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ammg-old2 · 1 year

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When I arrived in Moscow in February, the initial media circus had passed. Bryan Kohberger had been arrested six weeks earlier for the murders of four students—Kaylee Goncalves, Madison Mogen, Xana Kernodle, and Ethan Chapin—and the judge had placed a gag order on everyone involved in the case. The news trucks would return once the trial got under way, but for now things were relatively quiet. (Kohberger chose not to enter a plea last month, in effect pleading not guilty.)

I’d been drawn to the town, like everyone else, by the eerie facts of the murders and the still-eerier profile of the suspect, a former criminology student at nearby Washington State University. The details already in circulation were chilling. A car resembling Kohberger’s white Hyundai Elantra could be seen on surveillance videos driving by the house several times shortly before the attacks. Police linked his DNA to a leather knife sheath left on a bed, and his phone history suggested that he’d been near the house 12 times in the preceding months. Once I got to Moscow, however, I found myself fixating less on the crime than on its aftermath—the wreckage left behind when the media and the sleuths had cleared out.

Located on Idaho’s eastern border, Moscow is known around the state for a certain mountain-hippie vibe. Students joke that the town is permanently “stuck in the ’70s.” It has a lively folk-dance scene and an independent theater that shows classic horror films. Main Street is lined with brown-brick buildings that house quirky small businesses including Ampersand, a purveyor of boutique olive oil, and the Breakfast Club, known for its “world-famous cinnamon roll pancakes.”

But even months after the murders, the town seemed traumatized. No one wanted to talk about the case, on the record or off. When I introduced myself as a reporter, people recoiled. My efforts to talk with the victims’ neighbors were met with exasperation and anger. At one door, I found a sign that read simply, WE HAVE NO STATEMENT. LEAVE US ALONE. Eventually I resorted to writing apologetic notes with my phone number and leaving them on windshields and doorsteps. Nobody called.

At the offices of the University of Idaho campus paper, The Argonaut, I found a masthead’s worth of student journalists glumly disillusioned with journalism. Months of unseemly behavior by a scoop-desperate press corps had dimmed their view of the profession. They’d seen cameramen hide in bushes on campus, and reporters try to sneak into dorms. They’d seen TV correspondents shout hostile questions at teenagers still processing their classmates’ deaths as if the kids were prevaricating politicians. In one notably unsavory episode, a tabloid photographer tracked down one of the roommates who’d survived the attack that night and took paparazzi-like photos at her parents’ house for the Daily Mail.

Abigail Spencer, a reporter for The Argonaut, told me that she was struggling to square the heroic stories she’d learned in journalism classes with the reporters who’d invaded her campus. “We’re taught they’re all Cronkite,” she said. “They’re not.”

Haadiya Tariq, who was the paper’s editor, told me the rude behavior had helped her understand the wider antipathy toward the press. “No wonder people hate you,” she sometimes found herself thinking. She was alarmed by the extent to which professional news outlets appeared to deliberately stoke the online ecosystem of conspiracy theories about the case. The TV-news bookers always seemed so nice and thoughtful when they were asking for interviews. But once the cameras turned on, Tariq told me, the questions were invariably aimed at getting her to theorize about the murders in a way that might get traction in the true-crime forums. Experiencing this had helped her understand why so much of the coverage felt “weird or inaccurate or sensational”: “It is 100 percent trying to feed the audience, which is the internet sleuths,” she told me. “That’s kind of the dirty secret I’m starting to realize.” Perhaps more disturbing than the vulturous reporters or the vortex of TikTok speculation was the way the media and the sleuths seemed to encourage and sustain each other—their priorities converging in a vicious ouroboros.

Meanwhile, some unlucky Moscow residents were still struggling to reassemble their lives after becoming main characters in murder-related conspiracy theories. Rebecca Scofield, a history professor at the University of Idaho, was suing the TikToker who’d accused her of plotting the students’ murders because of a (completely fabricated) love affair with Kaylee Goncalves. (The TikToker denied any wrongdoing, and police have said that Scofield was not a suspect.) Friends of a recently deceased Afghanistan veteran were fending off ghoulish speculation on social media that he was involved in the crime.

Jeremy Reagan, a law student who lived in the victims’ neighborhood, became a target when he gave a handful of TV interviews about the murders. Sleuths studied his body language and parsed his facial expressions.

“It reminds me of Ted Bundy when he would talk about murders,” one observed.

“Very disconcerting,” another said.

Soon, they started mining Reagan’s Facebook profile for clues. A bandage on his right hand was treated as especially incriminating—how did he cut himself? Same with a four-year-old Facebook post that mentioned a rave. “Guys at raves ‘chase women’ and ‘do drugs,’ many things to note,” one sleuth deduced. “The girls partied, he mentioned that. Did he try to party with them? Did he actually party with them? Was he turned down by them?’”

Reagan, hoping to clear his name, volunteered to take a DNA test. The police never named him as a suspect. But the online sleuths kept digging—even contacting his friends for intel—and the menacing messages from strangers kept piling up. Reagan started carrying a gun.

“Just having it on me gives that extra sense of security,” he said in a cable-news interview. “Especially now, where the cybersleuths may or may not come.”

#current events #crime #journalism #true crime #internet #social media #conspiracy theories #sociology #psychology #2022 university of idaho killings #usa #idaho

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sailoryooons · 2 years

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how about Jack

Hi darling - of course you can have a snippet of Jack! This is going to be such a fun little thriller to write and the first time I'm dipping my toe into the money can buy you anything idea so I'm so excited!

Sneak peak for Jack below!

Send me a name of an upcoming WIP for a stocking stuffer teaser

“You’re probably not used to being told this often,” you yell over the music. “But my answer is no. I’m not interested. Thank you, but no.”

Lights flash behind Hoseok’s head, nearly blinding. Your ears and eyes heart. The bass from the DJ booth vibrates your ribcage, so intense that you feel it ripple in the air when you near it on the dancefloor. The lights are blinking, the white splash of sudden color that reminds you of effects in a haunted house.

Hoseok smells good. He looks good. You have to at least admit that. He leans away from you, one elbow on the bar as he drinks you in, narrowed eyes. You can tell he isn’t sure how to respond at you turning him down, but despite the fact that he looks amazing in the designer blazer, bare chest glistening underneath and sweaty hair pushed back, you’re firm in your answer.

Idols have no appeal to you. Especially the chaebol sort. The Jung family sits among the titans of Samsung and Hyundai, their tech corporation leading the world in cyber security, payment processors and now data mining.

Hoseok isn’t just Jack, another idol in the mix of talent that the entertainment companies churn out every year. He is heir to something bigger, more powerful, and unfathomable. You want nothing to do with that, your experience in the media industry harrowing enough to keep you far away from the gods who put government officials in their seating on sheer favoritism and money alone.

“Thanks again,” you smile, grabbing your drink and turning away.

You feel his eyes on you the entire time you walk away, even when you vanish in the sea of bodies on the dance floor.

