Burger Bonanza!

Testing The Biggest & Best Fast Food Burgers 

 

  Pirate Press             Autumn 2024 

Proudly Writing Reviews No One Asked For Since 1990

 

My quest to try Fatburger, the iconic California hamburger chain, has been a three-decade one as I first read it in 1994 when JFK Jr. was spotted eating at one in Los Angeles. Apparently, his father celebrated his 1960 Presidential Democratic Nomination by dining at Fatburger afterwards and JFK Jr. made a point to visit that same location. Obviously, I can't do that, but I can finally try the iconic burger that has become a permanent fixture of the culinary zeitgeist. 

First started in 1947, it actually beat rival In-N-Out Burger in nearby Baldwin Park by one year and was owned by an African-American woman, Lovie Yancey.

Also, my literal journey to Fatburger was nearly as confusing and mystifying as the events surrounding JFK's assassination. For starters, the nearest Fatburger opened in Alexandria, Louisiana in 2020, but the four-hour drive and it's location (virtually in the middle of nowhere) meant that it closed with a whimper in 2023. Incidentally, the new store is even more isolated but at least it's 2.5 hours closer. Despite that, I still think it's probably the weirdest Fatburger location in the U.S., if not the world.

Unlike the clean and modern (albeit shuttered) venue in Alexandria, this location seemingly followed none of the distinctive hallmarks of a Fatburger store. And until I clamped my eyes on it in person, it wasn't clear if it was located in a Chevron, Shell or Pilot gas station (all three had referenced it). Even the address— 65583 Pump Slough Road— sounded crude and unwelcoming. Google's omnipresent Street View was equally flummoxed, offering only an 8 year-old snapshot of a ramshackle building with bars on the windows and a dusty, gravel parking lot.

Despite that, the Google listing promised that it was open, but I knew better than to trust our A.I. overlords.

Obviously, there was no phone number, so I tried searching and discovered two separate numbers for the address it was listed at. One was for the "Sunny Time Chevron" and the other was on the Pilot/Flying J website. Both were dead ends as one stated that voicemail was not set up, and the other said calls were not being accepted. 

Undeterred, I then tried emailing Fatburger but ran into more complications as their website "Contact Form" was a flowchart with no email. Furthermore, it required you to pick a location before you could proceed and the Pearl River franchise wasn't even listed, although the closed Alexandria store was. I then tried googling the email address and found one for the CFO of Fatburger as well as a general mailbox. 

Amazingly, those two were also rejected and I quickly discovered that Fatburger has the most unfriendly social media presence of any product I've ever come across! Then again, it kind of goes lockstep with the absolutely abysmal rating of 1.2 stars the Fatburger Corporate Office has garnered on Google.

 

 

                          

 

 

By this point, I was pretty frustrated and even wondering if driving the 100 miles would be worth it? After all, this was a lot of damn work for just a hamburger, even counting the thirty years I had been waiting to try it! 

Also contributing to our protracted mastication schedule was Amanda fainting and taking a nasty fall in our kitchen just 5 days before we were scheduled to try Fatburger. Aside from a brain bleed, the impact also damaged her olfactory nerves so badly that she wasn't able to taste or smell anything. That clearly wasn't on my bingo card and understandably sucked a lot of excitement and energy out of the excursion. After all, who wants to eat anything if you can't enjoy it? So, I tabled our trip indefinitely and put it on the back burner until Amanda's first consultation with a neurologist. In the meantime, I had her smelling various strong scents daily in an effort to retrain her brain and reverse the Anosmia.    

So, in the meantime I decided to work my way up to Fatburger's biggest offering by consuming a couple other slightly smaller (but still massive) current fast food burgers. 

First up, I had Denny's "Beetlejuicy Burger" which, despite the name, does not contain any juicy beetles. No, it was actually a marketing tie-in with the Beetlejuice sequel playing in theaters. And thankfully, the burger was much better than the movie with three 4 oz. patties, three strips of bacon, three slices of provolone cheese, lettuce, onions, tomatoes and topped with Denny's "Diner Q" sauce, which tasted suspiciously like Thousand Island. (Spoiler Alert: the "Wavy-Cut" fries that accompanied it were the best of all three places I tried.) Because it was a limited-time offering and Denny's wasn't exactly keen on divulging the artery-clogging numbers, I was unable to find an official tally although one report claimed that it had 1,790 calories which seems fairly accurate. FUN FACT: it's also nearly the same amount of calories recommended for an active adult to eat in 24 hours, never mind that I'd be having it for a lunch snack. The fries added another 400 calories, but at this point, who's counting?   

Next up was the "Gold Medal Burger"— Red Robin's nod to the 2024 Summer Olympics with three 6 oz. patties that they assert closely replicates the weight of a real gold medal. It was served with three slices of (obviously) American Cheese, lettuce, onions, tomatoes and a red sauce dubbed "Red's Relish." Despite boasting over a quarter-pound more beef, online estimates place the Gold Medal Burger at 1,770 calories. For that I blame the absent bacon strips, which were present on the Denny's burger, but were sadly not an option at Red Robin. Seriously, how can you have a burger that personifies America but doesn't include some kind of bacon on it?

 

 

But when it was finally time for our trip to Fatburger, Google, Bing and Yahoo let me down. However, I eventually found a link on DuckDuckGo that confirmed the store was indeed open. The article was brief, but quoted Fatburger COO as saying, "Fatburger’s brand identity is fun and light-hearted which aligns well with the vibrant nature of New Orleans. Whether you are a local or a traveler, we promise to roll out a good time for you at our Pearl River location." I doubt the Fatburger COO has actually ever been to The Big Easy, so I'll take "vibrant" as his uneducated euphemism for the persistent problems of pollution, poverty and crime that pervades the city. 

