There’s something about the day after Labor Day. Perhaps it’s living in a place that’s over-run by tourists from Memorial Day until a few days before the end of the summer. If Memorial Day is the invasion, then Labor Day is the quiet withdrawal. Because, by late August, everyone is headed back to school, sports are spooling up and vacation homes will be used a few more times before getting shuttered for the season.
Despite being able to navigate down the street in a normal fashion, nothing says September more than the onslaught of retirees — you know — the people who tell you how beautiful a place is in September, after things have quieted down. Out with the minivans. In with the campers and RVs.
And there’s the stereotypical guy with his belt within inches of his chin getting out of the same unidentifiable monstrosity made by Buick, Cadillac, Toyota, or whomever else makes the same hideous metallic, pearl bronze/beige automobile that comes parading into my home state on the day after Labor Day.
It has whitewall tires, even though whitewall tires haven’t been sold in ages. It also has chrome, even though that went out in the eighties. But, most importantly, the car always has the same guy driving it. Mid-to-late seventies. Sun sensor bifocals. License plates with the dealer frame from somewhere between 200 and 1000 miles away. Tow hitch. Air horn. And so on and so forth. Every time I see the car, I think that the current owner came of age driving the ubiquitous Ford Model A, and that was the end of it. Whitewall tires. Chrome. You name it.
By this logic, my sole concept for an automobile should come from one of the anemic vehicles built between 1972 and 1985. I should think the 1983 Toyota Camry to be heavenly. I should crave to own an original 1983 VW GTI or the 1984 Corvette just like the one Mary Lou Retton drove in that MacDonald’s ad. Perhaps a 1986 Buick Grand National. Or maybe a 911 SC or a 944 Turbo.
Clearly, I’ve already been down this path. Purple muscle cars. Homologation specials. Cars with flares and wings. You name it, I’ve fixed it…and owned it. I’ve dealt with rust. Lots of rust. Inspections. Carburetors. Suspension rebuilds. And yet I haven’t. Unlike the septuagenarian driving the hideous Toyota Avalon, I’ve somehow deviated from the marketing plan.
It wasn’t until a week ago that I realized that I was off the marketing chart. Sure, I stepped into that elevator in Chicago and made a crack about A-ha’s “Take On Me” as it was playing on the DMX track. But nobody got the joke — either too young or too old. Never mind the video. And that was it.
The thing that pushed me over the edge of the marketing chart was a simple activity. With the winter on the horizon and the profound commitment to not spend another year driving a high-horsepower collector car sideways through the snowdrifts, I found myself looking at cars.
Being a responsible husband, I had already socialized the idea of a new automobile. And this came with a few, reasonable constraints. This would be my automobile, but if it were to enter “family” circulation, could it possibly have a manual transmission, a sunroof (or mooonroof for that matter), and heated seats?
A simple request that is easier said than done. So while it’s relatively simple to bombard me music that I remember from college, it’s virtually impossible to get an automobile with a manual transmission, heated seats and a sunroof.
Or more appropriately, it’s virtually impossible to find a car on the lot with such features. I love rear-wheel drive and the winter combination with four snow tires. But I couldn’t find a car without front- or four-wheel drive. Most dealers want to sell me four-wheel drive…and an automatic transmission. On some cars, I can get a manual transmission and heated seats but without a sunroof. And so on and so forth.
The point being that we’ve segmented the market to the point where most brand managers simply decide to play the odds. Volkswagen even markets their colors by demographic. Volkswagen tells me that VW drivers are 23% more likely to visit a casino… and that’s why we should purchase a black car. Notwithstanding that the proverbial black Jetta is the one driving in the breakdown lane along Route 2 on their way into Boston….or that red cars are more likely to get speeding tickets.
But what I realized was that I had somehow slipped off the charts. I’m a demographic that doesn’t matter. What I want isn’t relevant. Sure, they’ll play The Jam for me, but they won’t give me a manual transmission with a sunroof…unless I special order. I know the feeling well.
It’s that familiar Gen-X feeling. Like it’s for you…but not for you. Like you matter, but they’re just buying their time until a larger demographic has more money to buy their stuff.
It’s a lame compromise. You can see the meeting where the marketers stop to think — Why not give them some more Bad Company or Supertramp. Hey, doesn’t your generation like Madonna and Michael Jackson?
Won’t that suit you for long enough while we wait for Gen-Y and the Millenials….’cause there are more of them, and they never learned to drive a stick.