My (not so) new car

     Timidity is not my way. Which is good, for a guy obligated to churn out as much material as I do — three columns a week in Chicago Sun-Times, the other four days on this blog, plus the occasional book. My spectrum of topics is by necessity wide.
     Yes, certain subjects are taboo. The details of grandchildren beyond the fact of their existence (people are asking the gender of the newest, born last week. As I sometimes say: silence is an answer). 
     Or ... and this was pure cowardice on my part ... the new car, bought three and a half years ago. A 2023 Mazda CX-9, Carbon Edition. Not so new anymore.
     Why avoid such a enticing subject? I mean, cars, right? Windows into the soul of American men. I've written at length on the topic, regarding cars that were not mine. 
     Honestly, picking the car was such a protracted ordeal, that at the time I didn't want to cap the experience by inviting whoever could flop their fingers onto a keyboard to tell me what a sap I'd been, what a dupe and sucker for buying the lemon I had bought. I already had the car. Any feedback would be like when I told my mother, may she rest in peace, that I had bought four new tires at Costco.

     "Don't buy tires at Costco!" she urged, for reasons I can't recall. I considered this advice.

     "Mom..." I said measuredly. "The tires ... are already ... on the car."

      So any dire news about the CX-9 is pointless, as we've owned it happily for three and a half years, almost. It actually was listed in Consumers Reports as to be one of the less dependable years — generally, though the one we bought didn't suffer any of the woes found by others. The CX-9 was also discontinued the year after we bought it, which did not strike me as a good sign.

     Nevertheless, 25,000 miles. Driven it all the way to upstate New York. In winter.

Great for cruising — it's a bigger car. Honestly, my wife would have been happy with the CX-9's little brother, the CX-5. And in truth, it seemed fine if a little ... dinky. That's the word I used, dismissing it. "Dinky."
     "I'm old," I told her. "I want to tool around the suburbs in a bigger car. I want something Tony Soprano would drive." A larger vehicle gives a necessary boost. That actually worked, winning her over along with, I suppose, the red leather seats. 
     Sure, a few glitches. Yes, the key fob is a little sensitive — I can be in the house, and if I squeeze it the wrong way in my pocket, the rear hatch lifts in the garage, 100 feet away. The interface with the cell phone has hiccups, and there is this big knob to cycle through various digital shells that borders on stupid.
     But merging onto the highway I mutter a little prayer of thanks for the hefty turbocharged engine. It seats six, which came in handy ferrying guests when the boys got married. The backup camera is great, as are the little warning beeps it gives if you want to merge into a large occupied already. You can puff warm or cool air at your backside, through holes in the seat.

    Most important, to me, is this: it's handsome. That sharp little nose and hooded headlight/eyes has more style than most cars on the road. It has a personality. Sometimes it seems enormous. "Look at that boat," I'll say, seeing it from a distance. From other angles, it's almost demure.

     Anyway, I needed something to write about today, and the photo of the car popped up, and to  paraphrase Molly Bloom, "I thought as well this as another."