Incidentally, I noticed that the Pearl River ran nearby (hence the pump slough reference) and I remarked to Amanda that this was the very same estuary responsible for carving out the Mississippi Grand Canyon we visited in November 2022. It was also a mnemonic of the wild uncertainty of life and literally how anything is possible— I would never have believed that 22 months later I'd be visiting my first Fatburger in a Louisiana swamp. I'd always imagined it would be in a large metro area like Miami so it was truly akin to something like a fever dream.  

 (This is what happened when I asked A.I. what a Fatburger restaurant in a swamp would look like)

Fortunately, geographically getting to Fatburger was largely trouble-free as we simply drove west on I-10 for roughly an hour before we hit what I refer to as the Slidell cloverleaf. It's that crucial 4-way convergence wherein you either continue south on Interstate 10, west on Interstate 12 or north on Interstate 59. As expected, taking any of these routes leads you in vastly different directions. I say this because the first (and last time) I ever took I-59 was after an all-night bender on Bourbon Street. My buddy Rick and I were heading home and since he was less drunk, he was logically the designated driver. I was attempting to sleep in the passenger seat when he woke me up to ask which way to go at the cloverleaf. When he inquired if we were headed in the right direction, I quickly agreed so he'd leave me alone and then I proceeded to pass back out. I remained undisturbed for approximately 30 minutes, or however long it took his alcohol-addled brain to fully process that the signs for Hattiesburg meant we were completely lost.  

Heading north on I-59, we passed the "No Pay No Stay No Play" Mobile Home Park. No kidding, I thought it was some sort of joke until I googled it later. However, the reviews are pretty predictable, with one person named Hunney Addams (no relation) succinctly stating, "You don't want to live here. The only nice thing I can say is it was affordable." and another reviewer remarked, "If this is the place im thinking of. It is a run down trailer park." which pretty much summed up my estimation also. Despite that, their no-nonsense name is more pragmatic than a French Quarter escort.    

However, even without the debilitating effects of a drunken stupor Fatburger still would have been easily missed had I not been actively searching for it. It turns out, the previous tiny building has been completely steamrolled for a massive new structure that is part liquor store, part fast food joint and part gas station. But whizzing past on I-59 at speeds averaging 85 mph, it takes eagle eyes and fast reflexes to spot the tiny Fatburger marquee, quietly hidden below a giant Pilot sign broadcasting 24/7 gas prices.

We parked next to a row of shiny, new Tesla Supercharging stations (none of which were occupied) and strolled into the stunning travel center which looked like somewhere we'd stop outside Orlando, not alligator-infested Cajun Country.

Inside, there was a small food court where Fatburger was flanked by an Arby's and a Chacha's Dhaba Indian restaurant. From a business perspective, the Arby's was a no-brainer, but I was truly bewildered over who thought a middle-eastern eatery in a Southern Louisiana gas station was a shrewd investment? Pearl River is 83% Caucasian and Indian isn't even represented in the demographics. Someone didn't read the room because all the customers I saw were more interested in crawfish than curry. And it was indeed a puzzling location— when I sent a photo of Fatburger to my co-worker Richard, he asked where I was, inquiring if I was in a mall or airport?    

However, it's a new era and Fatburger has had to (unfortunately) diversify their menu to reflect silly little nuisances like climate change and market dynamics. As such, items previously considered unthinkable like veggie burgers and turkey burgers are now available. And for the hipsters and millennials, there's even Gluten-Free Buns and Dairy-Free Cheese. Just don't order the Vegan shake, as I discovered that at a whopping $10.99 it costs more than a half-pound Fatburger and doesn't even contain any booze, something that should be considered heresy in a state known for it's drive-thru daiquiri shops. Prior to visiting, I had joked about the unhealthy items like the XXXL Burger and Fat Fries, but I didn't realize it was the prices (and not the food) that would give me a heart attack!

But, I hadn't driven 100 miles and waited 30 years to cut any corners and homogenize my first Fatburger meal. I wanted the full, unadulterated experience: Gimme all the calories, saturated fat and protein of 100% pure ground beef just as God intended. So, I ordered the 1.5-lb. XXXL Burger which is the largest available and boasts as much beef as SEVEN Big Macs! It was $19.59 and adding a side with a medium drink brought it to $27.09. Victoria got the Western Bacon BBQ Burger Meal for $20.19 and Amanda picked the $18.99 1000 Island Burger Meal. We decided to each get a different side that matches our personality so Victoria clearly chose the Sweet Potato fries, I settled on the Fat Fries because I'm always salty and Amanda got the Onion Rings due to her making me cry so much. As such, our total came to over $70 which I consider pretty pricey just for a fast food lunch.

As the meal arrived, I can't remember any time I've ever gotten a hamburger that had not one, but three massive patties actually hanging over the sides of the bun. Pictures truly don't do it justice and it reminds me of the old Burger King commercial that proclaimed it takes two hands to handle a Whopper. With my XXXL Fatburger, I felt I needed at least three hands since I couldn't get my mouth around it to take a bite, and even then it was collapsing under it's own enormous weight, shedding chunks of mayonnaise-drowned lettuce and chopped raw onions everywhere. At one point, a whole tomato slice slipped out and dropped into my lap leaving a huge, greasy stain. As my Dad would joke, it looked like an inside job!       

