Ranking right up there on the annoyance meter and vying with jewelry store spots for Top Spot in the Cloying Category are the annual spate of holiday-season luxury-car-as-gift commercials.
You know the ones: Lexus, BMW, Infiniti, Mercedes, Volvo … all nice cars, but let’s get real: Nobody is going to give Joey Porter’s Pit Bulls a car.
Check that. A long time ago, somebody actually did give Joey Porter’s Pit Bulls a car.
God bless Mrs. Edith Alexander, may she rest in peace. As a kid growing up in Shadyside, Joey Porter's Pit Bulls were neighbors to the elderly Mrs. Alexander and her husband, Tom. Both were distinguished, genteel and scholarly professors at
She had cocktails every afternoon at 4 p.m.
Eventually, she decided she decided it was time to start giving stuff, like her Harvard Classics Five Foot Shelf of Books, away, mostly to me.
And, in time, it no longer made sense for her to drive.
So she gave me her car.
It was a Plymouth Volare.
Have you finished laughing? It’s okay, go ahead.
Finished? All right, good.
The car was primer gray in color. It was 10 years old and had 5,000 miles on the odometer. And it had a red, perforated cardboard interior ceiling.
Upon taking ownership, I called my buddy Dale, tough guy and a smartass, too, and told him my neighbor gave me a car. I didn’t tell him what type or make.
I just said, “Hey, man, you’ll see soon enough. Be outside your place at 7:30 sharp. We’ll cruise around a bit.”
Later, Dale told his side of the story: “So, I’m sitting there, front step, smokin’ a joint, waiting. From down the street, off in the distance, I hear what sounds like singing. ‘Voh-lar-ayyy, ooh-oh-ohh-oh. Can-tar-ay-y-y, ohh-oh-ho-oh.’ I look up and halfway down the block I see this asshole leaning out the window of this butt-ugly, puke gray Volare drive up, stop, and say, “Well? Whaddya think??”
Fast forward. Last Christmas morning, I’m up at daylight and out for a morning walk with Myron and Mongo (my dogs, not Joey Porter’s). Myron, Mongo and I are fortunate to live on a nice street in a nice neighborhood. We circle the block and come up on the house next door and behind my place on the corner. Our neighbor’s home is a beautiful, gracious old house with a three-car garage and short driveway that will accommodate three vehicles, but only one car was sitting in the driveway — a sleek, brand new, silver-gray Lexus sedan … with an enormous red bow on its roof.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Mrs. Alexander would think.
And, somehow, I kept seeing that Lexus morph into a primer-gray Volare.
With a bow on top.
Postscript: Much later, the woman who became the future Mrs. Joey Porter’s Pit Bulls refused to ride in the Volare and didn’t want me to be seen in it, either. She really hated everything about the car, especially the red perforated ceiling. I kept threatening to soup up the Volare and turn it into a muscle car, but I eventually lost interest and got another vehicle. It seemed like too much trouble to sell the Volare, and I simply stopped driving it. It was parked on the street where we lived in
One more thing: Other people share our wonderment at the whole genre of luxury-car-as-gift ads.