We just have to re-visit Ralphie in A Christmas Story. It's not Christmas without sausage balls and some awesome Kringle. And there's my cottage bacon--a new tradition. It's "mandatory" that all four of us are present for choosing and decorating the tree. And, each year's Christmas tree is officially "the most beautiful Christmas tree we've ever had."
There are many others, and I'm sure there are many in your family. Yet the one that always stands out for me is the last thing we do on Christmas Eve before turning in. We watch a couple of short videos. Old videos that I remember from my youth. We found them over time from catalogues and even eBay.
The Wife loves the I Love Lucy Christmas Episode. And there's this surrealistic Santa Meets The Fairy Snow Queen deal that as children the boys thought was cool. Santa seemed so...so magical. Yeah, right. That one is so over the top from the '50s that I'd swear it was produced by the California porn trade on a slow day. Now, at 19 and 21 the boys agree. Now we watch it for a laugh. This may be the worst 14 minutes of Christmas.
And then, there is the old 1936 cartoon Christmas Comes But Once A Year. It's on that Rudolph VHS you see in the picture that the puppies have feasted on at some point. This is the last thing we watch before bed. It brings us back to the world's realities. It reminds us how blessed we are. It reminds me that I am a Lucky Dog.
To me, watching Christmas Comes But Once A Year is the best eight minutes of Christmas. Watch, and let me know what you think.
As Tiny Tim said, "God bless us, every one."
|The Dog's CR-V|
An Urban Titanium 4WD unit
|I'd never have to start the thing to feel really, really good.|
|Like a beautiful Italian woman, |
the back side of the Maserati looks awesome.
|Very likely the Lotus is butt-challenged|
and low on head room...
But oh, that stilletto shape!
|A great super car, but that snout...|
After a thourough inventory of "The Unfinished", I finished off a bottle of White Zinfandel, a bottle Tequila, a package of Oreos, the remainder of my old Prozac prescription, the rest of the cheesecake we made Saturday, and some Doritos. Also, I cooked up and ate the opened bacon in the fridge, chasing it with the half bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon I found hiding behind the wine bottles in the bar. I wondered what happened to that Yell.
Yet, based on my remembering something Solomon Burke said a long time ago, perhaps this is when this appreciation is meant to be posted. Now, closer to Christmas.
On October 10th Solomon Burke, self-proclaimed King of Soul, died in Amsterdam at 70 of natural causes. He was there to perform.
These deaths touch me for very personal reasons. As a drummer in the soul and beach music group The Four Winds & Band during the late '60s, I've had the pleasure and honor to perform with both men.
IT WILL STAND
You take some music, music
Sweet flowin' music
Some movin' and groovin'
Rock and roll will stand
Take some heart beats drum beats
Finger poppin' and stompin' feet
Little dances that look so neat
You see why it will stand
Some folks don't understand it
That's why they don't demand it
They're out tryin' to ruin
Forgive them for they know not what they're doin'
Don't nick-name it
You might as well claim it
It swept this whole wide land
Rock and roll forever will stand
Hear those sax blowin'
Sharp as lightnin'
Hear those drums beatin'
Loud as thunder
Some folks don't understand it
That's why they don't demand it
They're out tryin' to ruin
Forgive them for they know not what they're doin'
Don't you nick-name it
You might as well claim it
It will be here for ever and ever
Ain't gonna fade
Never no never
It swept this whole wide land
Sinking deep in the heart of man
Come on boy join our clan
Come on boy take my hand
Come on boy be a man
'Cause rock and roll will stand
Let's do it all over again
I feel good let's do it again
It'll be here for ever and ever
Ain't gonna fade
Never, no never...
There was a stage for the band, a podium for The King's preaching, a fake Christmas tree a little skimpy on the ornaments, lots of bare concrete wall and a cardboard sign hawking the one sponsor Burke found for the production. It was a local butcher shop (who I'm sure created the sign as it was professionally done in the grocery store motif).
Allow me to cut to the chase: The music was awful because we only had about thirty minutes to rehearse. The preaching was of the Primitive Baptist style. When it came time for the butcher shop commercial, Solomon was so animated ("Good meat, I tell you!") that he kept slapping the masking-taped-to-the-wall sign until it fell off. That startled The King so much that he fell back into the fake Christmas tree, knocking it and him to the ground. The cameras--I mean the camera--was rolling. There were no "cut!" do-overs in this production.