But, the patties were perfectly cooked and still steaming as I consumed them, and it seemed like I was eating for an awfully long time. I suppose I've never considered how much ground beef is actually in 1.5 pounds but it was certainly satisfying. For most people, 24 ounces of meat in a burger is complete overkill, but I read that such gluttony actually dates back to Medieval times. The late sociologist Priscilla Ferguson described it as an expression of identifiably American connections between abundance and country. “Overeating both honors country and transgresses social norms,” Ferguson wrote in the journal Contexts. It certainly sounds enlightening, but somehow I think my Health Insurance Provider might disagree.  

And for those curious, Fatburger isn't shy and proudly posts the nutrition information for anyone to see. My "Triple King" rang in with 1,686 calories (ironically the lowest of the bunch), 96 grams of fat, 2,179 grams of sodium, and a whopping 129 grams of protein. But, pound-for-pound the most toxic menu item is the Cookies & Ice Cream Shake with 1,180 calories, 99 grams of sugar and 163 carbs! In comparison, the burger only sports 69 carbs and a middling 12 grams of sugar, plus a much healthier ingredient profile from the meat, bread and vegetables.        

 

 

Honestly, the Triple King wasn't that filling to me, but the lovely Latina employee insisted if I ate it all in one sitting that I would get my picture on the wall and a certificate for my accomplishment.  

 

In my official ranking, In-N-Out is still my absolute favorite burger, followed closely behind by Shake Shack and BurgerFi, with Fatburger now taking the fourth spot on the esteemed list. My only gripes about this location are the cramped dining area with too few tables and chairs, as well as a soda machine that dispensed carbonated water instead of the iced tea I wanted. But best of all, after 30 years I could finally scratch Fatburger off my Bucket-List. And as the rapper Ice Cube would no doubt agree, "It Was a Good Day!" 

 

Finally, if you do get to visit the only Fatburger in Louisiana, tell them Pirate Press sent you and receive a whopping 0% discount! 😎 

 

Pumpkin Spice

It's not everyday you park next to an orange Lotus Elise  

 

  Pirate Press            November 2023  

 

 

 

At the end of July, Victoria had her first collegiate-level dance competition in Tuscaloosa. So, as a lifelong University of Alabama fan I was excited to finally see the campus there. Over her high school dance career, we'd already visited both Mississippi State in Starkville and University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg. 

 

Amazingly, when I mapped out the distance we drove to Starkville in 2019 versus the route to Tuscaloosa, it was only separated by one singular mile. But for whatever reason, the jaunt to State seemed so much longer. Despite that, the first two hours are an identical slog up Hwy 45 through such strangely named small towns as Buckatunna and Shubuta. From Meridian onward, it's a combination of I-20 and I-59 for the remaining 100 miles into Tuscaloosa. 

 

Weirdly enough, we'd driven the 85 miles to Tuscaloosa from Starkville before, but it was for the express purpose of dining at the Chuy's restaurant there. We never toured the campus or even saw the stadium. However, the Tuscaloosa Chuy's closed down just 4 months after we ate there, so we sadly wouldn't get the opportunity to do it again.

 

Instead, lunch was at Rama Jama's, a Roll Tide-devoted dive that's to Crimson Tide fans what Graceland is to Elvis enthusiasts. As we pulled up, I noticed that it was just as popular with the locals as it was with tourists— vehicles from Louisiana, Texas and Oklahoma competed with regional ones for the few parking spaces available.

 

 

Luckily, we made it right before the lunch rush and the customers were a mix of families and campus residents. The young girl taking our order seemed like she could also be a student but was surprisingly unenthusiastic which was rather shocking given the otherwise upbeat vibe in the restaurant. There was some sort of novelty champagne bottles being consumed and several tables were letting it flow freely. However, each time a loud pop accompanied a bottle being opened there was an audible knee-jerk reaction from Amanda and some of the other patrons. Sadly, random school shootings are no laughing matter and our current crazed society requires constant vigilance. 

 

Fortunately, the most dangerous thing I saw there was the $22 National Champs BLT sandwich which consisted of 18 strips of bacon (one for each National Championship), on 3 slices of Texas Toast with double lettuce and tomato. I'm confident I could have taken it down but I knew we would be driving into Birmingham later to eat at Chuy's so I wanted to save my appetite for that. Instead, I opted for the large Cheeseburger and fries while Amanda ordered the Fried Green Tomato BLT with a fried Peach Pie. My burger was nothing special, but Amanda raved about the BLT and said the Peach Pie was even better than the one she had eaten at The Varsity in Atlanta.

 

                     

 

Afterwards, we made our way down the main drag, Paul W. Bryant Drive, and marveled at how calm and quiet everything was. With a coverage of 72 square miles and a population of 100K, Tuscaloosa certainly dwarfed the other college towns like Hattiesburg and Starkville. 

Further down, we stopped at a huge University of Alabama Supply Store to see if any of the merchandise appealed to us. Of course, there were all the usual items with the Crimson "A" or elephant mascot on them, but not nearly the amount of "Bear" Bryant or Nick Saban paraphernalia that I'd been warned about. I can remember the fervor over the Bear Bryant Coke bottles in the early 80s, and I even found a couple of them in my parents' attic when I cleaned it out in 2016. Unfortunately, over three decades of heat and humidity conspired to turn the soda a frothy green color that definitely didn't look safe to consume.

