First, you guys are good; you make me laugh. Liman had a great letter about scotch and gin, and that line, “… not since that night, long ago… ” That’s comedy. You don’t have to say anything else, just touch on what might have been, or was. I’m too crusty about some modern shorthands, and could never bring myself to use the (very practical and efficient) “LOL” that my friends sometimes send, but… That made me laugh out loud.

Okay: The title today comes from the Auto Show. The L.A. Auto Show. I take the kids every year, and I guess auto shows in general have taken on a Three Stooges-ish sort of veneer (or pallor), because each year I ask my wife if she wants to join us, and she looks slightly puzzled — maybe it’s resolute — and always says, “… No.” It’s apparently something she thinks the boys and I should do alone; like watch the Three Stooges.

There were women there, and lots, but it was more like ball game women, which is a compliment. You know how, at a ball game, baseball or football, any woman there suddenly becomes the most beautiful woman in the world? It’s something, I suppose, about the guy-ness or the testosterone level. Or the beer. Yes, maybe that’s it.

I didn’t have any beer, I waited on that till I got home for some football on our new TV. Just watched the Chargers Cowboys game, a good game, and had four Pabsts ($7.99 a 12-pack at Ralphs yesterday, as opposed to $12.99 for the Bud.)

I know I’m drifting here, but here’s an interesting beer reflection. My dad, God bless him, was still the only guy I’ve ever known who could tell the differences between beers. He sold beer after marrying my mom (surely a coincidence) and before law school, several different beers. In those days, by the way, you didn’t need a college degree to go to law school, and after the service he met my mom and, among others, sold Carling’s Red Cap Ale.

In New York at that time, there were still lots of breweries. I think (I’m guessing now) that in the late nineteenth century there were three hundred or so in New York, and in my dad’s day, I’m guessing there were still twenty. Jacob Ruppert, the owner and builder and Babe-Ruther of the Yankees had his old one up above eighty-sixth street in Manhattan, in Yorkville, or what they used to call Germantown.

Here are two beer things I remember from my dad: One, he told me that at the end of every day — EVERY DAY — they let you take home as much beer as you could carry. Not a bad perk, eh? Different times, I guess.

And two: He was the only man, as I said, who could tell the difference. It’s not exactly James Bond picking the year of a certain wine, but you could line up dixie cups of beers (and we did once), and he could say, “Shaeffer, Schlitz, Piels,” etc.

And every time I buy the cheaper beer in the store, I remember him saying, “All beer is just about the same. Get the cheaper one, and you’ll be just as happy.” Okay, maybe he didn’t use the word happy, maybe it was another five-letter word that began with a D and an R.

I know I’m straying here, but I’m typing quickly, no doubt fueled by the four Pabsts and mindful of the brief privatude my wife has granted me by taking the kids on a Target run for socks and toothpaste. If I can finish this with a good chunk of interest before she gets home I might just crack a fifth and see another game, and share a Hanover hard pretzel with the dog.

SO: We went to the auto show. I have a lease on a BMW that ends in April, and I want to get an American car again. I’ve had three Chevy’s and three Fords, and it’s just a small gesture, maybe, and who knows where American cars are even made anymore, but I thought it was time to move back to General Motors or Ford. By the way, the BMW was no great shakes. I drive sticks, and wanted a four-door car for the family with a manual transmission at the time, and there just weren’t any American cars with them. (I mean four-door cars. I know Mustangs have sticks if you want, and at the time there was a giant, muscle Cadillac with a stick, but I don’t want to drive into the school parking lot looking like, well, a bald man in his fifties driving a massive insecurity.) So I got a BMW 530, which has a stick.

Here’s the thing, though: Ever since synchro-mesh transmissions came in (in the seventies?), shifting yourself isn’t even a chore anyway. Doesn’t take any skill. It’s smooth and effortless, like microwaving food instead of hunting it and cleaning it. Not that satisfying. You don’t have to listen to the engine, or rev just right, or squeeze it in. Hell, you don’t even get better muscles in your left leg.

Anyway, there were several cars I think might suit us, but it’s bye-bye stick, unless I want to try to get a ‘72 Skylark with three on the tree.

WHOA. Everyone just got home, and the Field Marshall just ordered a full garbage run, and that’s my bailiwick. We just finished, but there’s more to do, and I have to finish this now. The rest of the L.A. Auto Show stuff will have to wait, but I’ll leave you with one brief thought on it.

Maybe it’s just the romance of memory, (or its sappy cousin, melodrama), but didn’t the models introducing the cars with a smile at the car shows used to be more glamorous? I know it’s just more young women getting a job, and they have my full good wishes, but I seem to remember, as a kid, seeing those models describing fuel injection and torque as being INSANELY PRETTY, GRIPPING AND PERFECTLY UNATTAINABLE.

Oh, maybe it’s the Pabst. And maybe, just maybe, after I post this, I’ll crack another and see who’s still playing…

REMEMBER: IF YOU WALKED OUT OF BED TODAY AND HAD ENOUGH OF A CLEAR HEAD TO APPRECIATE FOUR HOURS OF CARS WITH LITTLE ONES WHO ARE STILL IMPRESSED BY THE MODELS… THE GAME’S OVER, AND YOU SHOULD POUR YOURSELF ANOTHER COLD AMERICAN BEER.