He rallied gallantly, gently rising and reminding anyone who might ever watch (ha!) that it wasn't about him, or the sign or the fallen tree. "It's about Christ the King, our Saviour!" he rejoiced. And then all was good. Solomon got an audible "Amen" from the camera man. The next song sounded so much sweeter.
The event does bring back some bad memories. In fact, the Christmas party opens anew each year a "wound" that I will never let The Wife forget. As you know if you frequent this blog(and thank you for that!) I am a huge fan of the late Warren Zevon. If you are familiar with only his hit Werewolves of London you are depriving yourself of some wonderfully written and executed Americana rock music and many a touching ballad.
Warren Zevon was a true song smith and penned such well know hits as Carmelita, Hasten Down the Wind, Poor, Poor Pitiful Me and the lesser known Lawyers, Guns and Money (my favorite) which begins....
"I went home with the waitress, like I always do
How was I to know she was with the Russians, too
"I was gambling in Havana,
And I took a little risk
Send Lawyers, Guns and Money
Dad, get me out of this"
The song, and specifically those last two lines are my cell ring tone and it's a hoot when it goes off around people, who seem to enjoy it. It is not a hoot, however, when the phone goes off while meeting with a prospective older client with no sense of humor, as once happened. Oh, well. It's not so great when it goes off in traffic court, either. The judge was the only one not amused. I pleaded guilty, which I had not intended to do.
Several years ago Warren came to Chapel Hill's Cat's Cradle for a solo gig. I didn't know about it. Somehow I missed it even though I often troll the Internet sites of the local music halls looking for who's coming to town. She--The Wife-- did know about it, as she's fond of reading The Independent cover to cover.
But she didn't tell me. Because the supper club Christmas party was that same December Saturday night.
As someone who also likes to read The Independent (but unfortunately, not on a timely basis in this case) I saw the ad the following Tuesday.
"Damn!", I hollered, so belligerently that the beer can flew right off the side table as I jumped up.
"What's the matter, Honey!?" She's so sweet...
"I missed Zevon! He was at the Cradle!"
Silence on the other end. My ESP kicked in and I immediately knew...she knew.
"Did you know?"
She walked in to the den and just stood there, head down but with a furtive look toward me. And, like the father accusing the mother in the great movie A Christmas Story of purposefully breaking the infamous leg lamp, I quietly yet angrily muttered "You...knew!"
"I knew you wouldn't go to the supper club party if I told you. It was on the same night..."
And then ensued the Mother of All Arguments. I slept on the couch three nights, barely spoke to her and when we passed as we made our way around the house I continued to mutter "You...knew."
The anger passed, of course. But I mark that episode as our worst argument ever in 30 years of marriage. I will never let her forget that. I know; I should let it go. I don't bring it up often but the music in the car on the way to the supper club Christmas party is and will always be Warren Zevon's Greatest Hits.
kiss my ass
leave my ass alone
money coming out of his ass
(_ =:^0 _)
)_ ? _(
ass hole buddy
( ___=O=___ )
jump your ass
smack your ass
shove it up your ass
There's this girl, or woman I should say, that takes up the ride a few stops later. Not every day, but most. He thinks she is beautiful. He is correct. And that body. Oh, that body.
Her style of dress tells him she doesn't work in a "traditional" job. Provocative in many ways, her style matches her natural physical gifts, he believes. He wonders what fills up her day. He is afraid to ask.
As possible he tries to stand near her, slowly moving around the standing room subway mob. Working through the mob so he can get a glimpse of her, focus on her angel face before he slides down her body, admiring her moderate breasts, often sheathed tightly and other times covered loosely in silk. On to her midriff, in summer often exposed and showing a navel piercing. Why do people do that, he wonders. In full-on winter he only gets to appreciate her seemingly endless supply of eclectic coats. And that beautiful face. She's partial to a tight pea coat. Purple. Worn with a bright green scarf tied wildly.
He prides himself in not being an ass man or a tit man or some other body part man. He fancies himself as a total package man; he appreciates the whole of a woman, her symmetry, her full aesthetic. But oh, her buttocks--her wonderfully formed ass. When she adorns herself in tight jeans or skirt. Or better yet, something stretchy like spandex.