#replies #halis stocking stuffers

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thedarkoneswithin · 2 years

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Don’t let miss Faulkner sleep! ( Part 1 )

Word COUNT: 2.8k words

If you ain’t 13 or older this story may creep you out.

Your free to leave!

This is the first text i wrote in a long time.

I hope you enjoy!!

Also; sorry if you find spelling mistakes, i tried to edit it out.

My pencil makes led scratches against the canvas. Etching the cascading sunrays that shimmered from the calm current off the harbor here in Collingwood. The old grain elevator still stood tall after all these years, stalwart against the strains of time which had won some battles against the chipped-away surface of this local historical site. Our town has seen an injection of tourist botox that has turned a naturally beautiful landscape into a silicone shell of its former self. Natural parks no longer brimming with pine trees and plantations that grow side by side, but instead a surgeon’s knife that had cut through the natural order, ripping out the roots and keeping what Instagram and TikTok viewers deem acceptable in a world of filters and falseness.

I sat in my favorite spot on the road leading up to those historical terminals, working on my sketch when my work phone began to buzz relentlessly in my pocket. I put down my shading pencil, flipping open my phone. And yes, ‘flipping’ it open. I can hear your judgment behind these typed words.

To give you an idea of what I do. I work as an independent personal support worker, meaning I own my own PSW company. I have my clients, but things have slowed down over the past couple of years due to a recession, along with inflation making my prices increase, and in turn, my clients heading to more affordable homes, rather than one-on-one care.

“Hello. This is Kris Scott of Compassionate Care.” I said, trying to sound professional, covering up my deep desperation for more work.

“Hello. My name is Dr. Khaleed. I work as a neurologist who specializes in Alzheimer's. I was wondering if we could have you take care of one of our early symptomatic patients near London Ontario. When can I book you for an interview?”

“I-I am free. Free whenever!” My overly giddy, the stammering voice may as well have screamed ‘Please god, pay me!’

“Excellent. Today is Monday, so perhaps tomorrow at three in the afternoon?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you so much!”

As soon as my thumb grazed the red phone icon to end the call, I was in my Hyundai and speeding off on the 401. Making my three-hour drive in two and a half and booking my room at the first hotel I set my sights on, which unfortunately was a Ramada.

I scarfed down chicken wings that tasted like oven-baked fisher price plastic, then went right to bed. I wanted to feel as fresh and well-rested as I could for my newest client since my next client visit wasn’t for another week anyways.

I had expected us to meet up in an office or at a hospital in the mid-sized city, but instead, we met on an old dirt road just a little way outside the city, near a farmhouse. I will not give much description of the house, as all addresses are private.

“So, are we doing the interview out here?” I tried to make light of this peculiar situation.

“I apologize. Do you prefer Kris or…?” he asked politely, a kind smile had formed as he spoke.

“Kris is fine. And you?”

“You may call me Ameer. I have been the neurologist for this client for, well, let’s just say it has been a good portion of my professional career.” He let out a hearty laugh, his belly reverberating with each inhale.

“She must be important to you.”

Ameer nodded, motioning for me to follow him. As we moved closer to this impressive-sized, three-story farmhouse, Ameer stopped, looking up at the sun bursting through a breach in the cloud coverage. As I looked around to marinade in this area, I could see a hawk with its wide-reaching wingspan swoop down and land swiftly onto a stump nearby the house, just up the hill.

Ameer handed me a closed dossier. “These are your new clients’ paperwork. Should you choose to take on this job, of course.” His voice was emphatic with gratitude and a small pang of excitement hidden somewhere between his spoken words.

“Yes. Yes of course!” I shook his hands and took the documents from him. My heart pounding with a mix of ecstasy and a touch of dread, given the new commute I had just inherited.

He walked me to the porch of this old farmhouse, and it was the doors themselves that threw me through a loop. The doors were not your traditional wood doors with that initial screen door that never closes and always slams open and closed at the mere feel of the wind.

A metal double door with no handle whatsoever. Life itself punched me in the snout with a red flag.

“Why?” was all I could ask when looking at this completely out-of-place contraption.

“The first owner wanted his home turned into a facility for your new client. A facility to keep her safe. Out in this area, the trucks rip down the highway at stupid speeds. Doesn’t want his last living relative to go out like that. Especially with her beginning to sundown.”

To those that do not know sundowning is a state of confusion that can happen in the late afternoon or night and can have all types of behaviors associated with it, all depending on the person and their situational triggers.

I’ve had war veterans as clients who after eight at night would build a barricade or dig holes and lay in them for hours. Some would wander from one town to the next. Every person’s dementia and Alzheimer’s are different. The same is for sundowning.

When we entered, my red flag and that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach almost completely alleviated. If this was a facility. It was state-of-the-art, all while feeling comfortable.

Every shelf and cupboard had locks. This lucky lady had her dietary aide who would come in and make all her meals. Central air is every form of streaming service you could ask for. A wifi connection so powerful I could watch a live sports streaming service on internet explorer on my flip phone. Okay, maybe not explorer, but chrome most certainly.

I know many of you assume that something crazy or weird would just happen that night I took the job, maybe that week? No. Nothing happened for nearly a year.

I became so unbelievably happy with this client. I dropped all my others, and because the pay was substantial. I mean. Substantial.

The rules of this client, Mrs. Faulkner, were simple:

-Do not let Mrs. Faulkner sleep until just before sundown. Otherwise, she will wake up in hysteria and begin to wander.

-Mrs. Faulkner always has her medicine after dinner, always before sundown as it will stabilize her serotonin, along with inducing sleep.

-Should Mrs. Faulkner wake up in the night, be wary of her disposition. Treat her as if she is sleepwalking and monitor her behavior. Do not intervene unless the need arises.

Most of these rules you will find are standard amongst retirement homes. They were more than easy to follow. They had been passed down by the owner of the home now turned facility, who as I would learn later down the line, was the power of attorney for Mrs. Faulkner. He had been her uncle and caretaker till his death a week before I was hired on. A multi-millionaire who had found great success as a dairy farmer and had several stakes in businesses all over the surrounding counties, so needless to say; Mrs. Faulkner's inherited estate could afford all of this.

I scanned my key card at the door, and when it buzzed, I opened the double doors, walking into a nice refreshing blast of cool air. I saw the dietary aide, Tracy, chopping her onions, boiling the rice, and making a pot of tea for our shared client.

“Hey Trace!”

She looked back up at me with a smile, her eyes watery from the fresh onion, “Her girl!” she called out, tossing the pieces onto the frying pan. That satisfying sizzle immediately followed.

“How’s Mrs. Faulkner today?” I asked, putting my bags into the closet, and then locking it.

“She is doing better since her fall in the shower last night. Poor thing. They had her up all night last night, and she has been awake all day today.”

“Where is she now?” I asked.

Tracy pointed to the living room, where Mrs. Faulkner sat in her lazy boy recliner, sitting in the dark, scribbling away at her notepad.

