Marc Weingarten

I went car shopping and did something I’ve never done in my life. I pulled into a Chevrolet dealership. It’s been awhile since I bought American but feeling patriotic I thought I’d give it a go.

A heavily mustachioed promoter of the factory invoice came at me in a golf cart. His name was Manny; his office a shrine to the deal. A picture of Manny eating spaghetti with Dan Marino was framed on his wall. Another of Manny backstage with Bobby Goldsboro was propped on one side of his desk. The photo bookending the other side was Manny at the Yalta Conference … his right arm around Stalin; his left around Churchill. Directly behind him, inside a flashing neon casing, he’d bolted a plaque from the year 1999 advertising the dealership’s salesmen of the month. Beginning in January it chest-thumped: Manny, Manny, Manny, Manny, Twyla, Manny, Manny, Manny, Manny, Manny, Al, Manny.

When I get on an airplane, there are some things I’d like to know about the pilot before I fly. Like his flight school grades. I think all pilots should be required by the FAA to post their report cards on the cabin door. How do I know my pilot didn’t get a “D” in Take-off, a “D” in Landing and an “A” in Automatic Pilot? That’s a “C” average and his license to say, “This is your Captain speaking.” At the very least I want to review his conduct grades. I’d hate to see a clone of me flying the plane.