Shinola And The Perfect Enemy Of The Good

Talk about the best-laid plans of mice and men. Brother Bark, Danger Girl, Bozi, and I stepped out of the main hall at Cobo to find some lunch, escape the noise of the Detroit Auto Show for a moment, and give my left leg a moment’s worth of peace. When it’s cold outside, the titanium screws in my tibia contract at a different rate from the bone in which they’re set. Putting weight on the leg turns up the volume on that annoyance. I used to have a lot more metal in my body than I have now — when I was nineteen I had my right femur pin removed a bit early so I could try my hand at a Superclass BMX “career” — but I’m not quite as insensitive to pain as I used to be, either.

As I limped by the Shinola booth set up in the hallway, Bark and DG decided they needed to take a look at what the company had to offer. Forty-five minutes later, we had four watches for three people. (Bozi was out smoking a cigarette the whole time.)

My new Shinola 47mm Runwell Contrast Chrono is the most Chinese watch I’ve owned in a very long time. There’s a lot of agitation in the watch-fanatics community about Shinola, and the two most frequent criticisms have to do with the very high price (for a quartz fashion watch) and Shinola’s claim that this assemblage of Chinese case, Swiss movement, and Floridian strap is “Built In Detroit”.

To the first complaint, I have no answer other than to say a $750 Shinola with a $15 Ronda quartz movement is a much lesser sin than a $25,000 Hublot with an $150 ETA 2924. To the second, however, I have a detailed and heartfelt answer that, in my not-so-humble-opinion at least, has implications that extend far beyond the realm of hobby watches into everything from politics to morality.

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Nothing Collectible Is Collectible

It seemed like a tall order, and possibly an expensive one. There’s been a bit of coin collecting going on in the house lately, so for Christmas I had the idea of getting the US Mint Proof Sets from the years than Danger Girl and I were born. Since I’m older, I anticipated that my proof set would be harder to find, and more expensive when I did find it. I was wrong on both counts. eBay is absolutely engorged with US Mint proof sets from the past sixty or so years.

In the end, I paid about five bucks for my set and about six bucks for DGs. Had I been patient, I could have bought a package of 250+ proof sets, including all of the Sixties, Seventies, and Eighties, for about a hundred dollars. Making the individual value of a US Mint proof set somewhat less than the face value of the coins in the sets. You could make a couple bucks an hour buying proof sets in bulk and taking the painstakingly finished, utterly pristine, four-decade-old coins to the local bank.

A new 2016 Proof Set from the US Mint costs $31.95. It contains $5.91 in proof-minted currency. I own a set, because I like pretty coins, but I’ll explain to you why it probably won’t even be worth $5.91 in twenty years. Hint: it’s the same reason the $150 BMX bike stolen out of my garage in 1994 is now worth $2,500.

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Day Of The Jackal-Esque $1,250 Pay Cut

At first I thought the parking machine was broken. “$11.00” was flashing up on the screen. Which was ridiculous, because not only did the garage have a $9/day maximum charge, I’d been there barely six hours, which usually results in a $7 charge. Then I looked at the shiny new plaque next to the receipt button. The rate schedule had been revised. It was now $12.00 per day. My six-hour stay was now eleven bucks.

I put my card in the reader. Then I hit the “Receipt” button. “NO RECEIPT” it told me, in the same unapologetic sans-serif letters with which it had announced the new fee. It was all I could do not to shatter the screen with the nickel-silver head of my trusty skull cane. You’re probably laughing at me; what’s the difference between nine bucks and twelve? Quite a bit, my friend. Quite a bit.

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In Which A Food Safety Issue Leads To A Tasty Deal On An Old Guitar

“The Subway that way,” Danger Girl said, pointing north from the entrance to our neighborhood, “is closed. I guess that means…”

“…we can go to the dirty Subway,” I replied. “Sure, what the hell.” Until recently, and from the time it had opened a decade or so ago, the Subway a mile or so south from our house had been owned by an old-school Columbus family. My mother used to babysit one of the children. The father was this tall, aristocratic type. He had a black 928GT five-speed twenty-five years ago, back when those cars cost twice what a 911 did. I don’t know how they fell into the Subway business but they did it as you’d expect; the owner’s name was on a plaque next to the cash register and at any time day or night you could have performed an open-heart surgery in the dining area without worrying about contamination.

I don’t know who bought it from them but about two weeks after the plaque with the owner’s name went down, the employee rotation underwent a complete change. The staff of sometimes dim-witted but always conscientious high-school students gave way to a group of short, sullen South Indians. Their English is, to be fair, better than my Telugu, but it rarely verges on the comprehensible. They’re all very nice people, and they are clearly trying very hard, but they don’t observe the same standards of hygiene that the old owners did. The tables are fuzzy, the floor is sticky. I stopped by over the summer and saw a small colony of ants working their way through the cookie rack. That was the end of my Subway cookie habit.

It’s the dirty Subway. But I still patronize the place, mostly out of stubbornness and a determination not to be all white-privilege about whether floors should be mopped. And now that the Subway to the north of us is closed, it’s the only one within a mile or so. So Danger Girl and I took a deep breath and she pulled out onto the main road, headed south for lunch.

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A Modest Proposal: The Refugee Resettlement Act Of 2017

Give us your tired, poor, hungry… Ah, the hell with that. How about Give us everybody you don’t want? Mr. Obama wants the United States to accept 110,000 “refugees” in 2017. That doesn’t seem like a lot of people when you view it in the context of the current United States population of 320 million or so. But it’s a deceptive number, because each one of those refugees can be used as a wedge to bring in more family members and/or close associates.

