On Masks

Today, we celebrate our freedom from tyranny and the establishment of a nation that has symbolized values the world has developed around. Today, we are also faced with an existential threat in the shape of this deadly virus. The consensus of scientists, based on solid research, have determined that masks and isolation decrease the reach of this pathogen. Yet, many among us use the pretext of “personal freedom”, to not only avoid  masks, but also make it a mission to rub it in others’ faces why they won’t. 

Public health is about keeping the nation safe. About keeping our freedom intact. About making sure that our values: LIFE, liberty and the pursuit of happiness (in that order) are kept whole. It is virtually impossible to always be socially separated enough in all situations. Even so, 6 feet is just a suggestion with regards to the distance a droplet spreads. People with larger vital capacities or people breathing heavy following exertion as well as people with a greater burden of infection are more likely to go beyond this. In particular, people jogging, biking or exercising. Masks, when combined with attempts to isolate, are an excellent tool at limiting the risk of droplet-based spread of infection. 

The other problem is economic. Thanks to the fiscal implosion of our lives, few want to admit to being sick. Survival needs food and shelter. Noone wants to stay home in these times, and lose whatever livelihood they have – in addition to being sick. The power of wishful thinking often overcomes the early stages of the disease. And so, millions of infected individuals are out there, wittingly or unwittingly, spreading this malady. 

Masks, when combined with isolation (where feasible), have been shown to decrease the risk of infection. Furthermore, as has been shown by physicians, surgeons, dentists, construction workers, HVAC specialists, and just about anyone that works in dusty environment, masks of all kinds are safe.

Just because they may be uncomfortable, is not a valid reason to put the safety of our neighbor, our communities, our economy and our nation at risk. IF someone threatened these, would we not all patriotically rise as one, to face this challenge by enrolling in the military, buying war bonds, flying the flag, saluting our veterans, and, ultimately be willing to die to keep our nation afloat? Would we not oppose those who abandoned the national cause in this time of need? 

And yet, this is not about encouraging hate or revulsion. This is about educating and informing people who are not on board to bring them on board. It is not about proving a point. It is about ALL of us, winning. As a team. As a Nation. From the President on down, every aspect of federal, state and local government has endorsed the use of masks and the fact that this is a war-like emergency. 

I love the idea of America, because it prizes individual liberty and freedom. Wearing a mask will help keep that ideal alive. When this infection goes away, America wins. 

Wear a mask, save a life. 


The best feeling in the world…

As we look forward to the first snowfall of the year tomorrow, I am amazed by the 70 degree weather today. Knowing fully well that this means that my days for top down driving are done for the season, I am driving the pants off my little red wonder. Keeping it in the power-band between 3800 and 5500 rpm, like a gleaming gladius, she scythes through traffic effortlessly with her signature roar. For the first time in several weeks, I manage to get three drives instead of the usual up and down blast down the 40 to blow out the cobwebs.

As she scrabbles though the hoi polloi, she catches up with a much younger 991 Cabrio S. Traffic parts for this little caravan of the newer and much larger Gray modern car with the smaller, louder and brasher Guards Red classic . The arrival of my exit breaks up this fun ride as I head home. Pulling into my garage, I notice my phone flashing, the ringer drowned out by the twin spark double exhaust noisemaker behind me.

It’s my wife calling me. Joy, oh joy! An errand. I need to pick my daughter up from Kirkwood. Not waiting for further instructions, I embark. A smile wider than the city’s rivers spreads across my face. Getting back on the exciting merge of the Big Bend ramp onto the exiting traffic for Hanley, the little car that could, does what she does well. In imperious style, she dismisses the bourgeoisie as she grabs her lane and lays down the hammer, storming into the fast lane with a snort as we downshift into 3 and back into 4.