Mrs. Faulkner was likely a tall woman, she had a hunch and needed a walker as she moved, so it was hard to fully gauge her height. Even as a hunched-over person, she was nearly six feet tall.

She was African American, curled dark hair, and would always tell us about her stories growing up in South Africa. Then moving here with her family when she was in her mid-twenties to attend school.

For a woman in her late seventies, she still tried to take care of herself. Vegetarian diet. Practicing yoga, even despite her physical limitations. She also deeply loved reading and drawing and writing too. She was a woman of many hobbies and talents.

I sat with her, trying to get a peek at her drawing, but as usual, she playfully hid her work from me. A new habit she had been forming these past three or four days.

“It’s not ready, Kris,” she said with that familiar and kind smile forming on her face.

“Just a glance!” I said playfully.

She held her notebook to her chest, “I think not!” she laughed, waving me off in a joking manner.

“Alright, you two. The meals are cooked. All the cabinets are locked back up. Don’t make a mess of it while I am gone.” Tracy waved goodbye and made her way out the door and into her car.

Our day was a mostly routine one. I bathed Mrs. Faulkner. Gave her dinner, she took her medications, and then she was off to bed. Her bedroom is the last room, the end of the hall on the second floor. She refused to take the guest room on the first floor. Always insisting that the stairs ‘kept her young.’

“Alright Mrs. Faulkner. Time to get some sleep.”

Right after I had said those words, I can still remember vividly the crashing of wind against the house and the way it creaked, the foundation groaning against the gale force.

“Hard to do with all that racket!” Mrs. Faulkner complained.

“Lucky enough for you, you’ve got strong meds,” I said with a wink. Making sure my favorite client was tucked in and comfy before leaving.

“Maybe if the oncoming storm wakes me up, we can play a hard loop of stuff” her smile extended on her face.

“Oh, and how do we play…that?” I asked, a little baffled by her unusual request.

“It’s a game I used to play a lot back home. I’ll teach it to you. You only need to play once.” She closed her eyes, that smile still plastered on her face.

As I left the room, I quickly glanced behind me to make sure she was still tucked in bed. She was still lying in bed, but her grin was wide-daggered teeth. Her eyes imprinted on my spine.

That was the first time that I saw her like that. Like she scared me. And she wasn’t even trying.

At least, not that time.

I closed the door and in truth, sped off downstairs to grab my cell phone which was still charging on an end table in the living room. Just as I reached for it, the ringtone blared its tune so loud it made me jump. I shook off my stupidity and answered it.

“Hello?” I asked. My voice quaking.

“Kris, it’s Ameer. Is Mrs. Faulkner in bed?”

I was a little taken aback by the question. For almost a year I had done this job without missing a beat.

“Yes?” my voice likely sounded a little defensive.

“Did she take her medication?”

“Yes,” I reassured him.

“Okay. Good, good. That’s good.” His sighs of relief only made me feel more bothered.

“What is the matter?” In truth, I wanted to ask him what his problem was. I knew how to do my job.

“When she was at the hospital there was a situation.” My wounded pride turned to concern in seconds.

“Situation? What happened Ameer?”

“From what I hear she didn’t get her medication due to the concussion she suffered. I don’t know if something happened, but they’ve requested me at the hospital A.S.A.P. Listen. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on. Just hang tight and be careful, okay?”

The line ended immediately.

“Be careful?” I said the words out loud, then swallowed the fear that emanated from the most unlikely of statements.

I made my way to the guest room that was now fashioned into a work office of sorts, closing the door behind me. I began to step towards the computer desk in the center of the room when that all too familiar feeling of paranoia and overreaction hit me like an anxiety-tidal wave and rushed back to the door, locking it.

I perched myself on that god-awful gaming chair that we inherited from Tracy’s son for our workspace. Booting up the PC and began to type away at an overview of the night so far. Essentially working through the nightly expectation checklist.

Our computer also had a live feed of cameras throughout the house. A necessary breach of privacy to keep Mrs. Faulkner alive and in good condition.

I scanned through the live feed. All was well. Mrs. Faulkner still practically swaddled in her bed.

It was clacking away at the keyboard when I noticed a note from the previous worker, Abigail. She had been taking care of the previous owners’ estate when there was one item still unaccounted for.

An access code to the locker directly behind me.

Thunder began to bellow low warning groans that whiffed by my ignorant ears.

I left the office to do my hourly check around the house and on my client. Leaving the office, I made my way up the stairs and toward Mrs. Faulkner’s room when a blinding stream of light came crashing near the house, followed by the crackling boom of thunder.

I dashed into her room, causing poor Mrs. Faulkner to shoot up out of bed. The way she clutched her chest I thought I had put the old bat in cardiac arrest.

“Oh, my lord Kris. You should be a little more careful considering you have to clean and change me!” she yelled.

Something about that statement made me feel at ease, in truth. Something in her voice that felt docile. That lack of that smile, that natural fear. Palpable, real jitter that felt…human.

I wish she had stayed like that.

I apologized to her, checked on her vital signs, and even did a memory test to ensure that she was not in a sundown or delusional state.

After cooing her back into her bed, I began to tuck her in.

“If you sleep through the night, maybe we can play that game you wanted to play?” I suggested to her, to which she just gave me a rather odd stare, handing me the glass she had finished drinking.

I wanted to pursue it further but she had got so worked up, she was crashing hard and needed sleep. So instead, I kept it to myself.

The power flickered throughout the halls until finally the main power failed, and the backup generator did not start up. Managing to fumble my way down the stairs I made my way back to the office, collected my phone, and noticed a missed call from the good Doctor Ameer himself.

I dialed him back. He picked up the phone in less than a ring. He was breathing. Breathing hard.

“I’m on my way to you, Kris. Is Mrs. Faulkner still asleep?” his voice was rushed, panicked.

“I just put her back to bed. She woke up during the storm, but I did the tests and…”

“Screw the tests, Kris! Do not let Mr. Faulkner sleep!” My heart sank so deep in me that I could have crapped it out right then and there.

“She is sleeping. I’m…I’m sorry. Wait. What happened? What did you find out?”

“She is fixating on Kris. Fixating dangerously. Her routine is messed up. There was never any concussion. She injured herself getting into the hospital and mess up her routine intentionally. Her drawings Kris. They are violent. They depict violence against all of us. These images. The words. This is some criminal, sycophant, planned, pervasive behavior.”

I said nothing. I melted into that chair. Staring endlessly at the locked door in front of me. My cameras were dead, and with the entire facility was key card and internet and power controlled. I was locked inside this place.

Locked in with her.

“Keep your distance, Kris. Stay safe. I will be there with emergency services. Hang tight.”

The call ended. I felt the phone slip from my face, surprised that at that moment it did not drop to the floor, instead falling harmlessly into my lap.

Something in that moment. In that feeling of despair and fear, a flicker of something hit. An epiphany.

I turned to the locker behind me. When the power went out it would run on battery, so I had time enough to enter a passcode into the pin pad.

