Author: Oliver Tuanis

The point of driving a Toyota Prius isn’t really the driving. If you care about driving as something other than mere transportation, don’t get a Prius. A Prius is a hybrid—not only of gasoline and electric—but also of boredom and pedantry. On the other hand, if what you care about is getting from one place to another in an efficient fashion, the Prius is, to recycle a phrase, “The Ultimate Driving Machine.” (My abject apologies to BMW.)

There is an aesthetic to driving a Prius. It’s just not to be found within the typical rubric of acceleration, cornering, and style. Our concentration when we’re behind the wheel is on the little colorful touch-screen readout in front of us. That’s where the fun is. That’s where the clever computer tells you when the gas engine is running, or when the battery is being charged, or when the battery alone is propelling the car and the gas mileage is infinite. An alternate readout tells you what mileage you got and how much you recharged the battery in five-minute increments since you last started the car. And a line of text below tells you how far you’ve gone since your last fill and what mileage you’ve gotten since that date a couple of weeks ago.

So, you don’t bury the tachometer needle on a Prius. You bury the instantaneous mileage bar. Hell, the Prius doesn’t even have a tachometer.

But, I do protest too much. It is a Toyota after all, and that means it’s a damn good car.

It accelerates just like you’d expect an underpowered compact car to accelerate, except a little better. The electric motor actually provides a little extra boost when you pop into passing gear. It’s absolutely capable of doing anything you ask on Twin Cities freeways, short of blowing the doors off the guy in the next lane, of course. But for running out to Costco or over to downtown St. Paul, you’re not going to be able to go faster than seventy anyway, and the car is certainly capable of that. Even better, when you are averaging fifteen miles per hour on 35W at 5:30 p.m. you’ll at least get some satisfaction in looking at that little screen and seeing that, for the last five minutes, you’ve averaged seventy-five miles per gallon.

Overall, the mileage for buzzing around town is probably around forty-five miles per gallon. You can do better if you really take it easy, and you can do worse if you drive it like you normally do. One of the foibles of the Prius’ celebrated hybrid system is that the car always runs the gas engine until the system gets warmed up—at least three miles or so, depending on the weather—and that means the mileage isn’t much better than a normal compact for those short trips. So, if you mostly live and drive in the city, the extra several thousand bucks you’ll pay for this car over what a Corolla or a Civic costs aren’t worth it. But, if you live in the suburbs, where the average trips are longer, the savings will add up. Will they add up in the long run to actual savings? Probably not, even with gas prices where they are now. When Iran’s daily oil production is cut off, though, that extra mileage is going to be a welcome mitigation.

There is one more reason to buy a Prius . I had the opportunity to experience the car’s stability under stressful circumstances first hand. To make a long story short, my companion was driving when we hit a spot of glare ice, which put us into a seventy-mile-per-hour skid sideways across 35W and into the ditch. Instead of rolling us over and over, as we would have done had we been in, say, an American SUV, the Prius was perfectly stable. In fact, it barely leaned as the electronic skid control system kicked in, applying just the right torque and traction to the wheels to keep us stable in the skid. As we banged to a stop in the ditch, my companion said, “Thank God we didn’t roll.”

“No,” I replied, “Thank Toyota.”—Oliver Tuanis

I was doing the announcing for my daughter’s soccer game last night when this came into the pressbox over the AP wire.

AP: September 30, 2004, 20:40 EDT

In the big Kerry-Bush debate, at half time it’s all knotted up at 2-2.

Bush started the scoring with a stubborn dash into enemy territory, carrying the ball all by himself and finishing with a hard, jet-powered landing in the goal area and an exclamation of “Mission Accomplished.” Since neither Bush, nor any of the rest of his team of Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rove or Wolfowitz, though has actually ever played soccer themselves, they left the actual shooting of the ball to some part time, underpaid temporary strikers on leave from their usual jobs and families.

Kerry, while disappointed with the early Bush lead, remarked, “Well, I voted for him to have the ball, but I didn’t think he’d actually shoot.”

But Kerry soon countered with two goals of his own. The first came on a brilliant run from side to side the length of the field, made even more remarkable by the fact that, instead of wearing soccer boots, he was sporting some sort of beach sandals that seemed to make this flapping noise as he sprinted upfield. The din proved a distraction to everyone but Rove, who attempted to derail the onrushing Kerry with his patented “Swift Boat” slide tackle from behind, but the alert spectators recognized the foul and howled derision until the debate moderator pulled out his yellow card.

Kerry’s second score was a routine header off a corner kick, after which he remarked, “I’ve got this big noggin, I may as well use it for something other than thinking. After all, that strategy has worked well for my opponent for the past four years.”