All warmed up, we reach our destination as we await my daughter. The young teen reaches her dad’s boomer car and says, “It is too nice a day, to have the top up”. My already wide smile grows to transcontinental proportions, as we transform from sport coupe to open race car. Keeping it in 2 and 3, we drive through woods as the car bursts into full song, the wind in our hair. Reaching the expressway, the growl grows to a wail and then a scream as we hit 6000 rpm in 2 and 3. As always, traffic seems to give way to us, seemingly afraid of the scarlet demon’s violent tendencies. Blasting down the expressway, targa stowed in the rear, catching the last warm day of the year, the best feeling in the world.


On Social Media

I was reading a Wired article today about Instagram, specifically about how the advertising is so different on there because of the nature of the app/website/whatever fits. It basically talked about how on Instagram, you get this feeling of people who have a blissful life and how scrolling on Instagram gives you this sense of mindless complacence. Which is pretty fair, as anyone who is on it knows that it’s the ultimate time filler for when you have nothing to do or, let’s be honest, when you DO have something to do but don’t want to do it.

But that’s not really the point of this at all. Among those my age, (and more often the parents of those kids), a really big debate is ‘what are the pros and cons of social media, and is it worth it?’ By high school and college, most everyone has social media, but it’s a pretty big topic as to when you get it.

I love Instagram, because I can see gorgeous pictured AND get my fill of posts and memes from my favorite fandoms. The problem with it is that it’s so nice, it’s a really big temptation. Part of that is because the icon is too pretty and candy-colored on my phone for me not to click.

On the other hand, I disagree with people who do not let their kids get social media at all until they’re sophomores. Mostly because by then, everyone they know will be on it and it’s a medium for communication, so they’ll probably feel left out. More importantly, this is not the hill parents should die on. Because if kids feel left out, they’l probably try to relate to their peers in other, not so good ways. Social media is relatively harmless, and if parents let their kids have some freedom, then those kids will probably be more willing to compromise.

Finally, it’s a question of responsibility. Because it does take a measure of responsibility to be safe, especially on the internet. But protecting kids from stuff doesn’t help them when it comes time to make their own decisions. So, in my opinion, parents should choose when their kids are ready, but not be oppressive about it.

And that’s that on that. Now, back to my mindless Instagram browsing.


cars.... Uncategorized

On Schmitt.

I was at the Porsche Cars and Coffee today – with my wife’s namesake, our red Goddess of Excess and Greed from Zuffhausen – in tow. As is wont, many people came up to me to admire her, and remember the times when the Guards Red 911 with a whale tail, was both the successful stockbroker’s staple as well as the subject of countless teenagers’ fantasy (yours truly, included). One gentleman inquired about the history of the car, and, as I recounted the name of the dealer, his recoil and revulsion took me aback. When I came home, I looked at a bunch of the online reviews, and was shocked to find out that a multitude of online reviews had bitterly ranted against the dealer – as charlatans and swindlers.

This, is the exact opposite of my experience with them over these last 2 years that I have visited with them. They had always welcomed me to the showroom, even when I was just browsing, which, in no small part, lead me to select them to list my earlier car. When it came time to move to another classic, I did not look any further. Dan Schmitt and John Sherman, at the store, looked after me and, I could not have been happier for the experience.

Still, this experience flew in the face of the revulsion of many, and got me thinking. Was I hoodwinked? Were their prices unrealistic? Had they concealed anything from me or ask me to conceal something – when I sold my prior classic? Did anyone at the dealer seem to be uninformed about the cars they were selling (a common feature of many premier new car dealers)?

The answer was a resounding NO!

Then, why this venom and anger?

I think the problem is manifold. Firstly, as Wayne Carini puts it: “It’s all about the chase!”. All classic car buyers are looking to snag a great deal. Everyone wants a pristine bargain, with a blemishless past, a rust-free interior and a 50-year old engine that drives like new. Unfortunately, if something sounds too good to be true, it seldom is. While we celebrate these classic car “scores” on the MotorTrend channel, the not so great deals as well as the ones that Wayne loses out on – seldom make the cut to film. So, to me, when someone lands up buying a classic and receives a money-pit, it really is part of the game.

