It’s been quite a while since I’ve written here, as this blog is typically an info-dumping ground for my current special interests. I haven’t had anything notable to unload on the world in a while. However, right now I have something that weighs on my mind – not as a matter of conscience, but rather, a matter of annoyance.

You see, I’ve never been one to boycott. I hate it when I hear some conservative talking about not shopping at Home Depot because they support “gays,” or boycotting Disney for the same reason. Likewise, I’ve never disowned anyone because they think or believe differently from me. I don’t give a fuck about someone’s politics. If we’re friends, that transcends everything else. If a company sells something I like or want or need, I don’t fucking care who the CEO is or what kind of person they are (and to be clear, they’re likely all greedy douchebags). Company sells thing I want, I buy thing. Politics don’t factor into it. Back in 2019, I made one such purchase.

For the first time in my life, at nearly 40 years old, I bought a brand new car. I never cared about having a new car before, and I certainly didn’t want a car note. I didn’t even need a car – my employer provides one for me to use as though it were my own. But this car was compelling. As someone whose life’s passion and profession is working with technology, this car represented the pinnacle of what we could achieve with technology. It is a computer on wheels. I’m speaking, of course, of my 2019 Tesla Model 3.

My model 3 is fast, fun to drive, and has more bells and whistles that you could shake an electronic stick at. I enjoy driving it. The times I’ve been able to wrestle it from the hands of my family, I take pride in keeping it clean and free of any clutter in the interior. It is one of my favorite possessions. However, the last couple of years, the world has been hell-bent on making me feel weird about it.

As someone who lives in the deep south, ownership of an electric vehicle has always been somewhat divisive. From dumb misconceptions, to stupid questions, to flat-out hate, my car has been a catalyst which stokes the fires of uncomfortable conversation. Now, since the president has put the CEO of Tesla in charge of a controversial new government agency, I feel like it’s only a matter of time before people from the other side start throwing the same hate and stupidity my way, in part because, indirectly, they already have. Scores of Tesla owners all over the country have been the recipients of violence, hate, and terrorism for something they have nothing to do with. I thought living in the south would make someone immune, but apparently not.

As often I’m apt to do when I’m bored, I rolled through the MSN click-bait news this morning, only to find an article that mentions, by name, a dear friend of mine whose Cybertruck was vandalized during a Mardi Gras parade. There was video of the whole debacle in which the attacker screams at my friend, calling him a Nazi. That hurt me a little to hear. My friend is no Nazi. He’s a kind, compassionate mentor who gives everything he has to everything he does, and who invests his time, money, and energy into people for no personal gain whatsoever. These terrorists, and lets be clear – if you burn shit and damage people’s property for a political cause, you are a terrorist – claim they’re doing these things because Elon Musk is hurting people with his government activities. So what do they do in return? Hurt people? Flawless logic.

I don’t want to be called a Nazi (I’m actually pretty liberal, especially compared to my peers), and I don’t want my car damaged. I don’t want to be perceived in any particular way. I want to be neutral, but apparently, that’s not an option in America right now. I almost got caught up in this virulent group-think.

I found myself very seriously looking into trading my Tesla for a Hyundai. I came up with all kinds of justification, but he bottom line is I don’t want to deal with the possibility of being harassed because of my car. I don’t want to be perceived as a conservative. After a long stint without my Model 3 (my son was driving it), I got it back. However the good feelings of finally being able to drive my car again were soured by the vitriol I was reading about in the news. I was just about ready to take the Model 3 to the Hyundai dealer. However something changed.

My Model 3 was due for a 12v battery replacement, to be performed at the only Tesla service center in my state. It was during the hour-and-a-half drive that I remembered why I liked my car in the first place. I could pass people like they were standing still, and the full self driving took the mental strain out of an otherwise boring drive. When I arrived at the service center, I was greeted, not by Nazis, but by friendly human beings. I requested an additional repair, and as always, I was shocked by how cheap it was. I got my 12v battery replaced, tires rotated and inspected, and my B-pillar trim (which I knocked off with my fat ass) put back on for cheaper than I could get the battery for at O’Reilly. While I waited, a TV in the waiting area played videos of Tesla engineers meticulously crash-testing their cars above and beyond what is required using data they’ve collected from thousands of Teslas that have been involved in accidents. I spoke with a sales person, who was also not a Nazi about the gorgeous new model 3 on the showroom floor. She nerded out with me about the cars, and never once tried to put the sleezy car dealer hard-sell on me.

My mind was made up. I like Tesla. I like my car. I’m keeping my car (and I actually really want that new Model 3).

Elon didn’t make my car. He wasn’t on the factory floor screwing my car together. He wasn’t the sales rep who coordinated the delivery of my car. He wasn’t present any of the times I needed to get service at the service center. He didn’t make my car. Instead, it was the thousands of Americans who work at Tesla who made, delivered, and serviced my car.

It’s not a political statement. It’s not a message or a fashion accessory. It doesn’t speak to who I am as a person. It’s just a God-damn car, and an extraordinary one at that.