He remembers a certain day painfully. And ruefully. This day he wore his best blue chalk stripe suit and sported a fresh haircut. Manicured nails but no top coat. A beautiful woven tie. Crisp white English spread shirt. Cap toes. It was the day he decided to approach her. He would jump out when she did, a few stops before his. He'd never felt this nervous or exhilarated.
As they departed the subway car he almost lost her. When he caught up, somewhat breathless, he approached her from behind. "Excuse me...Miss..." She turned her head, startled and continued walking, her gate widening.
"Beat it, Ass Hole!"
He stopped in his tracks as she strode quickly onward. She did not hear his apology. "I'm sorry I startled you, I just wanted to introduce..."
It was a long, painful walk to the Bowling Green Bull. He thought of how the encounter might have gone if he was back in his small South Carolina home town and they were getting off the bus to downtown. He believed she would have stopped, he could introduce himself and they could have a conversation. Maybe make plans for coffee.
As he arrived at Bowling Green Park he patted the bull's head as always, knowing that tonight, fully in the bag, he would kick the hell out of those huge bronze balls.
Did I mention that Steely Dan is a favorite? Or that I have a thing for red leather? And that I always seem to focus on the female backup singers as much as the star of the show when attending a concert ? I'm working on that with my shrink.
Well, check out the middle backup singer in the Kid Charlemagne video below. Red leather pants and a rock babe attitude. Oh my. You get to enjoy a great song, too.
And then, listen to one of my favorite songs--My Old School, and you get to see Carolyn Leonhart (aka Lyn Leon) again, this time bustin' a midriff belly button thing and a bubble top. What man doesn't like a bubble top? Ya' never know...
Finally, get acquainted with a singer who paddles effortlessly between rock, standards and jazz. Whatever she's wearing, you'll like the music. I think I'm in luv. Check the iPod on the right for some great music.
And the boys, I want to remember them cruising in pristine GTOs with red line Uniroyals, thanks to Daddy financing the ride. Or in a three speed on the column four-door Plymouth that was more than ten years old, if Momma stayed home and didn't work, too. Or my pal's MG Sprite.
Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French, anticipating victory over the English, proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English soldiers. Without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the renowned English longbow and therefore they would be incapable of fighting in the future. This famous English longbow was made of the native English Yew tree, and the act of drawing the longbow was known as "plucking the yew".
The English defeated France and began mocking the French by waving their middle fingers at the defeated French, saying, "See, we can still pluck yew!" Since 'pluck yew' is rather difficult to say, the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodentals fricative 'F', (don't ask me; I have no idea) and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute. It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as 'giving the bird.'
I have no idea if this is true, but I like the picture. So pluck it.
For Whom the Bell Tolls
In a place where if you can make it there
You can make it anywhere,
Hate melted steel.
Hate evaporated dreams.
Eliminated the future.
Negated the beautiful baby that could have been
And wasted the wondrous gift of potential of those already born.
On that glorious day, full of promise
And anticipation for a thrilling rush of action and adventure that only the Center of the World could offer,
The thrill was not
Getting cross town in one piece, on the cheap.
The action was not
Closing the deal,
Trading the market for prop desk pennies, or
Finally winning three card Monte.
Adventure was not
Buying a Rolex in front of Macys or
The forty dollar burger at 21, expensed,
Nor a perfectly tailored suit at Paul Stuart.
Not even scoring a perfectly laced bit of heroin
Or arranging a tryst at The Plaza.
The thrill became a frantic call for instructions on how to save your life.
Stay put. Help is coming.
But only from the grace of God
Who holds out the promise of eternal life.
The reality was a swan dive from the 40th floor after a cell phone goodbye.
Or burn to death.
The rush was a Pompeii ash-covered dash across a bridge,
Away from the collapse of Humanity.
The action was choosing to climb the stairs with your air tank and hose.
In a blue lagoon sky at 30,000 feet the All-American form of valor and resolve
Steeled to meet the hate straight up and take it down,
With forearms shielding off the slash of box cutters in the rush,
Lest there be one more petulant explosive purge
Of religious rage, where unknown.
Take the hit for the nation.
One Nation, under God,
With Liberty and Justice for all.