Anyone who has been to the Daniel Schmitt company will know, that it is kept beautifully, as are the cars. And that isn’t cheap. Each car is carefully cleaned, periodically charged and displayed – as well as photographed and written up in a professional fashion. Plus the cost of advertising. While there may be some economies of scale, there are ebbs and flows to market forces that the classic dealer is forced to experience – especially without the advantage of subsidies from a wealthy manufacturer. As with all businesses, at the end of the day it has to be about being financially viable, i.e. making a buck. Why get upset about that?

I have dealt with all kinds of car dealers in the past. Unlike many, John and Dan are both car enthusiasts. The former is a Packard guy and, the latter likes his Rolls. Their knowledge of the car market as a whole, as well as a variety of cars that they have bought and sold, is excellent. I know, because long before I bought a car from them, I spent innumerable hours browsing the dealership – much to my family’s chagrin (Oh, Dad!). I spent a long time talking to John about cars and even tested a few. I grew to respect his knowledge of vehicles and even though we preferred different cars, I was willing to accept his recommendations.

Through all the complaints voiced on the internet, noone mentions that dealer refused to have the car checked out. As someone who has owned these used and classic cars, I can assure you that nobody can voire dire a vehicle well enough, that they can get it right every time. There will be many good eggs, but a few addled ones too. Buyers remorse is fine, but blaming the dealer for it, is unfair. They are making a living, the best they can. Most smart salespersons know that a bad sale does not help them and, the guys at Daniel Schmitt seem to be here for the long term.

Classic owners are a weird bunch. I should know, I see one in the mirror all the time. We will revel over sticking it to the dealer – if we make a killer deal, and trying to berate them – if it does not work out to OUR tastes. That is fine and dandy, but these are real people we hurt. People who have dealt with me fairly. If they wind up, and are forced out of business, then all that is left is the used car lot guys – who used to work at Wal-Mart the week before.

So, if you are in the market for a classic car and, can visit the dealership, give the guys at a call. If you can’t visit, their website is actually one of the best and easiest to browse. I would always recommend that you personally inspect the car before you buy it. And please – OWN your purchase when you make it. If you get a great deal, I celebrate your success. If not so, my commiserations. But these are your actions, the dealer can only sell you something, you are wanting to buy… …even if you don’t realize that you haven’t looked hard enough!


DISCLOSURE: I have no personal stake in this dealer. I have sold one car and bought one car through them and the above are my personal experiences.


On the Fur Industry

Last night, while browsing the Overland website with my family, I came across this beautiful mink fur knitted poncho– with a hood! (I’d be in love if it didn’t cost more than my phone!) This morning, I was thinking about it, and then I remembered a National Geographic article I ready a few years ago about the ethics of mink farming.

Immediately I went on the lookout for any evidence I could find that the fur industry was ethical, so that I might still long for that poncho without feeling like a monster. I delved into article after article, and found a few that supported my case.

I don’t want to actually make an argument here, just talk about one I found. A lot of anti-fur organizations said that fur was unethical because we don’t need fur.

Well, fur makes warm clothing, which we do need.

The articles continued to say that there are other sources of clothing other than fur, so we don’t really need it.

When I read that part, I immediately wondered– is every single member of any anti-fur organization vegetarian? Because many people are, and they do fine. Which makes you wonder, if plenty of people live without eating meat, does that make the meat industry unethical? Clearly, you don’t need it to survive.

A lot of people might reply by saying ‘Yes, but we need food, and I like eating meat. That’s how the food chain goes, predator eating prey.’

To which I would respond, ‘Exactly. Since human civilization has existed, we have used fur as a resource for warmth, and as long as it is being harvested ethically and the animal is not wasted, it should be fine.’

Of course, this is a nuanced argument with far more than I have presented. But either way, I think it’s important to look at the issue beyond what we see on the surface.

Now, if you will excuse me, I’m off to dream about my mink poncho, guilt-free.


