Tuesday, May 22, 2007

In what may qualify as a small apocalypse in the dining landscape of Charlotte, the mothership will land naught but 15 minutes from work soon, bringing with it one of the few things I miss about Chicago. Once they open shop, barring any disastrous changes in menu or preparation, it’s over. They had better install a cot and a trough for yours truly.

Online marketing is something toward which I’ve become largely immune, due in no small part to being immersed in it daily. What this means, though, is my resolve crumbles before the iron fist of offline marketing in a heartbeat, transforming me into a raving consumer who must have it–along with the shiny, crinkly packaging encasing it–as quickly as possible, especially if it’s some fabricated limited release. “It” can be anything deemed necessary by the market at the time: ice cream, a rare strain of Doritos, toothpaste, or tires.

Yes, tires. I don’t know why we’re discussing cars for a consecutive evening, because I’m really not an enthusiast. See, that one time I popped the hood, I found a goddamn wrench left by a mechanic, covered in grime and incompetence. And I speed, sure, but more often than not the love of motion is counterbalanced by the desire to roll my chariot down the hill as quickly as possible to the office.

A few months ago, while the local Firestone was patching a flat, I decided to ballpark some replacements.

“What would be comparable to the ones I’ve got?” I asked.

“Wow,” he said, clacking away at the computer, “you don’t really see these pop up that often.”

“What do you mean?” I pressed, limited edition radar blaring.

“Firehawks. These are a step up from your Pirellis. They’re racing tires.”

Eventually good sense kicked in, fortunately, and further questioning revealed the defining feature of Firehawks to be expense. Darn. Here I was, thinking the rubber was somehow unique, molded in a limited edition factory out of limited edition contents from a vat marked “SPECIAL” in small, red caps.