Let’s roll, one said—
An ordinary fellow, ordinary no longer
And extraordinary into eternity,
Who would stand as Man of the Year,
A symbolic proxy
For all his ordinary fellow passengers and crew,
Whether Time said so
And so a hallowed, sacred, scarred field
Was formed to forever celebrate
The memory of untrained, unarmed warriors
Who blunted hate with no more than
Resolve, reached through the innate understanding that
This cannot stand
And bravery born in part to the resignation of approaching death.
All this, while in a five-sided bunker dedicated to war, peace and security—
In what order no one remembers,
The unambiguous symbol for America’s military might is targeted perfectly by
Someone who never learned to land an airplane—
Just how to fly it,
As what was to become another missile
Buzzes the Interstate, providing motorists
A brief yet brilliant 3-D shot of the red, silver and blue weapon,
Maybe looking like red, white and blue in all of its speed,
Thus, creating a seminal personal horror
To pass down through their generations.
And inside the bunker the management of might is in progress.
Young Marines stand guard in elegant dress blues with red-striped trousers,
Uniforms that are too beautiful for war.
Middle management military, draped in bland tan
Work quietly and with purpose
While the Generals, decked out in fine-cut olive worsted
And the Admirals, resplendent in blue surge or virgin white,
All weighted down by
Medals of Valor, some won on the backs of young grunts
And some well-deserved,
Are chauffeured in golf carts.
There are civilians there, too;
The Raytheon rep, dignified in tropical weight charcoal,
Although he can no longer button the coat thanks to his entertainment budget.
No match for the young Marines erect in their finery.
The civilian staff wears what they always wear.
It is just another day at The Pentagon.
For all in the bunker, it is the uniform that defines you.
It is a wonder that the young Marines are not in charge.
But today the uniform is meaningless.
All may as well be swathed in feathers and scales.
Because they are all sitting ducks.
Fish in a barrel.
No one stood at attention to portray their indignation
At being before a firing squad.
There was no skirmish between the foes. No hand to hand combat.
No defensive or offensive maneuver.
Just one airplane pretending to be a heat seeking missile.
And then that awful, awful explosion of hate.
The rest is known.
On a beautiful, crisp early fall morning—
At 8:46 and horribly again at 9:03 to be exact,
In a place where if you can make it there
You can make it anywhere, hate melted steel.
While soon after, from a blue lagoon sky and in a five-sided bunker
The day continued, all this misanthropic mayhem signaling a New Time
And a New Way.
The rest is yet unknown, except that we are at war
Too often it's an email of an old joke, a picture from that Wal Mart spoof site that shows all these goofballs shopping, or some "pass this on or else" kind of thing that speaks of the seriousness of cancer, stroke warning signs or support for the troops.
Maybe I should tell these guys about how easy it is to start a blog.
I don't "opt out" because they are distant friends--one retired and one who should know better--and once in a while one of them sends along a real gem. Or a 30 slide Powerpoint of "The Beautiful Women of Europe" and such like.
The Art of John Corbett is one of those gems. I'd plop a picture up top to tempt you further but when a fellow that's good with a blow torch says don't use his pictures without written permission I take him seriously.
"Hello? Oh, hi Jerry. Sure, I can talk. I'm just walking back to the car... No, I can't tonight. Why? Well, as if it's any of your business I've got a date... Not that kind of a date, Jerry. You know I only work for you."
..."If you must know, I met him at the Porsche dealership...Yes, he's young. About my age I guess... No, nothing's wrong with the Porsche. I just take it in once in a while and they check the air pressure in the tires for me. They don't seem to mind and it's funny watching all the guys scrambling to get to me first with their tire gauge thingies... OK Jerry, I know I'm a tease--what's new about that?"
"No Jerry, I won't break my date... I don't care how important he is... No... Jerry, I said no... Jerry, I--... I'm hanging up now, Jerry..."
"Wait a minute! It's who?! You're kidding! You. Are. Kidding. Me! What time?... Where?... How long?... Anything special?... Him!? You're kidding... You just broke the spell, Jerry. But OK, I'll take the date. But it better be him, Jerry or when I see you I will break your legs!"
"OK, Jerry. Luv ya, too. Bye."
" I gotta get my nails done!"
He tore his ACL just the other day, for the second time in his career. Unfortunate, for many reasons. He is out for the rest of the season as his Atlanta Braves are two games up in the NL East. It's manager Bobby Cox's last season and a championship--even if only a divisional championship would have some real karma attached to it.