Hard-loop of the stern. Nothing. I sighed. Then decided on another hail-mary idea of sorts.

Good old google translate.

I entered Mrs. Faulkner's words into the translator. Afrikaans to English. Expecting it to say some sort of classic kids’ game or some rendition of the sort. No. It was not that. It was not that at all.

It translated to ‘Hide or Die.

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I like to write horror/Creepy/Hospital stuff on my free time to!

I could maybe do fluff and other stuff if i get more likes.

#I suck at tags #Horror #Thriller #Horror & Thriller #Creepy #Creepypasta

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michaelartappreciation · 10 days

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Virtual Sketchbook 2

Journaling -

Unity and Variety - Unity refers to how blended together the elements of an artwork looks looks. Variety refers to how much the different elements of an artwork contrast. These two principles of design are opposites both referring to how much or how little the elements of a piece of art work together.

Example:

Balance - Balance refers to the state in which the elements of an artwork have reached a visual equilibrium. An artwork may gain balance through either symmetry or a lack thereof.

Example:

Emphasis and Subordination - Emphasis refers to the method by which an artist draws attention to an aspect of their work. Subordination refers to the method by which an artist draws attention away from an aspect of their work. Both principles are about drawing a viewer's attention. This is done by the usage of size, color, or contrast.

Example:

Directional Forces - Directional forces refers to direction to which an artist draws your eyes. This principle is used to draw the viewer's eyes to a focal point of the art piece.

Example:

Repetition and Rhythm - Repetition refers to the many usages of a visual element, which can create unity. Rhythm refers to the usage of a sequence of elements with differences.

Example:

Scale and Proportion - Scale refers to the comparison of the size of one aspect of an artwork to another. Proportion refers to the relationship between the different sized aspects of one whole piece.

Example:

2. Writing and Looking -

Figure 3.9a, Tobit Burying the Dead, by Andrea di Lione contains linear perspective, implied lines, focal points through high contrast colors, implied light, and implied mass.

3. Connecting Art To Your World -

I am someone who puts effort into what I wear when I go outside. Color always affects me in the process I go through when choosing an outfit. Whenever I want to wear one piece of clothing, I must find another piece that looks good with the first one. Influenced by TikTok, something I have recently gotten into doing when choosing an outfit is using the color wheel. I first choose the hue, the base of the color, I wish to wear. I then look for whatever color is directly across it, these two colors are complementary. I am able to choose a piece of clothing that is higher or lower in value to that complementary color. If I had to pick a color scheme for my life, it would be the near neutral color scheme consisting of beige, tan, brown, and other colors because outfits consisting of one of these colors are the ones I love to wear the most.

4. Art Project -

This comic tells the story of how whenever I am feeling down, it always makes me feel better to buy a Lego set and put it together.

5. Photo/Design: Logos -

Group 1. Layout

The logos in my everyday surroundings include on my clothes, my shoes, the cars on the road, the stores I pass by, my devices, the food I buy, and the items I carry. The logos and brand names I see around me in my life include GAP, H&M, Levi's, Nike and the Nike swoosh, the NB of New Balance, Adidas, Converse, Crocs, Toyota, Honda, Hyundai, Ford, Jansport, Swiss Gear, HP, Dell, Apple, Lego, Extra, Walmart, Publix, Dunkin, Coca Cola, Pocky, Lays, Doritos and Marvel.

I know about these logos and brand names because they are on the clothes and shoes I wear, the stores I pass by, the online media I consume, the food I buy, and on the cars I see on the road.. A logo or brand name such as those listed above can be found quite literally anywhere in everybody's lives and on anything they interact with. Logos help to distinguish the item that you see or interact with, and it lets the company that made it tell you, "I made this, and this is my brand, so you should buy all the other things I made". That logo was put together by a group of people who set out to highlight their brand as being one of a kind, building off of pre-existing typefaces to make something of their own.

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lionessshychai · 12 days

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Chapter 1: Fly to My Room

In the heart of Seoul, I booked this beautiful condo B&B which seems like it once was a pretty traditional Korean family home, apart from the extensive collection of ceramics and paintings that make it feel more like a boutique gallery. It feels like a warm hug. The Meyongdong neighborhood boasts a spectacular view of the famous Namsan Tower and is walkable to a random hole-in-the-wall cafe I ate at last time with "world-famous Jajangmyeon." I'm always sure to book lodging near the local best in food wherever I stay because I'm a self-proclaimed foodie and there's nothing like a good bowl of Bibimbap on a rainy afternoon to give you the feels for this city. Seoul is the type of place that sings you a pretty song and then with the same mouth, blows cigarette smoke in your face. She's been through some shit.

I got in pretty late due to storms in the area and my Uber driver had a food delivery right before me... I swear to god he must have because the car wreaked of garlic as I got in.

I slept like a baby fawn in a field of dew last night. I shit you not, The bed is a king with buttery-soft cotton sheets that smell faintly of tea tree, or maybe eucalyptus. Heavenly. There's a walnut-colored rattan light fixture above the bed that emits beautiful little amber twinkles of light all over the room. Whatever, It's probably Ikea. Or it's hand-woven. It wouldn't surprise me, based on the gallery theme going on here, but it's mesmerizing and I stared at it til I passed out.

I feel good here. Seoul does have something about it. A soul of its own and just being here for the second time already feels better than the last, but I tend to over-glorify shiny new things. I'm easily impressed with the aesthetic. Maybe I'm just a sucker for romanticism and still look for art in everything despite my work ethic and forced realism.

My abilities in the Korean language are still pretty rusty, but I get by with the basics and assistance from translating apps, for at least reading things like signs and restaurant menus in Hangul (Korean characters).

First things first, this rainy Tuesday morning-introductions and the first team meeting with the CEO of BigTime Music Productions, Mr. Bang Si-hyuk, and his entourage. I'm excited this new contract has provided a living translator this time! Something that, for some reason, wasn't overseen by the good people at Hyundai last trip. They must have put too much faith in my skills. Needless to say, we spent most of our time using pocket translators back and forth. It was a mental drain, but they provided plenty of Soju and we all laughed our asses off waiting for that robotic voice to try to convey everything from emissions to emotions. (It isn't good at either.)

I haven't had a chance to stock the fridge at the rental house with anything yet, and I've only had a bag of "Nongshim Banana Kick '' crackers since the flight. I'll get a bite somewhere on the way to the train. I pull on my black Burberry trench and pop open my umbrella. It's a slick-back ponytail kind of day in this humidity. There isn't enough Moroccan oil in the world for Springtime weather in South Korea. Pulling the door closed behind me, the security lock beeps and the hustle and bustle of the city is much apparent.

A friendly face greets me on the sidewalk, an elderly man in a green bucket hat and rain slicker fixing something on the front gate, whom I assume is the property manager here.

I timidly blurt out my first Korean words of the day.

"joh-eun achim-ieyo", "good morning". It sounded like I spoke through a mouthful of oatmeal. Jesus, I'm off to a great start already.