Calling 911…

As the week draws to its inexorable end, and the drudgery of the week gives way to the expectant joys of the weekend, my heart beats a little faster, as I turn in, each Friday night. Rising at the break of dawn, while my fellow city-dwellers slumber, I spring into the crisp morning air, keys to my chariot in-hand, as I break free the bonds of reality, headed to my time machine – preparing to make the run to 88 miles per hour.


Unlike it’s predecessor, a 1968 Porsche 912 with a mechanical starter, this evil car wakes up with a surprising alacrity and a deep rumble – resembling the growl of a rabid hellhound. Ensconced in a snug, but comfortable, sport seat, I inhale the unique smells of a 1980s air-cooled car. Warming up, the engine throbs like the strumming of Satan’s bass guitar and drums, while the reliable heating system (an antithesis to it’s laughable air conditioning) braces me from the morning chill. After 5 minutes, and an imperceptible rise in the engine temperature gauge (from freezing to above freezing, I guess), I step on a surprisingly light and familiar feeling clutch, as the 915 gearbox slots into reverse. From past experience and numerous stalls, I slowly release the clutch while feeding the throttle, and the car crawls backwards down my curved driveway.

Other than the otherwise preoccupied dog walkers, joggers and (now awakened) infants, strapped into their jogging strollers, nobody else witnesses the murder of an early Saturday morning calm, as the Beast trolls the slow roll down Wydown Boulevard. Interestingly, the speedometer (which seems to start at 30 mph) is not interested in informing us of the rapidity of our progress at this point, preferring to get involved only at speeds a car like this must be driven. Bouncing from rut to pot-hole to steel plate, I gingerly negotiate the minefield that has replaced Big Bend Boulevard in Clayton. My trepidations give way to excitement as I see the exit for the interstate approach.

With a nether-worldly yawn, she goes into Beast mode, as I downshift into second and make that curve onto the 64. Since the engine is not fully warm yet, I limit my enthusiasm to shift in the 4000 rpm range, as the car effortlessly catches up with traffic threatening to merge right. Matching the speeds of cars decades younger than her, the Beast trundles down the expressway as we wait for the engine to warm up, all the while shifting up quickly to fifth. Each exit on the westbound expressway holds promise of a new route to drive, each one a different neighborhood, a different story.

Today our jaunt to the Jaguar dealership in Creve Couer, accompanied by the dated “stereo” blasting period-correct 70s and 80s pop tunes, requires us to take the right hander onto the north-bound 270. We find ourselves trapped behind ineffably confounded drivers searching desperately for acceleration to merge, while evil expressway drivers try to merge onto the exit. A quick downshift to 3rd and a tap to the throttle, into a small window of expressway space – and our peril is past. Dropping my wife off at the dealer, as she deals with the travails of her afflicted SUV, I resume my sojourn in my now fully warmed up red demon.

This time, as I merge onto the expressway, I let the engine reach its full wail at close to 6000 rpm between shifts and rapidly reenter traffic. In comparison to many modern (and much faster cars) that I have owned, the sense of occasion and involvement with each gear shift is totally different. The same kind of buffoonery in my prior 2012 Jaguar XKR would have me in “arrest-me-now” speeds – albeit without the rush that the little Carrera does in very legal speeds. In many ways, it reminds me of my hyperactive 2008 s2000, idling at 2000 rpm and redlining at 8. Even as it settles into a cruise, the pounding whump-whump of its engine is intoxicating.

I pull off the expressway and come to a stop at a traffic light at the end of the exit and revel in the sonorous rhythm of the twin exhausts – waiting for the lights to change. The change to green and the clearing of traffic ahead of me, as the mall crowd turns elsewhere, invites another ride up the wailing wall of sound as I shift at the limit, through first and second. In all of this, I don’t miss my other modern cars’ ineffective and stupid traction control, electronic gear shifts (manual or otherwise), numb power steering or pretentious preening. With its yesteryears simplicity and brute force character, like the love of my life that she’s named after, this demon has stolen my heart too. No wonder, each Saturday begins by “calling Carrera (911)”.