Bush, not to be outdone, responded with a late first half goal of his own. After promising to “go nuke-u-lar” on his rival, he delivered the tying goal by a classic deception move. After a clever feint that faked out an entire nation when he seemed to be attacking the other team’s main striker, Osama “Bend it Like” Bin Laden, he abruptly changed direction and led a relentless assault on Saddam Hussein, manager of a team which had actually retired from the premier division after 1991.

We’ll update you on further developments after this game.

John Cosgrove grew up playing football in the small Ulster village of Enniskillen, just north of the border between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic. It was odd, he said, playing pickup soccer in the intensely nationalistic region. “There we were—kids pretending to be players from Manchester United or Arsenal. Kids of IRA men, yet running around the schoolyard pretending to be Englishmen kicking a ball.” He said, “It didn’t make any sense. But then, if it’s Northern Ireland, it’s not supposed to make any sense.”

They’re not playing in the schoolyard any more, but Cosgrove, who is the manager of the Local, and his boss, Kieran Folliard, proprietor of the Local and Kieran’s, in Minneapolis, and the Liffey, in St. Paul, still kick the ball around with a group of Irishmen. Until this year, their adult recreational league team was sponsored by Kieran’s Irish Pub. But this year, in a fit of Irish solidarity, they changed the team name to Gaelic Stormz and started going to a different Irish pub after each game, instead of always showing up at one of Folliard’s places.

“We’ve got Irishmen from eleven different counties on the side,” said Cosgrove, “so we thought we should just spread it out to all the Irish pubs in town. We wanted to be the Irish side, not the Kieran’s side.” The team, while clearly dominated by Irish, is not so chauvinstic as to exclude other players. The Gaelic Stormz includes an Icelander, a Norwegian, a Canadian, and a recent addition from Lebanon. They even have admitted two Americans—one from Colorado and one from Pittsburgh. There are no native Minnesotans playing for the Stormz.

“We’ve sort of adopted people who’ve come here as foreigners,” said Cosgrove. “The first question we ask when we meet someone is, ‘Where are you from?’ The second is, ‘Do you kick football?’”

Because of roster changes and the change in affiliation, the team had to accept relegation to the lowest level of the league this year. The Stormz are in second place in the bronze division and are planning to move back up next year to where they came from, the silver division. That’s where their traditional rivals, the Englishmen from Brit’s Pub, currently occupy third place. In the past, the annual Kieran’s vs. Brit’s match has drawn as many as five hundred spectators to a recreational-level game that normally attracts only two or three wives or girlfriends. The rivalry, now in its tenth year, stands Brit’s 5–Kieran’s 4. This year, the August 27 game at Fort Snelling won’t count in the standings, but that doesn’t matter to the teams. They are playing for pride and a trophy put up by the Guinness beer distributor. “But we don’t care who puts up the trophy,” said Cosgrove. “I don’t care if it has dog’s bollocks’ name on it, I just want to hold it up in Brit’s team’s face.”

When Folliard opened the Local at Tenth and Nicollet five years ago, he jokingly described the location as being “just a stone’s throw from Brit’s Pub.” But the rivalry between the two traditional hangouts is a friendly one—when it comes to business. When they’re talking soccer, it’s a different matter. Cosgrove fans the flames with his occasional publication The Irish Raconteur, a one-page newspaper he distributes by email. It seems mostly to exist to make fun of the other teams—particularly the one from a block down Nicollet Mall. “Some of the Brit’s guys get a bit angry about the emails,” said Cosgrove. “But it’s all good fun. And being English, for the most part they don’t understand humor.”—Oliver Tuanis

Confused about the new conceal-and-carry law? Here’s all you need to know, in one convenient location.

How do I get the permit?

• Take a “gun safety” course from a recognized gun safety instructor. The law specifically recognizes the National Rifle Association as a provider of such instruction (in case you weren’t clear on who sponsored this legislation).

• Apply to your county sheriff, who must issue you the permit unless you are prohibited from possessing a firearm by being a convicted felon, being under 18, being mentally ill, or several other special situations.

• The sheriff may also deny the permit if he believes that the applicant is dangerous, but he must prove his suspicions have “substantial” grounds. Be assured that if you happen to be a law-abiding member of Al Qaeda, who is here on a resident student visa to attend flight school, or if it’s been at least three years since you last were caught beating up your spouse, you’re good to go.

Where can I carry my gun?

• Unless specifically asked not to by property owners, you can carry one pretty much any darn place you please, except the Capitol building and schools (preschool-12). Most publicly owned spaces, like city halls and parks, are specifically prohibited by law from banning gun possession on the premises. In other words, that pesky city clerk who wants to deny your permit to build a backyard gazebo better keep in mind what kind of permit you might already have.