The man looked over at me with a slight hesitation on his face, but politely greeted me in return, introducing himself.

"I'm Park Min-Jun, manager man" and it also sounds like he asks me if I'm the guest for the next two weeks.

I bring out my pocket translator just in case and prepare my response.

"eung, nae ileum-eun Maggie"- Yes my name is Maggie, and I bow. "naega geu jalileul jal dolbolge."- I'll take good care of the place.

He bows in return and hands me the mail key from his pocket. In his best English, he explains that I may receive packages here if I wish and to use box 433 at the end of the path. I thank him, bow, and continue down Myeongdong Street, a little sheepishly.

You think your accent sounds so good when you practice on DuoLingo but that little shithead owl won't critique you on the important stuff like how natural or awful your accent is. He will ridicule you if you haven't opened the app for more than a day, though. I need more Korean friends besides Hana to chat with, I guess.

“Lazy morning mouth," I say to myself, with a sigh. “Caffeine”, as I search Google for the nearest pit stop on my walking route to the train.

My phone dinged with an incoming text message. It was Amy Sanchez, my manager.

Hey in Seoul! Rob wants you to make sure that you read through your contract thoroughly and make sure it’s translated well enough for you not to get thrown under the bus on any time constraints. Chloe Venza just came back from Hong Kong and the deal with Panasonic was terminated prematurely. They claimed breach of contract on her. Something about a deadline which she knew nothing of. Be careful. -Amy

Oof. Sorry to hear that. I have my own translator this time, right? I think I’ll be good. I’m careful. Chloe didn’t even want that deal to begin with. Go figure.

I had a feeling. Just mind your manners. You’ve been to Seoul. You know it’s easy to get yourself dirty looks just for breathing wrong.

It’s not as bad as you think, but yeah, I get what you mean. All good!

Good luck.

Amy gets nervous once Rob is pissed about something. The trickle-down effect is real. I can’t blame her, but she does blow shit out of proportion all the time.

I dropped by the first cafe I passed, a cute walk-up window beside a nail salon, and ordered a latte called an “Einspänner”, oddly enough. I had to Google that too. A German latte? In Seoul? Apparently, hugely popular at this place, as suggested by the barista. "It's the favorite," she told me. Who's favorite, I wonder. It’s actually damn delicious with vanilla cream foam on top that could have almost passed for ice cream.

I set out for the train stop to Yongsan with an earbud in one ear with some random podcast on social economics, and in the other ear, the busy town cacophony with a bouncing K-Pop song being pumped out of a very pink boutique. Pictures of various idols in all their glory beaming out from the racks outside, a girl dressed in a bandeau top, choker, and shorts with a glittery purple fringe skirt handing out flyers for what looks like a big spring sale.

"hana gajyeoga chingu!" Take one, friend! "It's a big sale today."

as she reaches out to hand me a flier and I nod to her, trying to grab the flier with both hands ( in Korean culture, it's polite to receive anything anyone gives you with both hands.) I struggle, holding my latte and reaching awkwardly toward the flier and giggling nervously, almost losing the damn latte in the process. The shop girl holds both of her hands out in an attempt to stabilize anything I might drop and we both laugh hesitantly.

"Gamsahabnida" thank you. We both bow and I glance over her shoulder at the rack of sparkling idol posters and photos.

"God, is everyone flawless in the world of K-Pop?" I thought to myself. Immaculate complexions, impeccable style. If they aren't 100% Photoshopped, this makes me think about seriously upping my skincare routine. Now, I know a handful of K-pop songs just because Hana usually has them playing in the background at her place most of the time, but I couldn't name any of these beautiful faces staring back at me right now. There’s one in particular who has purple hair. He’s dressed in a white blazer, wearing small silver hoop earrings and a captivatingly gorgeous smile through full, glossy lips. Oh, is he wearing contacts too? Blue or...purple? Wow. The dude legit seemed to stare into my fiber of being. Those eyes are absolutely killer. He's stunning.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath. The skin on my arms prickled.

My new shop bestie turned around to see what the hell I was ogling at and she went to pick up a few of the photocards for me to look at. I laugh at myself, snapping out of my daze and it takes everything I have not to reach with both hands again. Instead, I clasp them together in a prayer-like plea.

"No, thank you. I...I appreciate it, though '' aniyo gwaenchanhseubnida... She bows, and I bow.

Flustered and per-usual clumsy, I lose my pretty princess-in-heels footing a little but glance around and straighten up to find my bearings again and make for the train stop about 100 yards away. I felt the shop girl watching me for a few dozen yards. She's probably thinking I must have spiked my morning coffee.

As I find my seat on the train, my phone rings. It's my translator, Ming-Hee.

"joh-eun achim-ieyo, Good morning, and welcome to Seoul, Maggie! We look forward to your arrival. The door code is 15338. The East entrance with the big gold 'B' on the door. Check in with reception and I'll meet you on the 17th floor."

I quickly punch the code into my phone's keypad and return the greeting in first Korean, then English.

"I'm on the train and will see you in about 20 minutes, Ming. Thank you for the code!" I politely replied.

"Yes, looking forward to your arrival," Ming replies flatly.

She seems friendly...

Settling in for the short ride, I thought of the K-Pop shop and something Hana once said to me: "You gotta go find your 'bias' eventually." Apparently, 'Bias' is K-pop speak for your ultimate crush. Girl’s crazy. She always lectures me about how I put my work before everything else, even love... especially love. I've worked too hard for what's going on in my career to have some hype boy screw it up now. I always tell Hana to lay off the K-Dramas. That stuff will give you high expectations and deep disappointment. Well, Hana will be pleased to know that on my first day back in Seoul, I coincidentally picked my first K-pop "bias", at least. I have no idea what his name is or what group he's in, but he's got lilac purple hair and almost made me lose my Einspänner all over Meyongdong Street.

There are a few things that impress me about cityscapes, being how cold and lifeless they can appear to be, but there's an interesting non-linear quality to the skyline of Seoul. It's not uniform by any means. Seoul appears mountainous from a distance. Most of the city is tucked and hugged by hills. As the morning sun illuminates the landscape, a layer of fog envelopes a bridge stretching across the Han River, and flocks of white birds float and dive through the vapor. I reach my destination and it's a classic glass-paned cubed skyscraper with "BigTime" in big steel letters across the face of it. I make my way to the entrance with a gold 'B' as Ming-Hee instructed me and pull out my phone to punch in the door code. Success.

The foyer is wide open and sleek, well-lit, and modernly beautiful with lots of metal and wood accents, bubble chandeliers, and polished black marble floors. Walking toward the receiving desk, I spot two smartly dressed women chatting with coffee mugs in neatly manicured hands and the latest copy of Soompi magazine open to a page of a glossy spread of celebrity paparazzi photos.