 

I was tempted to buy something but with Victoria attending Perkinston Junior College for two years and then planning on going to USM for the last two, it didn't make much sense (financial or otherwise) to sport any Alabama apparel.

 

But it was when we walked out to my car that I got the shock of the weekend. There, parked beside it was a bright orange Lotus Elise. Naturally, it was striking, but it nonetheless reminded me how unusual the Lotus brand is and that is occupies a very strange segment in the automotive universe.  

 

For starters, I've always felt that Lotus is the most "non-exotic" exotic car ever built. After all, for a couple decades it was saddled with a four-cylinder despite competing with twelve-cylinder Ferraris and Lambos. But it's sheer rarity and unusual styling means that it is often mistaken for much more expensive machinery. Upon sharing the photo with both my daughter and a long-time Pirate Press reader, both pegged it incorrectly as a McLaren. However, I did give them credit for recognizing the British ancestry as Lotus and McLaren each hail from England. 

 

I distinctly remember the first time I saw a Lotus and it coincided with my first James Bond movie, The Spy Who Loved Me. Of course, at eight years old I didn't understand the significance of the brand, only that a car that turned into a submarine (and back again) was something I'd never seen before. And it would be five years later before I'd witness another sports car submerged. However, this time it would be unintentional and by a very young Tom Cruise in Risky Business. 

 

1976 was the first year for the Lotus Esprit and it produced a decidedly unimpressive 160hp from a naturally aspirated 2-liter four-cylinder. In comparison, it's closest contender at the time, a Porsche 911, made 200hp. 

 

Eleven years later, I'd see my first Esprit in person as in the late 1980s New Orleans actually had it's own authorized Lotus dealership. By then, the engine had grown 10% to displace a full 2.2-liters and a turbocharger had been added to give it a more competitive 215hp.          

 

The Elise pictured here debuted twenty years after the Esprit and is the Lotus most likely to be spotted in daily driving. It certainly looks exotic, but a Toyota powertrain and a Corvette resale price makes it a lot more common than a real purebred like a Ferrari or McLaren.

 

If you remember the 2000 Celica GT-S than you're familiar with the 1.8-liter four-banger in the 2005 Elise that squeezes out a miserly 190hp and 133tq— an amount that is clearly not supercar territory. That's not a typo, the 1976 Esprit actually makes more torque than this 2005 model!

 

Reliability-wise, I'd personally have been a nervous wreck (no pun intended) driving a nearly 20 year-old Lotus the 800 miles from Hopkins County, Missouri to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. And even assuming you made it in one piece, the nearest Lotus dealer is still another three hours away in Atlanta. However, my biggest gripe wouldn't be the possibility of breaking down, but the space-saver 10-gallon fuel tank, which with an optimistic EPA rating of 22 mpg, would require four separate fuel stops on such a trip.  

 

Smaller than even a Miata, it also begs the question of how any semblance of luggage and personal possessions were transported across four states? I know when we helped Victoria move to Perk, we filled up her Kia Forte, her cousin's Toyota Tacoma and my Ford Fusion, each from floor to ceiling. 

 

Funny enough, as we were leaving I noticed a stunning young woman walking across the street. She looked like a model who had just stepped out of a Cosmopolitan feature, with perfectly-styled hair, dark sunglasses and a flowing dress. I muttered to Amanda that there was no way she was getting into that cramped Lotus that was barely sitting 4 inches off the ground! I desperately craned my neck around searching for a Range Rover or some other high-end SUV that seemed like something she'd drive. 

 

Sure enough, she approached it and opened the passenger door to drop her purchases in the seat. Not wanting to appear as some pervert stalking her, I nonetheless stole a quick glance inside the Lotus and was surprised to see a mess of papers and other items littering the interior and footwell. In a perfect world, I'd love to have gotten her thoughts on the livability of the Lotus but a lot of factors (read: wife) conspired to prevent that. Obviously, Amanda wouldn't appreciate me chatting up a strange blonde in a sports car and it foiled my efforts to inquire if she needed a Sugar Daddy?

 

Also, the "BTMOBL" tag seems to suggest that it's an abbreviation of "Batmobile" hinting at the Caped Crusader's personal vehicle. I take exception to this as the orange color and fish-eyed countenance strongly suggests "Aquaman" if we're associating it with superheroes. And an "AQUAMAN" tag would be perfect for the submarine-diving Lotus Esprit in "The Spy Who Loved Me." 

 

It's also not very often that I park beside an exotic car and am able to boast about having a more powerful engine. I believe the last time was in October 2021 when I spotted an Acura NSX. However, the lilliputian Lotus is accustomed to doing more with less and it's still slightly faster given a weight (1,975 lbs) that sounds like a birth year instead of the tonnage of a full-sized car. In comparison, my Fusion weighs almost double that! 

 

However, I can say with complete conviction that I would not have enjoyed driving the Lotus three hours to Tuscaloosa. And by that I mean my wife would not have enjoyed riding in the Lotus three hours to Tuscaloosa. With the cramped space, noisy drone from the engine and lack of modern amenities, she would have been (ahem!) very vocal about her discomfort. 

 

As such, it was probably better that we took the Fusion, particularly for the hour drive into Birmingham. Of course, we had no idea that it was a Tax-Free Weekend so The Summit had become a traffic-snarled hellscape straight out of a Stephen King novel. It honestly looked like the city's entire population of 200,000 had all tried to cram into that shopping center and it created an entrance and exit choke-hold of biblical proportions. 

