Polite people call me frugal. Those not so inclined just say cheap. But I like to think I just know what I like and know what I want. Regardless, I am in need of a car and I have decided to act out of caricature. Despite my reputation for parsimony I am going to buy a new automobile and I will spend far more than I would otherwise consciously feel comfortable spending on a glorified piece of transportation.
I am purchasing a new 2009 MINI Cooper Convertible. Why? Not because I wanted a MINI Cooper Convertible that's for certain. The MINI is a car that evokes a lot of strong emotions in people -- when I first saw one as an option my initial thought was, "erk!" -- and typically the first words that come to mind are not friendly ones. Nevertheless, if you get past the fact that a MINI Cooper Convertible is a MINI Cooper Convertible, and actually evaluate it for what it is, it's actually a pretty good little car. I wanted a well priced convertible with good gas mileage that could seat four, and the MINI convertible does all this and more. Certainly much better, at least, than its closest competitors the PT Cruiser Convertible (seriously?) and the VW Bug Convertible (no thanks, grandma.) It even comes bike-rack friendly. Fun and practical!
What's been really great, however, beyond the excitement of shortly having an awesome new automobile, are the emails I have been getting from the BMW/MINI dealership. I initially emailed them in order to get more information on pricing and availability in addition to a few questions I had concerning compatibility with the bike rack, and this is what I got:
Email #1 - Generic automated reply from the "Sales Manager" expressing his "pleasure" in the fact that I was interested in purchasing a new 2008 MINI Cooper Convertible -- never mind that I had specifically requested information on a 2009 (they are very different cars) -- and asking at what point in the car buying process I felt I was in. None of my questions were answered. I did not reply.
The next day I got ...
Email #2 - A personalized response from one of the "MINI Sales Pros" stating that we had two options. One, I could come down to the dealership to test drive a convertible, and, two, I could come down to the dealership to test drive a convertible. There may, in his defense, have been more to option two than I state, but unfortunately I was unable to translate from the native jibberish, "... We still come out and play with the MINI’s just so you get the little missing ingredient on your MINI experience and without much of me telling you about my boring life or my un-skill pets we jump on to ordering your master piece (a MINI that you design) so the chefs in Oxford start baking it." What? I did not reply.
The next day I did not get any more emails so I went back to email #1, replied, and reiterated my initial questions. I got a prompt response with ...
Email #3 - A standardized, Hi-def, and quite shiny email notifying me that I could learn more about and place an order for the new 2009 convertible on the official MINI website. It seems they had just updated it.
I looked it over and decided that, if the terms were right, yes I did want to purchase a new MINI convertible. So once again I replied, curtsied, and asked the same questions. I got ...
Email #4 - A brief, original composition actually answering one of my three listed questions. Sort of. A completely new dealer, pro, manager, whatever -- I had received emails from about 3 or 4 different ones now -- let me know that yes, they did have bike racks -- which I already knew and had explicitly made known in my email -- and that if I wanted to know more about them I should look at the site -- which I had already informed him did not directly answer my question. Basically absolutely nothing I did not already know myself. He did, however, as all the other emails did as well, suggest we promptly get the order in soon.
Feeling that actually receiving a direct, coherent reply was getting somewhere even if it did not directly answer any of the questions posed, I replied, thanked him for his response, and relayed the same questions one more time. He sent me in turn ...
Email # 5 - A direct answer with helpful, actionable information. Brilliant! And to top it all off no sign out with, "let's get the order in soon" or "let's motor!" It seems all it takes is a little bit of slow, persistent berating .
I still had a number of questions concerning the details of when, where, and how, however, and not wanting to continue the email dance for another three months I decided to head over to the dealership myself one afternoon to ask in person. The guys there were all polite, well dressed, and probably all completely uninformed about the cars they were trying to sell. Incompetent one could say, but I am pretty sure they were competent enough in what they do. Needless to say I got enough information to feel comfortable making my purchase and so went home to do so. I put in my specifications on the web site vehicle designer (over 1,000,000 possible option combinations!) and received a punctual reply the next morning stating ...
Email # 6 - "Wow, I like your creation!" My creation being the basic model convertible with Hot Chocolate (brown) paint and a bike rack stuck on the back. Yeeesss.... Wow indeed.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Twenty Pounds of Good Times
Since I do not much care to talk about the residency business, or rather I can tolerate only so much of my own complaining, I will instead.... reminisce? For when I have Alzheimer's. (Or, if I am so fortunate, just regular old senile dementia.)
First, stories with fireworks.
Or, alternatively, a you-probably-had-to-be-there story.
My family and extended families exploded out from California sometime in the early 1990s. Before that time the various cousins and grandparents and what have you hung out rather regularly. At least when it came to the holidays. Once people started moving, though, things changed. We saw each other once or twice a year in a good year. So when one New Year's came around and two of my cousins from California came out to visit us in Arkansas there was reason for celebration. Specifically celebration with black powder and white phosphorus. The end receipts of our firework buying binge totaled some $80+ dollars of a variety of works ranging from bottle rockets to Roman candles, firecrackers to smoke bonds, Piccalo Petes to sunflowers, sparklers, flashers, bangers, zip zang zowzers, and my personal favorite, the Saturn Missile Battery. Our pièce de résistance, however, was a big pipe bomb of a rocket. It was designed, or so the advertisments said, to achieve lift off with great pagentry, release a half dozen plastic paratrooper commandos, and then explode at altitude in a palm shaped shower of flaming heavy metals.