Unfortunate, because Larry Wayne Jones may have played his last game. During Spring Training Chipper made it clear that if his contribution to the team and his ability to play MLB-calibre ball were not up to his personal standards he would retire.
Today he will undergo surgery. At a press conference yesterday he expressed his intention to rehab and be ready for Spring Training. "I don't want to go out this way," he said. Chipper also expressed frustration that he's going to sit out the Pennant Race and that the Braves were on the verge of "doing something very special," an obvious reference to wanting Cox (and Larry) to go out on top with a championship.
His voice trailed off, in what I take as genuine, deep regret that even if his team goes all the way, he won't be running off the field to hug the crusty Cox--his manager for the great majority of his professional career-- then lock eyes and say, without uttering a word, "we did it for you, Bobby."
I don't think he'll come back. I don't think he would have played this year if it wasn't for the fact that it's Bobby's last year and there was just enough buzz about the Braves being legit contenders to go all the way. Going out with Cox as World Champions would be a story book ending to a great career.
I've met Chipper Jones twice, although the meetings were so impersonal it's almost a stretch to say we met at all. We did shake hands, anyway. The first meeting was when Chipper opened the 1992 season with the Durham Bulls. The Bulls always have a "meet the Bulls" party and that year it was held in a hotel bar. As I'm baseball-centric, I wanted my first son (a little shy of 4 years old, for goodness sake) to meet the already baseball-famous Chipper.
The bar was expansive, and at the time the "in" pick-up and after work place. When we arrived at the appointed time the place was already packed. With as many young women as bona fide Bulls fans. Not that women can't be fans, mind you...
The place was dark, there was no formal program and the players were seated throughout the bar. If one wanted to "meet the Bulls" you better know what they look like! So, since the only player that I even vaguely could recognize (and the only one I really cared about meeting) was Chipper, the plan was find Chipper, talk to Chipper, get picture with Chipper, autograph from Chipper and get the hell out.
We found him hunkered down at one of those built-in half round deals that you have to slide in and out of (is that called banquet seating?). Chipper was just off the middle of the curve, surrounded by four other players. A tight fit. Protected, one might say. So I swallow hard, adjust the son in my arms so I can quickly get out a NL baseball stuffed in the diaper bag (!) and walk up to the table. They all just look at me, blankly.
I look at the white kid at the table. "Chipper Jones?" I ask. He points to the good looking Latin guy next to him and the table explodes in laughter. I think we are the first to find him. I smile nervously and continue to look toward Chipper. "Well, welcome to Durham. All of you. I'm looking forward to watching you guys play, but I hope you don't have to stay here too long. The Show beckons."
Chipper's bored, awkward, out of his element facial expression warmed at that. He smiled briefly, said "Thanks" as the others at the table mumbled some response to to my expressed hope. All accepted my comment as genuine, and they warmed up a little, slightly embarrassed that they had a good laughed at my expense--someone who seemed to respect their talents.
The Latin guy pointed to my son, still up in my arms and wearing a Bulls cap and asked "whose the player? That your son?" So there were "introductions" all 'round, I apologized for not knowing the others and asked Chipper for an autograph...for my son. That got a laugh. He obliged with his trademark "Chipper J", the o-n-e-s one long ink line.
The Latin said "take a picture Chipper, he's got a camera." So Chipper Jones took our picture, then I got one with him holding my son. There were handshakes all around, profuse thanks on my part and we got the hell out. I was ecstatic, to say the least. Chipper was on his way to becoming the family's favorite baseball player (along with Will Clark, but that's another story).
That season Chipper played 70 games in Durham and we attended as many as possible, usually sitting in the left field bleachers. Because Larry played third. Every time I saw Chipper--including that evening in the dark, expansive bar--I thought of Mickey Mantle. Somehow I sensed something heroic yet flawed in both of them.
At the All-Star break Chipper was promoted. He reached The Show not long after, and a little before my sons grew old enough to want to watch Braves baseball on TBS with me. But soon we enjoyed following Chipper's exploits together, including the World Series Championship in 1995. And the heartbreak of World Series losses to the Blue Jays and Twins.
At our house the question was "is Chipper on tonight", rather than are the Braves on TV.