It looked to me as if they were fully engrossed in tea-spillage as they both looked up from the page to notice me, looking a bit annoyed. I greeted them both in Korean, bowed, and proceeded in English to explain who I was and that I had an appointment with their marketing team. I placed my company Focus company badge on the marble surface of the countertop and smiled, hoping everything I said got across clearly. One woman in an indigo suit with long, sleek hair and sparkling blue crystal dangle earrings stepped in with confidence and appeared to understand what I was requesting. She smiled politely with a bow and took my I.D. to make a copy.

"Good morning, Miss Marsden, you're expected by Mr. Bang and his team on the 19th floor. Allow me to escort you. My name is Mina."

I bow again and reply gratefully, following her graceful heel clack to the elevators.

In the elevator, there's some lofi jazz music playing softly and it feels like it's probably a chill rendition of a pop song. It's like those ambient YouTube videos with the cute racoon in an orange hoodie and headphones that I usually put on in the background while I'm reading or studying.

Mina turns to me and gives my outfit a lookover. Today, I put on a sleek, but not tight black pencil skirt, a soft cream Brochu cashmere sweater, and Versace slingback pumps complete with my favorite black Burberry trench, pearl and gold Elsa Peretti dangle earrings, and a slicked-back ponytail. Not bad, if I say so. If a Korean woman approves, I win today. They don't fuck around with fashion in Seoul.

"Have you been having a good experience in Korea so far?" she asks. Typical elevator small-talk.

"It's been nice, so far. I just arrived last night and I'm excited to get to work on this project." I reply, somewhat formally. Mina looks down at her feet, seemingly disappointed by my answer, and nods, turning a gold bracelet on her wrist that has a few charms on it.

"Your first time in Seoul?" She looks at me with a smile again and shifts her weight to the opposite foot.

"No, it's only my second time here, but it's good to be back again. Seoul is a fascinating city." Mina nods again with arched eyebrows and a small laugh.

"It is! I hope you enjoy your time here." As the elevator dings and opens to the 19th floor, Mina gestures for the opening and I step out.

I exit and Mina waves goodbye as the doors close. I look left and right and see a woman standing near a water feature. She has short hair and gold-framed glasses dressed in a neat, black pantsuit holding a tablet in one hand and has a furrow in her brow.

"Miss Marsden, I assume? I'm Ming-Hee and I'll be your assistant translator, also helping you with etiquette and such things while you're with us. I hope I can be helpful, and if you have any questions, please ask."

Oh, my handler, I think to myself jokingly. She seems tense and ready to get the show on the road.

Ming-hee smiles slightly and glances at the clock face over the elevator door.

I didn't think I was running late. I wasn't supposed to be there for another ten minutes.

Ming-Hee gives the air of no-bullshit and all business sprinkled with some courtesy.

I bow back and reply, "Thanks very much, may I call you Ming for short?

"You may call me Ming or May, my Christian name. Both are fine." She replies shortly.

I nod to confirm.

Ming started down the hallway with a gesture to follow and picked up the pace as soon as I took a step. Trailing Ming hurriedly, I notice my phone is vibrating inside my shoulder bag and take it out to see who's calling. It's Hana.

"Oh, shit." I think to myself. I forgot she wanted me to call once I landed in Seoul, just to check in that I landed safely, but I was so exhausted from the flight last night that I spaced out calling altogether.

Ming gives me a sideways glance, almost a warning that now isn't the best time to answer the call, so I quickly hit the ignore button and text a quick "I'm good, call you in about an hour... maybe." Send.

I think I must be vibing off of Ming's nervous energy and start to feel a little self-conscious and a bit sub-par. What am I bringing to the table if not my charms and brainpower? I don't speak Korean, I'm still fairly fresh out of college and I just woke up in Seoul this morning, jet lag still hanging on tight. I suddenly think this may not be as chill as my last trip here dealing with the good people of Hyundai. I'm really letting this woman wreck my ego right now and I feel my heart pounding and breaths becoming quick. Since middle school, I've had panic attacks and recently became friends with Zanny. It's just been months since my last encounter with the anxiety demon. Why now??

Ming turns a corner and we're now standing in front of a couple of large double doors with burnished gold handles. I stop and think about the grounding exercises that my therapist taught me.

Find five things around you to focus on. One thing you can see, something you can smell, one blue thing, one red thing, and something you can touch with your fingertips.

I look around quickly. I see various plants in gold urns, I can smell freshly brewed coffee, there's a long-tailed bluebird in an oil painting, and Ming's patent leather Dior bag is red. Finally, I touch the cashmere fringe on my sweater and roll it between my fingers. I take a deep breath and start to feel a little calmer. Breathe.

#bts fic #bts army #bts #namjoon #bts rm #bts namjoon #BTSFanFic

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automotiveexecution · 1 month

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Navigating the Car Market with Bad Credit and Finding the Best Options in Canada

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neonhyundai · 2 months

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Overview of Hyundai Service Center

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the-firebird69 · 2 months

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NEW Hyundai INSTER / CASPER Electric 2025 | Affordable Sub-Compact EV

youtube

He says if he had extra money he'll probably get it because it goes 200 miles with just him in it and it's a charge doesn't cost anything to run and it looks fairly safe and it is it has a lot of airbags and it has safety features in it I don't know the hull or shell is all metal is a decent metal and it's double layered and it is a very high on the crash rating and it's because it's electric. The Korea has standards now. And people think you can't get it but I made the motor bigger and the battery and the car smaller and it works and it was his idea and he's passionate for himself fascinated from self to get around and you know what it is the right size motor for the right kind of horse that he was apparently appearing to ride and it was like a Arabian horse but smaller they have them in Europe he says and that's true it's not a quarter horse and his mom knows what it is and she says it too it's like an eight hand to the shoulder and it's a standard speed oh this term is coming up again it's not funny but it is it's a trim that they call them and it's not a paint and nowhere near as time at Kohl's and she says no it is not a cold but he doesn't know what it is we were talking about it a couple months ago and that's what it is it the electric realm 100 horse but it has probably 200 for pounds of torque they don't say it right and that's a lot more than enough it really is it says you can tell a trailer with it what's funny as you could you're not very far though it says he just put a solar thing that is fun but really this is a real car and he knows about the battery but he says it's great he likes it he likes the olive drab and he likes the gray and the funny looking Orange it's also sure about the lemon lime that's a girl's color he says the girls are nuts on it already Chrissy brought her she has manga it's called something different but it's a sailor moon dolls and he is pretending he was in the Chinese gang and he's in the backseat in his real big and she had one of the manga girls with her and really they don't call it mega but it's more like Mecca units mech units. And he says that's what they graduated to is two it's true true and he be big in the backseat and you say in an Asian accent are we there yet. Yeah they're smiling okay but really it was funny cuz he says I'm in the car and I remember it he says I'm looking at the car and she can see it post a picture of yourself and she says ooh that looks nice and he was like okay so you want to ride and she says not really and there's this girl behind the car scoping it out with me in it and said what a ride and she's like no sort of and I'll tell you what they love the thing and it's it's just like sailor Moon and things like that and that's she kind of started that a little it was already going in Belgium and 93 and she says I don't think it was and she became like sailor Moon like the first one and that's what you say he's a virgin and she's dressed up as a sailor and he thought it was kind of a little out there but now he sees it she was saying stuff and she's probably a spaceship lady and things like that and it's a little different and she's famous world famous and she's earned it but boy she really likes these and we'll end up selling them here he had to bow out and he sees what's going on and he's going to Happy and she's going to have to too she's already going through it it's going to get ugly

