Category - Lord Byron

Lord Byron — The Good Ship Toyota

I don’t care about Toyota.  I haven’t for years. I’ve observed their place in the market and even expressed some degree of interest in a very small handful of their offerings over the last decade, but I’ve never really thought much of them one way or another. That may become a somewhat difficult assertion to defend after the next thousand words or so, but take my word for it.

See, many car enthusiasts care a great deal about Toyota. They’re the ones who take every opportunity to tell you how awful their cars are, how dreadfully overrated they are, and how lifeless and soulless and dishwasher-like they are. They tell you how cheap and how poorly-engineered they are. You want a Prius? This guy tells you to get a used Jetta TDI. Your mom wants a nice, reliable Camry? Tell her to get a Volvo! You like the old MR2s? Wise up and get a 944. You want a MkIV Supra turbo? Supercharge an old F-Body for 1/3 of the price.

It’s the same thing, you know, just without all that Japanese suck.

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Lord Byron — NAIAS 2010. What’s it to ya?

*Logo Courtesy of NAIAS

“So you’re a journalist?” The question snaps me out of my hung-over trance. The landscape around Detroit Metro Airport isn’t terribly fascinating, but even the bleakest horizon is a welcome anchor for my primary senses while the parking shuttle trundles along as only domestic passenger vans are want to do.

I didn’t catch his name; my inquisitive chauffeur offered me a lift across DTW to the North terminal after passing me half a dozen times as I waited for the terminal-to-terminal shuttle—a brotherly gesture punctuating an otherwise inhospitable morning.

I don’t answer immediately. I prefer not to introduce myself as such, but I put the brakes on that particular train of thought before it blows a whistle that will further stoke the three-alarm Jack-and-Captain number that is still beating my nerve endings like bongo drums. Too deep. Too early.

“Nah, I’m a blogger,” I finally deliver in my most refined turn-that-freaking-sun-off-so-we-can-all-go-back-to-bed grunt. “I write for a Web site.”

“A blogger?” he responds as he pulls the shuttle into its  stall and hops out to retrieve my bag. “What’s the difference?”

I hand him a fiver I’d plucked from my back pocket on my way to meet him behind the van.

“Journalists don’t tip. Thanks for the lift; I appreciate it.”

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Lord Byron – Price Flexibility: What are we willing to pay for a domestic?

2010 Ford Flex with EcoBoost

Price has been a common theme of late in Ford product reviews. While impressions are generally positive (or even better, in many cases), The Press as a Whole just can’t seem to wrap their collective heads around how much these cars cost. Whether it’s the upscale new Taurus or the (apparently) stratospherically-expensive EcoBoost-equipped Flex, nearly every evaluation ends on the same note:

“This is a great car, but are buyers willing to spend this much for a Ford?”

In the world off loss-leader Escorts and Cavaliers (and even Focuses and Cobalts), that question may not be entirely out of line. But when you start dealing with family haulers of the tall and wide variety, the premise is not so solid. So how ’bout it? Are Americans willing to shell out $36k+ for a barebones twin-turbo Flex?

The short answer is yes.

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Speed:Sport:Life Almost Racing — The $1350 Miata

Cacophony. That’s the only way to describe the sounds that permeate the cabin as the tach needle sweeps past 4,000RPM. The normally melodious warble of the aftermarket muffler is choked off by the muted drone imposed by the factory airbox. The 1600cc engine wheezes in air as though snorting it through mucus-clogged nostrils. For once, I think to myself, I’ll be looking forward to having my helmet on. 80MPH. Solid as a rock.

This is pre-tech.

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Lord Byron — French Bread, Italian Spices and Tupperware

Saturn Logo

Back on April 1st, an article appeared on NewsTimes.com claiming that Saturn had found a suitor.  While many initially dismissed it as an April Fool’s joke, Saturn of Danbury owner (and early Saturn insider) Todd Ingersoll was telling anybody who would listen that a deal was in the works that would assure Saturn’s long-term future. While Ingersoll didn’t come forward with the specifics of the deal or the name of the interested party (or parties), it seemed like an honest attempt at reassuring consumers that Saturn wasn’t a dead brand walking.

Weeks have come and gone, however, and nothing seems to have come of it. Meanwhile, the Pontiac and Hummer branches have been lopped off the future GM family tree, and Saab and Saturn have degenerated to sell or scrap status. While GM’s overall attitude toward a potential sale of the Saab brand seems fairly positive, the future of Saturn doesn’t look so rosy. Earlier estimates predicted the Saturn network would stay around until 2011 or 2012 — plenty of time to court new ownership — but GM is now saying that it’s on the chopping block for the end of this year.

So what is the key to Saturn’s future? It all comes down to Chrysler.

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Lord Byron — Pontiac (Was) Car.

Here to Stay

By Byron Hurd

GM’s press conference on Sunday was not the most depressing of the day’s events (See: Chrysler), but it certainly wasn’t the most inspiring either. Wagoner’s communications team set him up with a healthy four hundred words that had nothing to do with GM’s financial trouble. Now that’s a solid corporate communications strategy when everything is business as usual, but when you’ve just been floated a loan by some 300 million of your peers, a little humility may be in order. (See: Chrysler — sensing a pattern?). But while ChryCo’s conference may have been the most depressing of the bunch, it was the non-event that was Pontiac’s presence at NAIAS that depressed, disturbed, and frankly offended me as both an enthusiast and as “member” of the press. If you’ve ever shown up to a party where you’re surrounded by dozens of people who were your friends just days before and suddenly don’t want to talk to you, look at you, acknowledge you, or even share the same hundred-square foot area of their apartment, then you know what it’s like to be Pontiac. You don’t know what you did (or didn’t do), but suddenly you’re the fattest, pinkest, most foul-smelling elephant ever to be under the table.

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