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Posts Tagged ‘Top Gear’

Sad news: Fusker, the fierce, inimitable kitteh who owned James May of Top Gear fame (and famous for his stolen Lego likeness) was hit by a car and killed. He will be sorely missed. Safe passage across the Rainbow Bridge, dear cat. Rest well, chase butterflies, eat tuna.

Addendum: Behind-the-scenes video at the TG site includes the lads discussing Fusker’s passing in their usual ham-fisted way. Enjoy(?)

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Sonsabitches. This is too much—in fact, it was enough to get me off my butt and write an emergency mid-month entry on this blog. Usually I agonize over what to write about and have to open a vein to come up with a topic once a month, but this one damn near wrote itself.

As all three of my regular blog readers know (hi mom!—oh wait, my mom doesn’t have a computer)…as all two of my regular blog readers know, I have written about Top Gear fairly frequently, here and here. This is not a Top Gear blog—although, judging by all those entries, it sure looks like it—but if the TG wonks keep up this nonsense, it might turn into one.

What am I on about? Why, the recent news that the ill-fated American version of Top Gear, the concept of which has been kicked around for…what is it, years now?…has reared its ugly head again. Just yesterday it was announced all over the intertubes that the History Channel (what?) is going to pick up the show and air at least 10 episodes this fall.

All I have to say is…is TG staffed by raving lunatics? Is the BBC office filled with lead paint fumes? Who in the world needs an American version of Top Gear?

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Some say he’s only 6 years old…and that he sleeps in SpongeBob pajamas….All we know is that if he isn’t The Stig, I don’t know who is.

Heard of The Stig? You should have. He’s part of the great TV show Top Gear. Yeah, I’ve written about Top Gear on my blog before (it’s one of the best shows on television, I said—so go watch it!) and—look out now—I’m gonna do it again.

Along with the three co-presenters Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May, there is The Stig, their “tame racing driver” who wears all white, including a white helmet, and nobody knows who’s under the visor. True fans of Top Gear prefer to think of The Stig as a superhuman entity that test drives supercars in every episode, does not speak, has no knowledge of the London public transit system, and won’t give an award back once he’s received it (waiting on the video to be posted for that one—it’s a good ‘un). And sure, a little while ago The Stig was revealed on the show to be race-car driver Michael Schumacher, but I call shenanigans. I know better. (more…)

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No, I didn’t swear in my headline. But I’m definitely swearing in my head.

In my last blog post, I waxed rhapsodic over an event so heartwarming it renewed my hope in the human race. Heck, it was so great it almost made me want to go out and hug a Republican.

And then it all went wrong.

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Great things are afoot. Magnificent things. They’re hiding behind a mask of silliness, but don’t be fooled—they’re nothing less than magical.

Out there in that wonderful place they call the U.K., a guy with really bad hair and only slightly better fashion sense is changing the world. Through toys.

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Penelope Pitstop

Penelope Pitstop

This morning, my mother fired the latest volley in her ongoing “you need a new car” campaign. I don’t remember what she said; I wasn’t really listening. That’s mainly because I’ve heard it all before; her campaign has been going on for quite some time.

Let me back up a bit. In June 2000, I did the unthinkable. I bought a new car. It wasn’t economical; it wasn’t used; it wasn’t a practical, modest sedan. I bought my first—and so far only—new car: a brand new, fresh-from-the-factory, made-just-for-me Jeep Wrangler. Silver grey and black, automatic (I never did learn to drive manual), CD player (quite a big deal nine years ago), both hard AND soft top (I thought the soft top wouldn’t hold up to our frigid winter temps—I was wrong and if I had the chance to do it again, I’d skip the hard top).

When I fired it up for the first time, I saw that it had 2 miles on the odometer. TWO. I could have spontaneously combusted, I was so ecstatic.

Why? Let me back up a bit more. My uncle (my mother’s brother) was a car guy. He first sold Pontiacs after he came home from World War II, and then, in the mid-1950s, he opened his own dealership: Oldsmobiles. Hey, they were cool then.

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