Tommy f and he submitted his number for contest and he was on the phone but did it online too so I do understand something sometimes they do that but I want the car to sell it's not that hard to make it doesn't take too long and we'd have to open up the factories and hold on to them and people want us to do that I'm going to go ahead with it and he says I wonder how long it takes and it takes months so he says okay that's good I might have actual money and I get that too I'm just going to drive around Florida cuz he can't get up it's like 400 miles to the border he says and that's like three Phillips and it's true so we're going ahead now with the idea

Now this was a challenge figuring out what this was but people see it our son does a lot of work and he's on it all the time and right now he needs our attention and we're going to help him but we figured it out together it's going well this actually went very well tonight and Hera is upset and says it's too cute and all these little girls want the vehicle and my husband all at once and you can't have them either one and then she says well you can have your own car but then I won't want him in that car and we like the international and people are saying it's a bit obvious you know what the with the dinner the battery is for and we know that people will get the upgrade to the long range battery because they have four people in it and it fits for people in it and he got the idea from the Volkswagen golf and he's got a whole thing together now and he says he's rolling with it and turns out he is and boy is this guy Trump a pain so we're going ahead and we're looking at things like this truck that Trump has out front with the lights on and he's sitting there so we are watching him we're going to actually begin the removal process and it started what he's doing and we are going to begin that process of removing Trump assessing it and we're finding out that it's no good we're going to begin removing Trump and the process started with Biden not running for another term and he's getting too much pressure and he doesn't like it he says it's going to kill me and it's not worth it that he's too small and things like that so here we go and he pulls up and he drops him off but he didn't hit the GMC is code and that's what's happened to Trump and the name of the car is Casper and really they are it's Tommy f saying our son would be a ghost and that he would be Casper weinberger and he would take over things but really if he's missing and Tommy is implicated he would be captured and yeah so he's going to try and sit there with her with a threat like that I guess and that's what he was up to but on second thought the woman want their own ghost and they would be in opposition to Tony f and his stuff and that would be going on soon and people figure that out I'm there's some wild code around that thing it's because of the numbers and it designations but regards the girls holy s***who's going to post something real quick

Hera

We thank you both again and it's going well we do see it's kind of a nightmare but this on a straighten it out a little

Olympus Freya for Olympus and a little bit of me too Thor all of us actually newada Ariana

#Youtube

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auto-usa · 3 months

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markmiller97568 · 5 months

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Buy Premium-Quality Used Engines Online in the US from Top Auto Dealers

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xtruss · 5 months

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Why Americans Stopped Buying Convertibles

We’ve Traded the Open-air Dream For Climate-Controlled Isolation.

— Mark Dent | May 3, 2023

A year after I graduated college, I decided to buy a car. I’d been driving a hand-me-down Hyundai sedan, but I wanted something more reliable for the miles I racked up driving around sprawling Dallas for my job as a reporter.

At first, I narrowed my search to the Mazda 6 — at least it was more fun than a Corolla. But as I saved a few options online, hoping for something in dark green, I said to hell with all that. I could buy a convertible for roughly the same price.

A couple weeks later, a dealer showed me a 2004 Ford Mustang, white with a cream-colored canvas top. He pressed a switch on the center console, and down went the top for my test drive. I’d never ridden in a convertible before. On back roads twisting through farmland, it felt like the sky had been lowered from the atmosphere, settling just a few feet above me, close enough to touch the clouds.

An early 2000s Mustang. Bill Pugliano/Getty Images

I bought the Mustang and drove it back into the city with the top down. Over the next couple years, I drove it like that as often as I could: on cool nights with the heat turned on and windows rolled up, on a summer road trip nearly all the way through Kansas until the sunburn became unbearable.

I never got sick of the convertible. It turned everyday monotony into an adventure, replaced the rigid confinement of sedans and SUVs with freedom and openness. Who wouldn’t want one?

But the year I bought my Mustang, in 2010, US convertible sales were down to ~140K, less than half of what they’d been just a few years earlier. That was during the Great Recession, near the auto industry’s nadir. Still, the decline has continued.

According to S&P Global Mobility, new retail registrations of convertibles totaled ~70K in the 12 months between March 2023 and February 2024, comprising ~0.6% of all vehicle sales. That’s down from ~2% in the mid-2000s.

2023 sales of the Mustang convertible, which celebrates its 60th anniversary this year, were down ~87% compared to 2001. Its rival, the Chevrolet Camaro, has been discontinued.

Convertibles are an endangered species, along with the American ethos they exemplified. When Carvana polled Americans on their dream cars last year, the most coveted was an SUV. The characteristic they sought most in their dream car wasn’t emotional attachment — it was technology.

We’re losing the messy, hair-flowing-in-the-wind version of the American Dream to something climate-controlled and closed off to the world. And we might never get it back.

The Car That ‘Satisfies A Youthful Ambition’

Growing up in the ’90s, I rode countless, boring miles in the passenger seats of my dad’s Toyota Camry sedan and mom’s Plymouth Voyager minivan.

I pined for a more exotic ride just out of my reach. My next-door neighbor had an old European convertible — a midlife crisis purchase if there ever were one — and I remember the college-aged woman across the street pulling into her family’s driveway (and looking far cooler) in a Mazda Miata.

This yearning went back generations, to the time automakers, after painstakingly working to enclose early model cars with roofs, realized they could spark people’s imaginations (and extract more from their wallets) by offering a topless experience.

From Rhett Butler to beachgoers, everybody loved the convertible. Hulton Archive/H. Armstrong Roberts/Classicstock/Tom Kelley/Gary Leonard/Getty Images

Costing anywhere from $2K to $5K in the 1930s, roughly 2x-4x the average family income at the time, convertibles made by Duesenberg, Rolls-Royce, and Packard became status symbols for the prosperous few who could afford them.

“It is possible to follow the careers of stars through their motor cars,” noted a reporter in 1938. “When he or she first reaches the dizzy heights of movie fame, flash, gaudy cars are in order.”

Clark Gable owned a Packard convertible, and actor Wayne Morris preferred a topless ride in his Lincoln Zephyr “in any type of weather.” Marlene Dietrich was chauffeured in a tan Rolls-Royce convertible.

“No doubt,” wrote the reporter, “the gaudy car… satisfies a youthful ambition — and all of us have had it.”

The less starry got to fulfill their desires when Chevy, Lincoln, and Buick introduced roomy, space-aged convertibles in the ’50s and ’60s. My grandparents bought a 1962 seafoam-green Impala.

