I need wheels, not armor

Jim Motavalli is in Sweden this week, visiting Volvo and catching up on the latest environmentally sound global-warming technology. In his absence, he’s asked his old friend and former columnist Ace Holleran to pitch in with witty repartee and lively banter.

"I hate this car," said my friend Shannon as she pulled up to my door in a rented Mitsuhondai Scimitar about the size of a can of anchovies. I can’t blame her for being cranky; after flying cross country, she accomplished the daunting task of safely motoring out of LaGuardia into Connecticut.

"There, there," I said. "You’re not in California anymore; here, no one cares what you drive." I fibbed, but then again, it wasn’t like we were headed to a polo match in the Scimitar, fully armed with Pomerol and Pimm’s. But I had to add some pepper to the mix: "Where’s the remote? Didn’t I see this little thing in the Sharper Image catalog?"

"Oh, stop," said Shannon, weary from battling the Whitestone. "I just miss my Tahoe."

I blanched for a second; I hadn’t been to visit Shannon in some time. On my last trip, she was driving a Miyadayada convertible. I realized her moving up to an SUV roughly the size of the Nimitz was a serious stretch. Especially when you are facing the rigors of living in Malibu.

Shannon is my oldest female friend on the planet. She is a walking encyclopedia, conversant on all subjects from Kirby Puckett to Kiri Te Kanawa. Her salmon mousse will knock your Birkenstocks off. However, I had to engage her in some serious polemic about the ownership of a Detroit leviathan in a ‘burg where autos are most challenged when jousting for parking spots in search of freshly squeezed blood-orange juice.

I view SUVs as I do personal computers: 90 percent of their owners don’t need them and 90 percent of those people don’t know how to use them properly. In my neck of the woods, most of these albatrosses are piloted by Ann Taylor sycophants, cell phones firmly glued to ear, going from home to Starbucks to the skin-peeler to the mall. I will forgo any reference to youth soccer.

I’m a single dad with three Nintendo enthusiasts. My 1995 Windstar does me fine. It has 6.31×10²³cup holders and a floor lined with SpongeBob effluvia. I realize that admitting to this causes people to ask if I am a member of the Brie-of-the-Month Club. Hey, I am proud to possess a rare Detroit product – one that won’t quit.

Plus, I hate gas stations, especially nowadays when the chap in front of you fills up his Bulgewagon with enough petrol to taxi an Airbus out of Orly, then goes into the TeensyMart to get Snapple, Zig-Zags and Cool Ranch Doritos. I can sit through only so much Josh Groban.

I will leave the whole fossil-fuel screed to the astute editors of this publication. But, as is my wont, here are some solutions to make people think twice before buying an SUV:

1) Make prospective owners prove they live in a locale where it takes a Sherpa’s help to get home; 2) Institute an "EZ-Wider Pass" on toll roads. Add an electronic surcharge for these big boys. Pickups would have a special dispensation, especially those with plows; 3) Motor vehicle departments would require special driving tests for SUV owners, including parallel parking on a simulated San Francisco street from the Bullitt chase; 4) Line all these rolling yetis with Kryptonite, which would block all cellular transmissions; 5) Just get an Outback.

There must be others. When I think of ’em, I’ll let you know.