11.27.2024

Jaguar Iconic Design Has Been Declawed


I’ve owned several iconic Jaguars over the years, and I loved every single one of them. My favorite was a 1990 XJ12 Vanden Plas—a true classic. Sure, it had its quirks (what Jaguar doesn’t?), but that just added to its charm. Once, the steering column broke, leaving me able to make only left-hand turns. If I dared to turn right, all the power steering fluid would leak out. Navigating the city became an adventure of left-hand detours and U-turns. I kept a stash of power steering fluid in the trunk, topping it off as needed until I finally took it to a shop.

When they fixed it, they conveniently forgot to reinstall the engine block pads. Every bump in the road turned into a clattering symphony, making it feel like the entire frame was shaking loose from the body. But I didn’t care. I adored that black cat with its oatmeal interior, burl wood dash, and fold-down trays in the back—an echo of an era when luxury wasn’t just a tagline. It reminded me of those old Grey Poupon commercials—not that they ever featured Jaguars, just Rolls-Royces or Bentleys. Still, it felt like it belonged.

Then there was my XJ6 convertible, a sleek ragtop beauty that purred perfectly for years. I eventually sold it to trade up for an even more impractical vintage Mercedes G-Class. What can I say? I have a weakness for timeless, quirky machines.

But for me, Jaguars were never about the ads or the gimmicks. (Though let’s be honest, that fusion of a Benetton “United Colors” vibe and Apple’s Orwellian hammer-throw commercial with its "Think Different" ethos was something else.) For me, it was always about the design—those iconic curves, the elegance, the unmistakable character of a Jaguar.

That’s why the upcoming 2026 Jaguar, set to be unveiled on December 2nd, leaves me utterly heartbroken. From the teasers, it looks like a soulless remix—a clunky hybrid of a 1990s Bentley and the angular harshness of a Cybertruck. It’s as if someone tried to design a Jag by committee, stripping away all the passion in favor of hard lines and focus groups. And to market it at Bentley-level pricing? I fear it might be the final nail in the coffin for Jaguar enthusiasts like me.

I only wish they had bowed out gracefully—like the sleek, regal cats they used to be. Instead, this feels like a tired, declawed exit.


P.S. Let’s not even get started on the logo—it looks like the clasp on a bargain-bin Michael Kors handbag.

11.26.2024

Getting into my Blogger Account is like Breaking into Fort Knox

 Google wants every bit of information about you. They can't let you have your little diary unless it is attached to everything you are. And we are worried about TikTok?

All I wanted to do was sign in and talk about the dead bird!

Here it is!

There is nothing quite like the searing, personal rage of scooping a dead baby bird out of your fireplace, knowing full well that it suffered—and I did nothing. Why? Because I listened to a bunch of self-righteous, know-it-all online clowns who insisted, “Leave it! The parents will come back!” Oh really? Will they? Are they magic ghost parents? Did they have an express route through the chimney I wasn’t aware of? Or maybe they were just too busy being hypothetical to show the hell up.

I sat there, helpless, behind my fireplace door, listening to that baby bird chirp and scream for days—DAYS—until its tiny body gave out. And now, I’m the one who has to live with that sound burned into my brain, knowing that while it suffered, I stood there doing nothing because a gaggle of keyboard ornithologists decided to play God.

And you know what makes it worse? These smug do-nothings act like trying to save it would have been some unspeakable crime. “Oh, it’s too hard to care for a chimney swift. You’ll just make it worse!” Really? Worse than starving to death, cold and alone, in a dark fireplace while it screamed for help no one gave? Tell me, oh wise internet bird sages, how exactly trying to save it could have been worse than that.

But no. I trusted them. I believed them when they said, “The parents will feed it!” and “You’ll do more harm than good!” And now, I’m left scooping out its lifeless body, its tiny feathers sticking to my hand, knowing it could’ve been different if I’d just had the courage to ignore their bullshit.

You people sit on your high horses, spouting off about “letting nature take its course,” but let me tell you something: you don’t get to feel good about your advice when it ends in needless suffering. You weren’t here. You didn’t hear it chirping for its life. You didn’t have to pick up its broken little body. I did. And now I have to live with the fact that I listened to you instead of trusting my gut and trying to save it.

So here’s the deal: next time, I’m ignoring all of you. If it’s hard, fine. If it’s messy, fine. But at least I’ll know I did something. Because doing nothing, standing by while something suffers, and calling it “the right thing” is a lie I’ll never believe again.