• The University of Minnesota can prohibit its students and staff from packing heat, but not any visitors. Referees at Williams Arena are advised to remember that.

What if someone asks me not to carry my gun on their premises?

• The maximum penalty for carrying in a prohibited space is $25. Your gun cannot be confiscated. So, for less than the price of one box of good ammo, you can pack at the grade-school Christmas concert.

• Before you agree to stow your gun in the car, be sure their request is “reasonable.” This means that they have posted a sign “prominently” at every entrance to the building that says “the proprietor BANS GUNS IN THESE PREMISES.” (The alternative wording, “I’M COMPLETELY DEFENSELESS BECAUSE I AM NOT CARRYING A GUN” was rejected after a short debate.)

• Be sure the sign is posted within four feet of the door, the bottom of the sign is from four to six feet off the ground, the lettering is at least 1 1/2 inches high. It is in the Arial typeface, and printed on a bright contrasting background at least 187 square inches in area. (You might also want to carry a concealed tape measure.) And, just so you don’t give up your heater without legal warning, here’s a sample of the Arial typeface for comparison: ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

• Any building operator must also “personally” ask you to not carry a weapon on the premises. So, remember, when you are at the turnstile about to enter the Vikings game, if you can’t see the signs, or if the ticket taker doesn’t say, “Welcome to the game. You don’t have a Glock under those Helga horns, do you?,” you don’t have to worry about that $25 fine. You can spend that money on beer.

• If you rent an apartment, your landlord cannot prohibit you from carrying a weapon at home. If your landlord is concerned about potential gunplay in his property, reassure him with this important feature of the law: Tenants who are drunk or stoned at home are required by law to take off their guns.

Why do we now have this law?

The answer is simple and contained right in the statute: “The legislature of the state of Minnesota recognizes and declares that the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution guarantees the fundamental, individual right to keep and bear arms.” For reference, here is the entire text of the Second Amendment: “A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.” Presumably, the state will be around sometime later to sign you up for the “well regulated” militia.—Oliver Tuanis

In many states there is a law, or at least a strong suggestion, that you ought to stay the hell out of the way of people who can actually drive. To wit, if you are not passing someone, don’t drive in the left lane of the freeway; if you are coming to the end of an entrance ramp, accelerate into the traffic so you can slow slightly to merge into an opening. Don’t stop at the end of the ramp and wait for things to open up.

When I could afford it, the first thing I did was buy a German car. If you really like to drive, other than a ’68 VW bus, it doesn’t matter much which German car you buy, because they will all go like a banshee, turn like a woman’s mood, and stop in less time than it takes George W. Bush to tell you everything he knows about diplomacy. Big motor, big suspension and big brakes are everything you need, short of a comely companion, for happy motoring. Except, of course, for a road free of Minnesotans.

I learned to drive in a couple of courses—a performance course that taught you how to turn fast, get out of the trouble you got yourself into by turning too fast, and why you should buy new tires every year. I also took a racing course taught by someone who had actually won Le Mans that taught you all of the above, and that going 190 mph is more fun than you think.

So, while I have to admit I’ve never gone 190 on a civilian road, I have touched 145 on the occasional deserted stretch of I-94 when some Mustang driver thought he was Carroll Shelby. When I passed him, I still had two gears to go, but it was my exit anyway so there was no point in rubbing it in. That, and I was afraid that he’d do something stupid and I’d be needing another new set of tires sooner than I planned.

But I really learned to drive in Europe, where left lane drivers who aren’t going way the hell over the limit don’t last long. If you want to experience terror, try passing someone in the left lane in a Renault 5 at 125 km/hr and have a semi come up and tap your rear bumper because you aren’t going fast enough for him. I now rent nothing less than a BMW 5 series in Europe. If he can bump me at 190 km/hr, I guess I should be going faster.

So, why should you check out an Audi A6? It’s the Quattro, pure and simple. The all- wheel drive under all that power just makes it a joy to go like the 5th Armored Division through Baghdad without worrying unduly that you’re going to screw up and lose it. Add all those creature comforts like cup holders (which you won’t find in a Porsche) and it’s almost like being in an SUV, which is what your wife drives and you can borrow when you have to pick up building materials and other large manly things.

But unlike the Explorer full of plywood, this baby handles—especially if you use the Tiptronic transmission (the Porsche-developed racing automatic) to control your torque. You can accelerate effortlessly thorough turns, downshift to blow past those Suburbans in the left lane, and make it home in time to watch the car chase from Ronin (featuring an Audi S8, which is too much car for you) on cable. Don’t get any ideas though, that just because Europeans can drive like that, that you can, too. Remember you are still in Minnesota and that someone is bound to stop in front of you at the end of the on ramp, and that most of the time here, you may as well be in a Ford Fiesta.