A better way to look at it: Immigrants and their first-generation children account for more than 81 million people in the United States. One out of four Americans is either an immigrant or the “anchor baby” of an immigrant. They come from every corner of the world — well, that’s not correct, strictly speaking. If you’re European, Japanese, or even Canadian, immigration is a stone-cold bitch. The USA has an immigration policy virtually the opposite of the Swiss one: only low-skills people, or people who will assist in keeping wages low, need apply.

This policy is largely set by people who only experience immigration as a labor source or a source of political power. My modest proposal, the Refugee Resettlement Act of 2017, would change all that.

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I’m Not Sick, But I’m Not Well

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“Sick bike, man.” This was a much younger fellow, parking his red Honda next to me earlier today. Because I am forty-five years old my first thought was to listen carefully to the big Kawasaki’s idle, to figure out what I’d missed, to uncover the audible diagnosis that my fellow rider’s stethoscope had picked up as sick. But he meant sick bike, that’s all. Sick means good.

His bike was very healthy. An NC700X, the sensible adventure-ish bike with an engine made by cutting the Honda Fit’s inline-four neatly in half. It has a trunk where the fuel tank should be. Same bike my ex-wife’s husband rode until he moved up to a red 2014 Interceptor in October. I like the reasonable utility of it. When I was this fellow’s age, I rode a Ninja 600R. But that was back when you could buy a fast used sportbike for under two grand and actually insure the thing before turning twenty-five.

Society has cucked these twentysomething men, and I’m not just talking about the process by which they have to get written consent in triplicate and enter a Facebook-official relationship just so they can use the requisite dental dam to go down on some pink-dyed-hair 250-pound Women’s Studies major with garbage tattoos and a pitbull attitude. Even if they could afford a real sportbike, they couldn’t insure it. The same is true for ponycars and hot hatches and whatnot. We Gen-Xers like to bitch about the kids but we forget that we were the last generation to be permitted any sort of entry into adult jobs, responsibilities, identities. And that’s why the guy who buys a Ninja or a Mustang GT now in 2016 isn’t the same kind of person who bought one in 1996 — he’s the same fucking guy, actually. Yet we still resent the Boomers, and rightly so, for being the last generation to have access to wealth, retirement, respectable society, and blameless drunk driving.

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The Problem With The Blipshift Business Model

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Surely this was the perfect Blipshift shirt for me. As an owner of a white 993 (but is that a 964 on the shirt? The side skirts say yes, the bumper says no) who used to live with a bona-fide Vegas stripper, I am at the center of this Venn diagram. But wait a minute. That’s not the lap dance they’re talking about? And why are 96% of the Blipshift shirts just line drawings of cars with the manufacturer logos removed? What are the ethical and legal implications of that?

I’ve often thought about submitting a Blipshift design. My best idea so far: a picture of a forged deep-dish Porsche 930 wheel with “FUCH YOU” underneath. Second-best idea: a wrapped stack of $100 bills with “MOTOR TREND CAR OF THE YEAR” next to it. What would you design?

You Don’t See What I See

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Once upon a time, I was a contact-lens wearer. Started with the soft lenses around 1985 or. Went to “gas permeable” hard lenses in 1987. In March of 1988, I was hit by a lumber truck while out on my BMX bike. At some point in the proceedings, my face was dragged along the ground at 40mph or so and my right-side contact lens took a vacation behind my eyeball.

No more contact lenses for me. For twenty-eight years I’ve fussed around trying to find the right glasses. I don’t believe in scrimping on something you’ll use everyday, so I’ve bought six of the same ProDesign frames in the past decade, swapping lenses as I see fit. But I’ve always relied either on my eye doctor or, in a pinch, a local LensCrafters.

Three weeks ago, I took a chance on getting my sunglasses made via the Internet. I was a bit leery of the process, to say the least…

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Advertising To Your Worst Instincts

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I got this email yesterday morning. For a brief moment, I was confused, in part because I’ve written and deployed a lot of online commerce stuff for people over the past fifteen years and this is exactly the sort of communication I used to get when things went Very, Very Wrong. Once I realized it was from Threadless, the people who make many of the odd T-shirts I’ve worn on this and other websites, and I’ve had a couple of customer-service discussions with their reps in the past, I wondered if perhaps somebody had mis-typed my contact into Outlook.

Once I got my head out of my ass, of course, I realized what you probably realized immediately: this is an advertisement. But what’s being communicated here, both about Threadless and about us?

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In My Day, We Called It “Dressing Up”

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The picture just above these words was taken almost three years ago. It’s amazing how time flies. Regardless of that, you’ll see that my blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter was incredibly excited to dress up as Mulan for Halloween. At the time, I thought that was a pretty cool choice.

You see, Frozen had come out just a little bit earlier in the year, and almost every little girl in the world wanted to be Queen Elsa for Halloween. There were even people making drinking games out of it (every time that Elsa rings your doorbell, drink!). But not my Reg-Reg. She wanted to be a tough, warrior princess. She wanted to be Mulan.

Technically, Mulan isn’t even a princess, although she is often included in the Disney Princess (TM) universe. She’s based on a real woman who was a war hero in ancient China. And although I didn’t put a black wig on Regan or draw exaggerated epicanthic folds on her face, I encouraged her to learn more about China and to be whomever/whatever she wanted to be.

Well, folks, that’s now called racism.

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