For hours on New Year's Eve we got our jollys from blowing up pieces of our Aunt and Uncle's driveway, and despite all these shenanigans no one was injured. Until we got to the rocket. A bit scared of what exactly it would do, especially if it launched straight into someone's kisser, we were a bit timid in lighting it. My brother, Adam, somehow then got assigned the role. Slowly inching up to the rocket on it's appropriate rocket launching pad (a large sheet of cardboard placed to make cleanup of firework ash easier) he lit it at full reach while we all eagerly watched on from the other corners of the drive way. Once the fuse lit he bolted and ran properly for his life. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him and the rest of us one of his legs had been firmly stationed on the cardboard launching pad. As he shifted off of it the cardboard base shifted as well and down went the rocket.
For a brief second there was an idle panic as we all yelled or shouted whatever we thought it was appropriate to yell and shout at the time. And for perhaps another second there was consideration of whether there was enough fuse time to go right the missile so that it would go correctly off on its course. But those few seconds passed and a more proper mindset took over. We all fled in whichever direction we thought best which of course was any direction the rocket was not facing. I, myself, a bit gimpy at the time, had to hobble my escape. After a few paces (or hops) the rocket achieved lift off, and we were left to face what fate and physics had in store for us. It shot off much as one would imagine a tipped over rocket to shoot off which is namely fast and straight, but it shortly reached its first obstacle. That being the garage. It ricocheted off the door and surprisingly, quickly then came back at us. For the next several moments it scuttled around the drive way unable to obtain elevation or escape from the gravely textured hold of its surface while we generally ran about losing our minds. At some point, I don't know how long, the rocket finally founds it feet and shot off into who knows what direction to explode harmlessly, hopefully, somewhere in the distance. Its paratrooper payload was scattered off who knows where likely in the backyards of scattered neighbors.
After that our pulses settled and we finished off the evening exploding a few more things here. The next day, clearly not having learned our lessons, we spent the morning throwing fire crackers at one another. It was awesome.
First, stories with fireworks.
Or, alternatively, a you-probably-had-to-be-there story.
My family and extended families exploded out from California sometime in the early 1990s. Before that time the various cousins and grandparents and what have you hung out rather regularly. At least when it came to the holidays. Once people started moving, though, things changed. We saw each other once or twice a year in a good year. So when one New Year's came around and two of my cousins from California came out to visit us in Arkansas there was reason for celebration. Specifically celebration with black powder and white phosphorus. The end receipts of our firework buying binge totaled some $80+ dollars of a variety of works ranging from bottle rockets to Roman candles, firecrackers to smoke bonds, Piccalo Petes to sunflowers, sparklers, flashers, bangers, zip zang zowzers, and my personal favorite, the Saturn Missile Battery. Our pièce de résistance, however, was a big pipe bomb of a rocket. It was designed, or so the advertisments said, to achieve lift off with great pagentry, release a half dozen plastic paratrooper commandos, and then explode at altitude in a palm shaped shower of flaming heavy metals.
For hours on New Year's Eve we got our jollys from blowing up pieces of our Aunt and Uncle's driveway, and despite all these shenanigans no one was injured. Until we got to the rocket. A bit scared of what exactly it would do, especially if it launched straight into someone's kisser, we were a bit timid in lighting it. My brother, Adam, somehow then got assigned the role. Slowly inching up to the rocket on it's appropriate rocket launching pad (a large sheet of cardboard placed to make cleanup of firework ash easier) he lit it at full reach while we all eagerly watched on from the other corners of the drive way. Once the fuse lit he bolted and ran properly for his life. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him and the rest of us one of his legs had been firmly stationed on the cardboard launching pad. As he shifted off of it the cardboard base shifted as well and down went the rocket.
For a brief second there was an idle panic as we all yelled or shouted whatever we thought it was appropriate to yell and shout at the time. And for perhaps another second there was consideration of whether there was enough fuse time to go right the missile so that it would go correctly off on its course. But those few seconds passed and a more proper mindset took over. We all fled in whichever direction we thought best which of course was any direction the rocket was not facing. I, myself, a bit gimpy at the time, had to hobble my escape. After a few paces (or hops) the rocket achieved lift off, and we were left to face what fate and physics had in store for us. It shot off much as one would imagine a tipped over rocket to shoot off which is namely fast and straight, but it shortly reached its first obstacle. That being the garage. It ricocheted off the door and surprisingly, quickly then came back at us. For the next several moments it scuttled around the drive way unable to obtain elevation or escape from the gravely textured hold of its surface while we generally ran about losing our minds. At some point, I don't know how long, the rocket finally founds it feet and shot off into who knows what direction to explode harmlessly, hopefully, somewhere in the distance. Its paratrooper payload was scattered off who knows where likely in the backyards of scattered neighbors.
After that our pulses settled and we finished off the evening exploding a few more things here. The next day, clearly not having learned our lessons, we spent the morning throwing fire crackers at one another. It was awesome.
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