February 10th 2006

Two computer terminals and a black & white TV are stored in a corner of my basement.

They were out of sight and out of mind, until we had nothing to do over the Christmas break and
decided to tidy things up a little.

So, what has that to do with cars?

Only this:
These aren’t the old models Dad used to fix after a trip to the local Radio Shack to test and replace the tubes.
Instead, the backs are labeled to warn against any attempt to open the box:

“Danger! Do Not Open! No consumer-repairable parts inside, service only by trained technicians.”

How long until the hood of your new car is going to be similarly labeled? Pretty soon!

In fact some of the near production concept cars don't HAVE hoods -
"To prevent interference by the owner" - quote.

Lately, our garage has contained a number of fugitives.

It’s the depths of winter, when stressed-out cars are prone to failure.

This not only complicates life for the owners, but leaves other commuters fuming as we try to find our ways
around the minivan that gave up the ghost mid-intersection or the self-igniting SUV awaiting help from the
fire department.

Amid these reminders of automotive vulnerability, I’ve been test driving hybrids and wondering

“Who, exactly, is going to fix these crates when something goes wrong?”

There are “high voltage” warnings under the hoods and access panels already—sealing is the next step.
And why not?

If it’s more than a deflated tire or frozen door lock, what could you do?
Calling the CAA is not only your final solution, but your only solution.

The self-reliant motorist prefers to think his toolbox contains something more useful than a cellphone.

Most  of us have a favorite story about making temporary repairs in some desolate setting—a Beetle fan belt
replaced with pantyhose, a leaking Datsun carburetor sealed with chewing gum, a bit of wire in the right place to make
an MG TD driveable despite the broken mechanical advance in its distributor.

If you so much as duct-taped the radiator hose on a Prius, who would be surprised to learn the computer had
detected insufficient coolant pressure or high temps and shut you down?

It needn’t be that obscure, either. Detect knocking noises in the engine of a 10-year-old Saturn, and the best advice I
can offer is to donate it for a tax credit. Just the cost of opening the engine for proper diagnosis exceeds the cars
value after repair, especially since the transmission is on its last legs anyway.

This disposable-car situation co-exists with an explosion of interest in the car hobby, as rising numbers of people
seek to get elbow-deep and turn wrenches under the hoods of 1947 Packards and twin-cam Porsches.
Even these mechanically savvy folks can’t keep their modern daily driver going without help from automotive technicians.

Perhaps you see the connection, but let me be more definitive:
Some hobbyists collect TVs from the ’50s and ’60s, but todays' televisions attract NO, zero, nada collector interest.

No one cares about the pioneering LCD or LED channel displays or the push-button selectors.
That’s just more stuff you can’t fix. Having spent fruitless time online and on the phone trying to find a way to recycle them,
I conclude that they are landfill fodder.

In the ’90s car guys began to mutter about “Who’s going to care about these cars when they’re older—the Lumina is never
going to get anyone as juiced up as a ’56 Bel Air, no one will ever lust for an Intrepid the way we salivate over a ’64 Cadillac."

I dismiss these complaints—there were lots of forgettable cars. For every Barracuda worthy of restoration, dozens of
slant-six Darts went to salvage yards without a tear in anyones eye.

But there’s a difference between “not much interest” and “nothing can be done.”

And we’ve crossed that line. At least it’s easier to get a car recycled than a computer monitor.

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