 

It also didn't help that everyone wanted to eat at Chuy's because with a 600-ft elevation, the view of the Appalachians in the distance is stunning, particularly at sunset. And while it's certainly the most scenic restaurant at The Summit, I'd also wager that it offers the prettiest vista of all 100 Chuy's restaurants in seventeen states! 

 

As we patiently waited, one pretentious woman clad head-to-toe in Lululemon marched up to the hostess stand with her husband and two young kids in tow. She obviously expected to be seated immediately and was furious when informed of the 1.5 hour delay. Clearly, she was used to getting her way and was completely unprepared to handle the rejection. Trying to save face in front of all the patrons and employees, she spun around and dragged her husband and children out the door muttering under her breath that such an extended wait was "ridiculous!" I laughed and told Amanda that she should have just sucked it up because any decent place on a Saturday night was going to have a similar backlog and the longer she held off, the worse it would be.   

 

And being late July, we wisely opted for an inside table to avoid the stifling heat. Of course, it meant forgoing a patio spot with an amazing view, but the temp would have made it unbearable. Nonetheless, Amanda and I were seated at a massive booth large enough to accommodate six or seven adults. The gesture was appreciated, but seemed unusual given the lengthy waiting list of families who needed it much more than we did. Personally, I would have been fine with two chairs at the bar. 

 

After dinner, we made our way back to the hotel which was from a brand we had never patronized before. Billed as "SureStay by Best Western"  I was initially turned-off by the "Best Western" name as I've always viewed that economy hotel chain as a place where I'd rather pay more to stay somewhere else. However, when I researched the SureStay brand I discovered that it follows the contemporary template of upmarket collections by big hotel companies such as Marriott's Autograph and Hilton’s Curio. In essence, it's a separate "white label" offering that operates independently from Best Western. Typically, properties that are selected for the SureStay group are individual entities that have carved out their own personal niche, but would benefit from the resources and more favorable commercial advantages afforded by partnering with a major hotel platform. 

Indeed, our "boutique" lodging boasted a unique and appealing colonial architecture that looked like something I'd expect in Virginia or along the Northeastern seaboard, not rural Alabama. Inside, the furnishings were similarly eclectic, with a faux brick partition acting as a divider in our suite. I reminded Amanda that it recalled our hotel in Times Square in which I opened our curtains expecting a beautiful view of Central Park only to be greeted by the unappealing visage of a brick wall.

 

 

 

 

That questionable styling aesthetic aside, our "SureStay" was comfortable and affordable which made it ideal for a getaway weekend in Tuscaloosa. And although we furiously looked all weekend, we never once spotted Nick Saban driving his new 2023 Ferrari Portofino M. You see, Saban is an investor in the new Prancing Horse of Nashville, the only authorized Ferrari dealership in Tennessee. That's because after signing a $93 million contract last year, he clearly needs a side hustle to earn extra money.

With that kind of transportation enhancement fund, I can certainly think of several different Ferraris that would be at the top of my shopping list, but the one he chose would certainly not be. Don't get me wrong— the Portofino is a fine Ferrari, but it is the entry-level model and is in one of the most uninspiring colors possible: a drab, dishwater grey somewhere between Grigio Titanio Metall and Grigio Silverstone. It's almost as if he took the least desirable Ferrari they had, perhaps because it was at a very attractive price. I mean, who buys a grey convertible as their first new Ferrari, particularly if you're the coach of the Crimson Tide? He will never live down not getting it in a Scarlett color like Rosso Barchetta, the color of my 360.

Regardless, it's 612hp twin-turbo V8 spits it to 60 mph faster than he can yell "Roll Tide!" and it corners quicker than his 72 year-old reaction time. And judging by the photos of it below at Tuscaloosa National Airport, it looks like he could seriously use some parking lessons. However, he recently admitted to being very superstitious about it and claimed on The Pat McAfee Show that he only drives it on Wednesdays and if it's not raining. Finally, Ferrari has gotten so soft about coddling it's clients that one of the Portofino's new features is a neck warmer, which I suppose speaks volumes about it's  septuagenarian demographic like Saban. The press release states that the neck warmer "offers a choice of three heat levels and the system constantly adapts the speed of the warm air flow from the headrest to ensure it is proportional to the car’s speed, outside temperature and the position of the retractable top." Somehow, it just feels wrong even including "Neck Warmer" and "Ferrari" in the same sentence, unless you're referring to something manly like the mid-engine V8 catching on fire 🔥 which I suppose would definitely raise the temperature on your neck. Until then, if Saban wants frivolous things like a neck warmer, he should stick to the Mercedes he hawks at his dealership in Irondale. 

Lastly, it's sad to acknowledge that Lotus, which was originally created by Englishman Colin Chapman in 1952, has now split it's ownership between Chinese Multinational Geely and Malaysian business tycoon, Syed Mokhtar Albukhary. Whomever said "politics makes strange bedfellows" has obviously never seen the bizarre roster of owners Lotus has had in it's 70+ years, which also includes brief stints with GM and Bugatti. 

As of now, the Lotus Eletre is the first offspring from that peculiar Pan-Asian conglomerate. It flies in the face of every principal Colin Chapman set forward with Lotus as it's too big, too heavy, possesses 4 doors and runs solely on electricity. Even more aspirational, Geely claims that by 2028 the entire Lotus lineup will be electric and they will be selling 100,000 cars annually. Supposedly, they will all be built at a plant in Wuhan (Yes, that Wuhan!🦇) and it's pretty far-fetched when a good year for Lotus is churning out 4,000 vehicles, but I suppose stranger things have happened.

