I would like to talk to you about black-market, performance-enhancing automotive accessories. I don't know much about them, to be honest, besides a few acronyms that I can't define, but a few hours on the reddits has convinced me that this is more than enough to qualify as an expert. It certainly qualifies me for blog-writing, which Aristotle famously called the "lowest form of art" 1; ironically, it is now references to Aristotle that elevate a post from ordinary to sublime. Anyway, I might not be an expert, but everyone's an expert in expertise.
Clearly they exist - these experts in actual stuff. We have people like Adrian Newey, whose knack for converting astronomical quantities of cash into vehicular perfection won him a wikipedia entry that he didn't have to write himself, plus other accolades. And Mario Andretti, whom one has actually heard of, could coax the from these magnificent creations the full measure of velocity with which they were endowed. Far be it from me to judge whether, at a global level, this is the optimal thing into which to convert astronomical quantities of cash - or whether it's all as vulgar as it seems - but for the narrow purposes of going really fast in a big circle, they effected the transition with panache.
On the other hand, were we to stuff a poncified branch manager into the drivers seat of a well tuned McLaren F1, things would not end well. The grounds crew and local coroners did nothing to deserve this overtime cleanup duty, so let's politely suggest that our nostalgic friend seek his lost mojo elsewhere. For that is indeed what he seeks. Unbidden recollections of a meaningful and invigorating life haunt his dreams distract him in meetings. What is he to do?
Trashing a racecar will easily run him 15M USD plus insurance, but he
can have this baby, with all the fixings, for about 200k:
As you can see, he adores his tricked out "Vette," which makes a lovely noise racing from one stoplight to the next. Mario Andretti could explain to him in what way this extravagant beast is distinguished, but he doesn't know from Andretti except for one powerpoint slide in that management course.2. Whatever though. He's happy. He loves loves loves to talk, albeit a little inaccurately, about his adventures in mechanical marveldom. And at this very moment, there's a break between meetings, so he popped down to the garage to check in on his muscular new friend.
Of course it's not all skittles and hood ornaments. Manual shift turns
out to be hard to learn as an adult; also wheelspin and understeer are a thing.
Maybe some measure of craft is involved after all. There have been a
couple of little accidents (though none that his wife knows about),
plus a few close calls near the primary school. Whoopsy!
And in darker moments (like when people honk after he stalls),
he wonders if he's become a
metaphor for the sorriest fetishes of late stage capitalism:
a messianic redemption narrative spun from
gaudy self-help manuals, unacknowledged privilege, and plainsong
techno-shibboleths.
But nah. He's working on a blog post too, you know.
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