A crash course on clunkers

Here's the problem: My 1986 Volvo station wagon, which is six months younger than my son, did not clunk - officially, that is. Which means I am ineligible for the "Cash for Clunkers" program, freshly bloated with cash. I suspect that the government is peering through rose-colored glasses, because 15 miles per gallon is the best my Volvo has ever gotten in the city; 18 on the highway. Or maybe my big, red renegade is simply a deviant from its peers, which are said to be getting 20 m.p.g.

It's a shame, really, because after trudging through almost 24 years of frugality, and having been recently unburdened of college payments, I would have loved to finally part with a vehicle that seems to have grafted itself onto my life.

My station wagon continues to live, barely. I, too, live - in dread of a seized timing belt, a dysfunctional water pump, and an array of long-impending auto repairs. My garage floor features an 8-by-10-foot Rorschach inkblot, oil tones courtesy of a leaky transmission. Since my son left to teach English in Japan (and no longer shares my car), I've opted out of regular 6,000-mile checkups (at $100 per hour), opting instead to nourish my anorexic bank account.

As I followed the recent debate about refueling the clunkers program, it occurred to me that - although I normally feel President Obama can do no wrong - this time his reasoning is simply indecipherable.

Yes, I know the car industry must be revived, towing much of the economy in its wake. And I know the planet must be saved, partly by offerings of newly crunched, formerly inefficient automobile engines.

But what about the message being conveyed by the methodology? It is: If you have been so socially irresponsible and economically privileged that you bought a Hummer, an SUV, or, for that matter, anything on four wheels that averages below 18 m.p.g. within the past ozone-depleting decade (or, more innocently, during the 15 years before that), you get a second chance. You get to dump that car, even if you purchased it during cash-guzzling gas prices or red alerts about a depleted planet. You win the brass ring for social disengagement and lack of foresight.

If, on the other hand, you have scrimped and saved and made do for the sake of greater priorities, you draw a dunce cap.

So this dunce sits, contemplating our topsy-turvy values, as streams of televised clunkers flow through car dealerships. I haven't visited a dealership in 24 years. And, an innovative new administration notwithstanding, I'm not likely to visit one anytime soon.