As for the new Eletre, I bet Nick Saban is wondering if it has a neck warmer?    

 

 

Red Line Sunset

I get a rare chance to relive the past.  

 

  Pirate Press            September 2023  

The John Grisham of Russian Readership*

No matter how long I live, I don't think I'll ever fully understand (or anticipate) the curve balls that life tends to throw at us. 

CASE IN POINT: Earlier this Summer, I spotted my old 2006 Saturn Ion Red Line at a nearby gas station. I watched it come and go and had that familiar twinge of regret, wondering if selling it three years ago was a mistake? I recounted the experience to my wife, underscoring how surreal it felt to hear it speed away from the ears of a bystander instead of the ears of the owner. Yet, it somehow sounded buzzy and not at all like the deep, baritone growl that I remembered. I've heard of viewing memories through rose colored glasses but I wondered if that also applies to ears as well as eyes? Like, do things even sound different than how you recall them?

 

And if I could do it all over again would I still sell it?

 

I last chronicled my Red Line in 2017, when it rolled over 100,000 miles. In 2020, I ditched it after I bought the Fusion, justifying the sale by pointing out how many items needed replacing and how that would have handily exceed the value of the car. Essentially, I'd be investing way more into it than it was worth, so I took the pragmatic approach and sold it. In short order, it needed: a new transmission, new clutch and new tires, or roughly $5000 in parts and labor for a vehicle with a book value of $2000. And given that it still had all original parts, I knew that eventually the a/c compressor, starter, fuel pump and water pump would fail.

 

But, I wasn't reunited with the Red Line by mere happenstance. No, it was an otherwise, ordinary Saturday and Amanda and I were headed to Ocean Springs to pick up some special Adidas for Victoria's Perkette Training Camp. We'd encountered one of those odd, afternoon thunder storms where it was raining and sunny at the same time. During that strange weather occurrence, I've often heard people remark that "The Devil's beating his wife." Now, having the inquisitive (and some might say warped) mind that I do, I naturally was curious about the origins of that expression. Typically, aged aphorisms are usually somewhat logical but I couldn't wrap my head around that one so I went looking for the genesis of the declaration I've been hearing all my life.

Upon further research, I found out that it can actually be traced back to Greek mythology circa 700 B.C. Not surprisingly, even that far back the phrase originated due to a woman's jealousy, proving that couples have been fighting ever since Eve got us kicked out of Eden. According to the fable, Zeus tricked Hera into believing he was marrying someone else and in a fit of jealousy she created a heavy downpour on the wedding day. However, Hera soon discovered the ruse and quickly turned her tears into laughter, creating the clash of rain and sunshine.

 

It's little wonder that other cultures around the world have adopted similar stories to explain the unusual phenomenon with people in Spain referring to it as "The Witches are combing their hair." In Estonia, it's described as "Orphans' Tears", where the sun is the grandmother drying those tears. And in Germany they proclaim it as "A Feast Day in Hell." Finally, Hawaii calls it "Ghost Rain" which sounds like an Anime anthology.

 

But, I digress. 

However, my point being that the pavement was wet from this sunshower when a vehicle approached an intersection in front of us. Apparently confused, they stopped, pulled out, and then stopped again with me barreling down on them at 60+ mph. I hit the brakes and felt the ABS kick in, but it made little difference on the slick pavement. 

 

There was a split-second realization that we were going to hit them, but as funny as it sounds, I wasn't concerned for my safety. I never doubted that the Fusion wouldn't protect us as were were wearing our seat belts and were surrounded by air bags. No, I was angry because I knew the insurance company would total the Fusion and I wouldn't get anything even remotely close to its value for the pittance of a payout I'd receive. 

However, the story doesn't end there.

At the proverbial last second, the stationary vehicle abruptly accelerated and just managed to move out of our way as we narrowly missed it. Disaster averted, I exhaled and reflected on how lucky we were. But a few miles down the road, the battery light suddenly came on and it seemed we'd exchanged one automotive problem for another. 

 

In the 12-month ownership report of the Fusion I discussed replacing the battery, so I knew it was barely two years old and shouldn't be having any issues. Despite that, we got off at an exit and I doubled-back to the nearest AutoZone to have it checked. Unfortunately, they weren't much help as the employee insisted that I had to turn the vehicle off and I refused given that I knew I might not get it started again. Ironically, their portable jump-box wasn't charged either so I left without a complete diagnosis. 

On the drive back home, the Fusion's condition deteriorated rapidly with an array of dashboard lights that strobed frighteningly at me. I tried to keep my eyes on the road, but I distinctly remember both the "ABS" and "Traction Control" symbols as well as some others I'd never seen before (and didn't recognize). Acceleration became more erratic and it wouldn't shift out of fourth gear resulting in a deafening drone of 4500 rpm at 60 mph. Of course, my Sport model does have the manual "SelectShift" option, but I was concerned that trying to physically upshift or downshift might cause further damage and the last thing I wanted was to have to pay for a new transmission, too.

So while the whole car was essentially uncooperative, mercifully the A/C continued to work as it was a sweltering 90-degree day and would have made for an (even more) unpleasant ride home.

 

Sure enough, it refused to start after I parked it, so I just left it in the garage. And that's when I called my brother-in-law, fully aware of all the begging/cajoling/pleading that would be required to borrow back my Saturn after a 36-month absence. Truthfully, slinking back to the Red Line made me feel like a deadbeat husband who had abandoned it after being seduced by a flashier, newer model. 