In 1964, Ford released the Mustang, the brainchild of famed auto developer and executive Lee Iacocca. Priced at ~$2.3K, or about one-third of the median family income, the Mustang was a magnet for middle-class Americans who wanted to inject adventure into their daily lives. It also helped bring annual convertible sales to ~500K in the mid-’60s, around 5% of total vehicle sales in America.

Safety concerns and a weak economy put a kibosh on convertible dreams in the ’70s. Cadillac claimed its ’76 Eldorado would be the last convertible ever designed, and total convertible sales fell to ~43K in 1982. But Iacocca reignited the flame with the release of the Chrysler LeBaron that year, ushering in the expanding convertible landscape I grew up with.

The Hustle

My dream car back then was a Dodge Viper, but I saw more practical convertibles everywhere in the ’90s, the peak era for manufacturers to turn the simplest of car models into adventure machines, equipped with rollover bars or fortified support pillars for safety.

The Pontiac Sunfire, Toyota Paseo, Chevrolet Cavalier, Mercury Capri, Honda Civic del Sol, Ford Probe, and Geo Metro (which could’ve lost to a riding lawn mower in a drag race) all had convertible versions.

The not-so-fast Geo Metro exemplified the wide variety of convertibles available a generation ago. Cars & Bids

Annual convertible sales Climbed to ~170K in the mid-’90s. They increased to ~315K in 2004, about 2% of the entire vehicle market, as automakers perfected the retractable hard top (and, somehow, convinced Americans to buy PT Cruiser convertibles).

Yet, as I failed to save for a Toyota Celica convertible by my 16th birthday — my realistic vision of a gaudy purchase — a tectonic market shift was underway. You could see it reflected in choices made from the Heartland to Hollywood.

After Good Will Hunting catapulted Matt Damon and Ben Affleck onto the A-list, for instance, they splurged on cars just like Gable, Morris, and other young stars before them.

Except they bought Jeep Grand Cherokees. “The really dope new truck at the time,” Affleck later explained to IMDB.

The SUV Loophole

Back in the late ’70s, the legal distinction that helped precipitate the decline of convertibles (and cars in general) seemed insignificant. A loophole the size of a needle eye.

In response to the oil crisis and a burgeoning environmental movement, federal regulations went into effect in 1978 requiring automakers’ passenger car fleets to meet a fuel standard of 18 miles per gallon. But “passenger cars” meant sedans, station wagons, coupes, and convertibles.

It didn’t apply to “light trucks” such as minivans, pickups, and SUVs, the latter two of which were mostly used by farmers, contractors, and laborers who needed the extra space for hauling material. To avoid placing an economic burden on workers, light-truck fleets were subjected to lower standards. While automakers had to shrink cars to hit the fuel standard, light trucks remained spacious.

So began an emphasis on SUVs and trucks (and minivans, at least until an association with soccer moms doomed them). SUV sales increased from ~112K in 1981 to ~800K in 1987.

Most Americans still didn’t need to haul anything, but they were hooked. In 1987, a J.D. Power and Associates survey even found SUV owners felt a sense of adventure while driving them — similar to a convertible.

For automakers, the economics checked out.

“You can sell a Cadillac for a lot more than a Chevy even though the Cadillac only costs marginally more to produce than a Chevy. The same thing goes for those truck-based SUVs because they’re sold as rugged,” says David Lucsko, an Auburn University professor who researches automotive history. “You can sell them at a premium and rake in the profits.”

The Hustle

Later, brands popularized the crossover utility vehicle, giving consumers the space of an SUV with a smoother ride. Crossovers, despite being built on the same frame as a car, are typically classified as light trucks. The takeover was complete: Light trucks outsold cars for the first time in 2002. Their sales now comprise nearly 80% of the vehicle market.

No Cars Means No Convertibles

That shift has filled the roads with increasingly large vehicles, which is hardly an ideal environment for convertibles. But Drew Dorian, managing editor for Car and Driver, says he’s doubtful safety fears have driven their decline, noting that safety-concerned families would be unlikely to buy convertibles anyway.

The Insurance Institute for Highway Safety has found that, while SUVs have lower driver fatality rates than the average vehicle, convertibles aren’t any less safe than enclosed sedans or coupes.

Speaking of sedans and coupes: Many brands don’t even make them anymore. The only Ford car that hasn’t been discontinued in North America, for instance, is the Mustang. No more Taurus or Focus or Fusion. That’s been really bad for convertibles, which are typically derived from cars.

To develop all those ’90s convertibles, automakers just tweaked the design of popular sedans at a low cost. Now, according to Tom Libby, associate director of industry analysis and loyalty solutions at S&P Global Mobility, cars aren’t popular enough to justify turning into convertibles.

“To propose a convertible now, it’s almost impossible to create a proposal that includes a volume that’s big enough to make money,” he says.

The Hustle

Money is also in short supply. Car companies are investing huge sums in the transition to electric vehicles, Libby says, and sales of EVs slowed last year, complicating the calculus of how to emphasize true EVs vs. hybrids.

Just as the purchase of a convertible requires a feeling of relative financial security and a sense of boldness, so does the act of designing one. And right now most automakers lack both.

Opting For Open Air

As with movies and clothing, trends rarely die in the auto industry. They go into hibernation until one successful experiment draws copycats and the trend becomes inescapable.

Just as the success of Iacocca’s Chrysler LeBaron led other brands to turn popular car models into convertibles in the ’80s and ’90s, Libby can imagine brands developing SUV convertibles as they seek niches for consumers demanding greater variation.

This makes sense: There’s increased time for adventure as millennials delay having kids or don’t have them at all. While summers may be excruciatingly hot, especially in the Sunbelt, the other seasons are warmer than ever. And Gen Zers crave experiences.

“The enjoyment of open air,” Libby says, “I don’t think that’s gone away.”

“But based on what happened to Nissan a few years ago,” he adds, “I don’t think [SUV convertibles are] imminent.”

He’s referring to Nissan’s crossover Murano convertible, which failed to gain traction in the 2010s. Land Rover’s Evoque was also swiftly discontinued. Americans spoke with their wallets: They didn’t want the open air.

The Land Rover Evoque. Andy Green/Land Rover via Getty Images

When I’m driving on temperate days, I rarely even see other drivers with their windows down. That might not be a coincidence. Lucsko, the car historian at Auburn, says automakers now design vehicles for consumers to seal themselves in.

“I think the car has become more and more a cocoon where we go to be isolated from the world,” he says.

Driving a convertible means being exposed to the world. It means embracing the elements and putting yourself out there, an ever-harder proposition in our increasingly curated, digital lives.

My own convertible era ended years ago. I had to ditch my Mustang for a move to hilly, snowbound central Pennsylvania. But I haven’t ditched my ambition for the open air, and I hope Americans haven’t either. Whether it’s a classic droptop or a futuristic roofless SUV, it will always feel good to say to hell with all that and buy a convertible.

#Transportation #Convertables #Open-air Dream #Climate-Controlled | Isolation #SUVs 🚙#Cars 🚙 🚗 🚘#The Hustle

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