The gears of preparation began churning in earnest recently, with the return visit mere days away, and my goal will be singular this time. I don’t mean to conjure an image of wandering the grounds with clipboard in hand, crossing off action items on a checklist in an OCD-fueled frenzy. The greens will be stunning, I’m sure, and there will be ample sunshine guaranteed, whether by nature’s due course or whatever witchcraft emanates from the clubhouse, and I’ll soak in all of it under the auspices of a business outing.
But I’d like to get something more out of the trip. Last time was a sensory overload, honestly, and much attention was spent marveling at the privilege of attending an exclusive event. It’s still a privilege, obviously, but there’s a little less novelty this go-around. I recall downing multiple pimento cheese sandwiches a year ago because I was certain I would only attend the Masters once, and the same mentality guided the temporary madness that seized me in the gift shop. And believe me, the overlords who run the event know to take full advantage of this insanity, engineering the whole checkout process to be utterly seamless as you part with your cash for snacks and sundries.
This year, however, will be about regulating said consumption. Restraint will be the order of the day. I’m wise now to the cunning money traps they’ve devised, and I will not succumb to the mystique of the event. We’re talking two pimento sandwiches instead of four. Three promotional cups, rather than five. And when I set foot inside the house of baubles, gaze upon the overpriced trinkets, I will resist. Stroll by the Masters apparel, and remember I can buy three normal shirts for the same price. Pick up some branded golf balls, and then realize I will likely lose them under a pile of unbranded leaves. Glance at the limited-edition putter with a Tiger-approved shaft, and chuckle.
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, March 23.
Somewhere, somehow, an inventor is putting the last few flourishes on a special stove designed primarily for fools like me. The stove is normal in appearance, mundane in functionality, but it is unique because it only burns the first time you touch it. Every subsequent touch actually rewards you, indeed verbally praises you, for your persistence. Such an appliance doesn’t exist, obviously, but it’s metaphorically valuable for our discussion tonight. We’re going to talk about cars! Specifically my car.
You may recall the series of unfortunate events that befell me earlier this year, when disaster struck repeatedly and I was left none the wiser. Like a moth to the flame, I returned to the dealership three, four times, progressively setting more and more cash on the altar of Saab in burnt offerings for the health of my automobile. They finally fixed the issue, and we’re going on two months of uninterrupted service.
I started looking at new cars when I was in the thick of these repairs. Nothing concrete, mind you. It was purely exploratory: parsed out the trade-in value of my current ride, read some reviews, skimmed Consumer Reports, and had it in mind that I’d go Japanese again. Altimas, Maximas, Corollas, Civics, and Accords seemed like good choices, until a few of these brands decided to go red-light, green-light, all around the same time. Suddenly my own problems didn’t seem so extraordinary. Saab then found a buyer at the last minute, saved itself from the chopping block, and in short order the fear of hard-to-find parts also evaporated. Relieved, I surfed over to their website for the press release.
And then I clicked on this son of a bitch. I knew–still know–in the back of my mind that the sensible course of action would be to swap my money trap for something reliable, like a Civic or really anything besides another Saab. But as soon as I saw those glossy photos of the new 9-5 and pored over the features, dopamine levels were off the charts. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice–can I take it for a test drive? I like the aesthetic. The car is shaped in such a way that it soothes me. I’ve already rationalized that Spyker will right the wrongs of the past, reclaiming the fine Swedish construction of legend. Most of all, though, it’s the HUD that’s compelling. A heads-up display. Like in a fighter jet! Because, goddammit, I can’t be bothered with looking down at the dashboard while piloting a depreciating asset.