 

But my pride had a price, and it clearly didn't involve paying nearly $100 daily to rent an under-powered Nissan Versa from Enterprise! Unbelievably, that's what the average post-Covid rental price is now versus the $35 per day I spent on a Hyundai Accent in 2017. 

 

Truthfully, I was excited to get back behind the wheel of the Red Line and relive some of those great memories. Unfortunately, I didn't fully grasp just how much time had actually passed and it was heartbreaking to say the least. For the 10 years in my possession, it was always garaged but the past 3 years of it sitting outside in the unforgiving elements had really taken a heavy toll. The previously shiny black exterior pieces were now bleached a dull gray and even the famous Red Line insignia was so faded it wasn't even an actual red line anymore. But, worst of all was a freak hail storm a month earlier that had pock-marked the Saturn's hood, roof and trunk with marble-sized dents. 

Inside, it wasn't much better as the foot wells were caked with mud and grime, and it looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since I handed over the keys in 2020. There were a couple pairs of cheap sunglasses in the back seat, random change and coins in the cup holders, and even the desiccated remains of a tiny tree frog who had become a permanent passenger. During my time with the Red Line, the deceased amphibian stowaway became such an enduring fixture that I simply nicknamed it "Kermit" (although I didn't want to be guilty of assuming it's gender).

 

But the most pleasant surprise was the Recaro seats, which regardless of the considerable wear still remained as snug and comfortable as I remembered. Likewise for the special Italian leather shifter boot and emergency brake boot that I'd custom-ordered and installed— both looked almost brand new despite over 10 years of daily abuse.

 

On the downside, there were constant, annoying reminders that this vehicle was designed two decades ago by the lack of now-common features such as an outside temperature gauge or a backup camera. To that end, a rear camera would be particularly helpful since the high-mounted rear wing does such a great job of blocking nearly half the view out the back window. 

 

Similarly, the clutch creaked and was heavy, and fifth gear had pulled an Elvis and permanently exited the room. So, that only left four forward gears and one very uncooperative reverse gear. It takes steely nerves to endure the cacophony and vibrations of the engine at 80 mph on the highway. But aside from that, the only other mechanical casualty was the original a/c compressor which finally succumbed last summer. Thankfully, he replaced it with a new unit that wasn't as effective as the OEM part but still managed to get the job done. 

 

Likewise for the generic tires, which were a poor substitute for the B.F. Goodrich G-Force I used. They didn't look good or grip well, but did provide an acceptable barrier between myself and the asphalt, which I suppose is all that really mattered. 

 

Admittedly, the best thing about the Red Line was the light weight (2,800 lbs.) and 300+ hp four-cylinder so I was eager to experience that again. Yet after a brief third gear pull from 60 to 90 mph, I was underwhelmed and wondered if my memories of that too had been unduly influenced by nostalgia? Or had time and wear simply dulled the performance that I remember? 

 

However, I convinced myself that while it was loud, crude and rode like an ox cart, at the end of the day it was still free so I should be content with that. And while I try to limit using the A/C in the Fusion to only when absolutely necessary, I never missed an opportunity to run it full blast in the Saturn.  

 

But a few days into my time with it, it suddenly began acting up one morning. In fact, it was bucking and surging so badly that I thought I might have accidentally left the emergency brake on. And then the "Check Engine" light started glowing menacingly at me so I knew something serious had happened. My mind instantly snapped to the cruel irony that my brother-in-law had neglected this car for three years and it waited to break right when I borrowed it back!

 

Unfortunately, the situation failed to improve over the next few days as the misfiring continued. Even worse, it was taking a terrible toll on the fuel economy, dragging it down to an abhorrent 13 MPG and costing me $20 per day in gas. Suddenly, it was as if I was driving the Ferrari again, but without any of the redeeming qualities like the gorgeous Italian bodywork or razor-sharp acceleration. So, in a desperate attempt to temporarily appease it's petulant nature, I threw a 16 oz. bottle of VP Racing Madditive at it, but even the high-octane elixir failed to change it's angry disposition. 

 

 

By this point, I wanted to believe that all the Fusion needed was a new battery since it would be so much simpler and cheaper to fix. But numerous trips to have the battery tested and charged confirmed my worst fears and they all pointed towards needing a new alternator. Of course, a failed alternator at just 65K seemed ridiculous but it followed my bad luck and validated the existence of Murphy's Law. 

 

 

Naturally, the alternator's expense was a concern but the major problem was the labor required to remove and replace it, as it's the meristem of the entire car's electrical structure. Once again, my maxim of always buying the largest and most powerful motor available came back to haunt me as the 3.5-liter V6 is crammed sideways in the engine bay and nothing is easy to access. After the AutoZone rep confirmed it was the alternator, he simply shook his head and admitted he didn't even know how someone could reach it to change it. Obviously, that didn't boost my confidence in the matter but it had to be done regardless. 

 

A call to the local Ford dealer revealed that they wanted $450 for the alternator, but Rock Auto once again came through with the lowest price, saving me $200 on the exact same Motorcraft part. I ordered it on Sunday and by Thursday it had arrived. My brother-in-law, Clint, whom I borrowed the Red Line from, volunteered to swap it for me and I certainly wasn't going to refuse his charitable act. 