The second meeting was a few years later at a baseball card show. Chipper was the guest autograph celebrity. Signing for money. Now the boys were old enough to enjoy the experience of meeting Chipper, so we stood in line to get another autograph and to say hello. Chipper was polite but reserved and obviously in a hurry. The line was long. I mentioned the night in Durham a few years ago but he didn't remember. Maybe sort of...
His first wife was with him that day. She was drop dead gorgeous, looked prim and proper and was wearing the biggest diamond engagement ring I've ever seen. It was blinding. Larry must have been blinded too, in some way, when he met that Hooters waitress a few years later that swept him off his feet and bore his first child. The marriage ended, and he did not--as many think--marry the Hootress. I'm sure she gets a big tip each month, though.
Of course we were all disappointed by the news of Chipper's infidelity. One of my sons even shed tears. His hero proved to have flaws. A good life lesson for my son. In case later in life he's ever blinded. As we have all been, however seriously. But Chipper is not the only one, and it wouldn't be news if he were not famous. And if he were not famous the child most likely would have sadly been aborted. It took a while, but we forgave him. Sadly, the Braves are no longer on TBS virtually every night so following Chipper became more limited.
I'm thinking the final letting-go of my personal disappointment in Chipper was listening to that recent press conference in which it was evident to me that he understands how the stars are trying to align this season for the Braves. But he won't be part of it past last week. His star is now out of alignment. Yet he showed his passion and love for the game to me in that interview, so wanting to be part of whatever happens.
I believe he wants to run off the field victorious, and find Bobby Cox to hug more than anything. After all, he has spent his entire MLB career in Atlanta. There was more money elsewhere. And in 2005 Larry Wayne Jones reworked his 90 million dollar contract inked in 2000 and gave back 21 million of that contract so the Braves could afford to bid on some quality free agents entering the market. That's a team player if I've ever seen one. Rouges and "white trash"--as John Rocker once called him--don't do things like that.
But it's not going to happen that way. He won't be running anywhere for a while. And by January, just before Spring Training, Larry Wayne Jones will have come to terms with the fact that Bobby Cox is gone, the Atlanta Braves Karma Season is history no matter happens, the stars will never come close to aligning this way again for him and that he has nothing else to prove. As a baseball player, anyway. I wonder what kind of manager he'd be...
1st pick overall in the 1990 amateur draft
TSN Rookie of the Year (1995)
5-time All-Star (1996-98, 2000-01)
National League MVP (1999)
2-time Silver Slugger at 3rd Base (1999-2000)
Holds the Major League Record for most consecutive games with an extra-base hit (14, tied with Paul Waner).
8 straight 100 plus RBI seasons (1996-2003)
Most home runs in a season by a National League switch hitter (45 in 1999)
Third most home runs for a switch hitter behind Eddie Murray (504), and Mickey Mantle (536)
Chipper's official website
1. Markets tend to return to the mean over time.
2. Excesses in one direction will lead to an opposite excess in the other direction.
3. There are no new eras — excesses are never permanent.
4. Exponential rapidly rising or falling markets usually go further than you think, but they do not correct by going sideways.
5. The public buys the most at the top and the least at the bottom.
6. Fear and greed are stronger than long-term resolve.
7. Markets are strongest when they are broad and weakest when they narrow to a handful of blue-chip names.
8. Bear markets have three stages — sharp down, reflexive rebound and a drawn-out fundamental downtrend.
9. When all the experts and forecasts agree — something else is going to happen.
10. Bull markets are more fun than bear markets.
His outsider art (an April 2010 NYT story with wonderful photographs) has drawn new attention as the city of Wilson, NC and cultural agencies work to find a new home for his works, where they can be taken care of and enjoyed.
Below is an 8 minute introspective video in the style of those classic CBS Sunday Morning closing video essays.
Meet Vollis in the video below.
Zero to 60 in 5.6 seconds. Three hundred miles between fill ups (I mean between charges). And zero tailpipe emissions. Zero. Plus, a new way to invest your hard earned money in the market.
About fifty grand. With no gas bill. And you've got to love those blue LED lamps. Not to mention the disappearing door handles.
Available in 2011. But you better sign up now.
I wonder if I can get a white one...with red leather. But I'll miss a throaty exhaust.
Tesla Model S