On Southern Hospitality

I’ll admit, I haven’t had much time to experience the phenomenon I’m speaking about, but it was something of an epiphany to me, so I want to write about it anyway.

On the weekend after Independence day, our family made a road trip down to Nashville, Tennessee. The 4.5 hour drive wasn’t bad at all, as we have driven 17-18 hours (Philadelphia to Missouri) in a day. It was 2am Saturday morning when we arrived, and we settled in to sleep immediately.

Skipping over the events of the next morning, we arrive at Saturday evening. We were going our to dinner with my parents’ old friends. These people were incredibly kind, and you could tell just from talking to them that they were filled with a seemingly limitless amount of generosity.

We were leaving on Sunday morning, and as we were doing so I experienced something that has affected my perspective of life immensely. My parents were checking out while Raghav and I guarded the luggage. At this time, the two of us happened to be sitting next to an older man working away on his laptop. He seemed to notice us and took a break from his typing to have a conversation with us.

We talked for a short amount of time until my parents picked us up to head out. Right was we were leaving, the same man comes up and stops my mother just to tell her that he though we were very good kids. This struck me because that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done on my behalf. I was even more surprised because I didn’t even know this man’s name, and he had no reason to come up to my mother other than pure generosity.

This event was pretty important to me because something like that really just changes your perspective of the world. Just when it seems you’ve got people figured out, they surprise you. It reminded me that for all the evil in this world, there’s just as much good. These small acts make a big difference, and it’s people like him who inspire me to be a kinder person.

I don’t know if that man at the Gaylord Opryland Resort will ever read this or know how much his actions that weekend meant to me, but I want to say thank you, to him and all the other people who do these kind things without expecting anything in return.


My Issue With ‘Crazy Rich Asians’


Okay, let me get this straight, I have no problem with the movie itself. This is extremely frivolous, if you didn’t already get that vibe. I do not want to offend anyone, I just want to point out a misnomer.

So my problem is with the title (see, petty). The title ‘Crazy Rich Asians’ is kind of misleading. I’ve looked at the trailer, and so far every single person seems to be of one race.

Being Asian, I know that there is a wealth of cultures found in the most populated continent on the planet. However, in this film, everyone seems to be of a certain ethnicity (I don’t know which one and I really don’t want to offend anyone by assuming).

I’m really glad that an underrepresented group is getting recognized, but it’s not the best title. If you tell me that it’s about Asians, I want to see all types of Asian culture there. It’s like taking a primarily white movie and adding a single person of color in for a quick cameo and calling it diverse. Technically, there’s multiple ethnicities (just like they technically are crazy rich Asians).

Personally, I think that if we really want diversity, we need to represent everyone, not just a select few. I would be thrilled if I saw more movies where Kenyans, or Native Americans, or Indians (my people!) were able to play a central role.

Other than this, I really have no problem with the movie and maybe I’ll go see it. This is just something really small I wanted to address.


A Reflection on Bubbles

So yesterday my brother and I were blowing bubbles, which we haven’t done in a long time. It was a lot nicer than I expected, which made me sad. It is really sad that nowadays we are too obsessed with our electronics to really live. I mean, who knew that it was so peaceful to watch bubbles shimmering in the light.



The unique creature,

intelligent and bold

loving and protective

kind and beautiful.

Who rests with eyes wide open

while his master

sleeps in every comfort.

Whose joy fails to diminish

when he sees his family

no matter how long they’ve been gone.

Who dries any tears

coaxes laughter from the darkest situations.

Who brings some light


and undying faith.

Who would stand by any one

be it a businessman

a sales clerk

or a drunken outcast

that they had learned to love.

Who will love when there is none to be had in return.

Who would go hungry rather than see his master starve.

Whose spirit cannot be seperated from his master’s even in death.