 

 

 

He determined that the alternator was best accessed from underneath and with the front passenger tire removed, so the Fusion went up on jack stands. My modest selection of assorted tools sufficed until he got down to actually trying to remove the alternator and he ran into a small 5mm stud holding it in place. Now, I don't know if any of my dear readers have ever used such a tiny wrench before, but it was literally impossible to find one. I checked all the auto parts and hardware stores and they each stopped at 6mm, just shy of what I needed. We even raided every tool stash (parents, friends, etc.) we could think of to no avail. I told Clint that locating that wrench was harder than finding an honest politician, but he finally managed to prevail with a minuscule socket set. However, to fully take out the alternator required dropping the entire engine cradle. And that necessitated just the opposite of the mini tools we had been working with, which was a massive 21mm deep well socket. Naturally, I had a 19mm that I used on the Fusion's lug nuts, but of course it was too small by the narrowest of margins. Fortunately, Advance Auto had one in stock so I bought it, knowing full well I'd probably never use it again in my life.

 

Upon hearing of our distress, Amanda's friend Tammy ordered me a 5mm wrench off Amazon. Even with Prime shipping it came in too late to use, but I now have one if the need ever arises again. (Which it better not!)

And to keep things interesting, the new alternator proved to be just as difficult to put back on as it was to take off. It took 30 minutes of Rubik's Cube-like manipulation to get it squeezed back into place from under the car. But once that was done, the bottom retaining bolt absolutely refused to screw back in, protesting as if it was hitting up against an invisible object. After 30 more minutes of finagling with it, Clint was about to give up when it suddenly slide right into place like there had never been any obstruction. (BELOW: If it's this hard to see the new alternator, you can imagine how difficult it was to change it!)

 

 

Out of an abundance of caution, and before he reattached the plastic wheel well and under-body cover, he wanted me to try and start it just to make sure that everything worked. I climbed inside, turned the key and after a couple cycles the engine caught and roared to life. I was ecstatic, but Clint was furiously motioning for me to kill the engine. Somewhat perplexed, I nonetheless obeyed but wondered if he'd sensed something wrong and that was why he was so desperate for me to shut it off?

 

I quickly hopped out and walked around to the front of the Fusion only to witness an enormous black oil spill splattered all over my pristine garage floor. Now, I'm the type of person who can't stand a single drop of stray motor oil on my driveway, so the sight of this nearly sent me into catatonic shock. The day before, Clint had removed the oil filter for easier access to the alternator and had simply forgotten to screw it back on before I started it. I frantically checked the dipstick and was relieved to see a tiny amount of oil on the lowest marker indicating we had just narrowly avoided an engine meltdown. Even so, the Fusion had lost nearly two-thirds of it's oil capacity and it took three full quarts the following day to bring it back up to its normal operating range. 

 

But while the Fusion was finally back on the road, all my attempts at resuscitating the Saturn had proven fruitless. I felt terrible returning it to Clint in its ailing condition— especially after all he'd just done for me— but I also didn't want to spend several hundred dollars on a car that wasn't mine, particularly with no guarantee that it would fix it.  

 

He shrugged it off and claimed that with the high mileage, it was probably just an ignition coil or spark plug that needed replacing, so I felt relieved that he wasn't overly concerned about it. 

 

The next morning, I dutifully trekked to our local auto parts store and picked up the aforementioned three quarts of cheap motor oil. I felt this would be enough to fill the crankcase and get me to Mobile where I could buy a gallon of Mobil 1 to properly change the Fusion's oil. However, I quickly discovered that "cheap oil" should be an oxymoron in that even the least-expensive 5w-20 was now $6 per quart. Heck, it wasn't that long along that I could get premium Royal Purple for $7 per quart but apparently those pre-Covid prices are now as extinct as the dinosaurs that generated it. 

 

The following day, I set up a cookout and invited Clint as appreciation for all the hard work on the Fusion. But when he arrived he informed me that neither new plugs nor fresh ignition coils corrected the misfire and he suspected it might be a blown head gasket. I really hated hearing that and felt responsible, but he said he was just going to sell it AS-IS and not worry about trying to fix it (even if he did throw me under the bus in the Craigslist ad.)

 

 

But the bad news didn't end there, as when Amanda's sister went to leave she suddenly noticed that something had shattered the entire rear window of her 2019 Buick Enclave. There was a tiny hole in the center of the glass where the object had struck it, and the rest had spidered and splintered all over the driveway. Although there was no way to determine exactly what happened, my neighbor had been mowing past it earlier and kids often race by on their four-wheelers so either could have been the culprit that slung up the offending projectile. We definitely had an encounter with an Unidentified Flying Object (UFO) but it wasn't extraterrestrial as far as I can tell. 

 

So, if you've made it to this point in the article I guess you're asking what's the big ecumenical precept I learned from all of this?

 

I suppose it's to simply live life without any regrets. Few of us are ever given a chance to relive a significant decision like I made by selling the Red Line which I'd owned for ten years. As humans, we're plagued and tormented by the daily choices we make and too often we second-guess ourselves with needless recriminations. I'm fortunate to see that getting rid of the Saturn was the right thing to do. That being said, I'm fully aware that serendipity rarely shines on us in such a favorable fashion and I was extremely lucky.   

 

The other painful life lesson is things will invariably break with no warning or reason as the Fusion and Saturn both did. But with the Fusion's third birthday coming up in October, I certainly hope this is the last mechanical malady for a long, long time!  

 

IT LIVES AGAIN!!! (E.T. not included)

                

*My BFF thought it was cool that Pirate Press was so well-received "behind the Iron Curtain" and that with it's popularity I could be like John Grisham in Russia. I laughed and told him I'd be sure to take credit for that in my next article!