.

The other standout was the Ford EX dune buggy. I waxed nostalgic for the fleck-gold one we chipped our teeth on as kids. A Corvette engine, VW trannie, and my mom were a lethal mix. We're talking way before these silly ne'er-do-wells foisted seat-belt laws upon us. All of us neighborhood kids would sit atop the back seats -- not in the seats on top of them -- hanging onto the roll bar with the very real belief we were about to be thrown out. Every miss-timed shift was accented by thuds then arrrghs of pain was we hit our teeth on the chromey goodness of the roll bar. They never showed that in Rat Patrol. Those were the days.


And like those days of yore paint rules. Many otherwise conventional designs garnered what spice they could from glitzy paint jobs. A few gave props to the old Woody with real wood paneling -- Ludlow noted that the overall affect was more like an Ikea Edition rather than Eddie Bauer. Suicide doors were in abundance, perhaps part of ZPG's outreach project.

It must also be noted that the absence of halter-topped, hip-huggered babes was disappointing. And I'm not pining for those tarts the automakers always sent. I speak of the crowd. Somehow the event suffered for its lack of trailer-trash. I'm just say'n.

Who was there was a lot of family. At the VW area dozens of guy-guyer couples minced around ohhhing and ahhhing the Bug and Passat, while over at the LandRover quad the lesbians assaulted the factory rep demanding more info on horse power, towing capacity, and availability of a matching baby seat. No joke. But one manufacturer had the affections of both sides of the queer fence: Mini Cooper.

These Cooper guys were the iMac of the show, beating out the Think electric car for sheer huggability and not just because of their cutsey booth. These cars drew a large crowd and not just lookieloos but serious buyers, this despite the twenty-g's one must plunk down to own a copy of this too cramped, too English, rehash of the original 1950's model. The Mini Cooper at the least presents a departure from the obvious trend of all the other makes: big is in!

As far as car shows go -- those events that reveal the minds of designers, events that portend looks for the future, or even ones that offer refreshingly coherent glimpses of the present -- the LA Show is a miss. However, it is a great opportunity to eat a pretzel with mustard with the comforting knowledge that the kid climbing inside the $195,000 Porsche isn't yours, but the dude over by the Boxster definitely is checking you out. -PBTS.