If you happen to follow me on Facebook, you know that my beloved "Birdmobile" -- a dark blue 2006 Subaru outback with whooping crane and Operation Migration decals on both sides -- is no more.
So, I recently bought my first new (used) car in 20 years. After much research I chose a 2018 Subaru Forester, and as soon as the weather is warm enough to apply vinyl "wraps," she will come out as Birdmobile, the Younger. It's partly nostalgia (I worked with Operation Migration for a decade), partly continued reverence for the whooping cranes and other wild critters, and partly a way to help me find her in a parking lot, since she looks a lot like every other fat-ass SUV on the road. (I do love my Forester, in spite of her carbon-copy looks.)
The first Birdmobile arose to solve a similar problem. In 2006, in Northeast Wisconsin, you couldn't swing a cat without hitting someone else's Subaru Outback. Ten years later, new Outbacks looked just like Hondoyota and ChryForMC SUVs. Classic Outback drivers often waved to each other, like people driving restored Model As.
What happened to creativity in autobody design? Drive past any Ford/Chrysler/GM or Honda/Toyota/Subaru dealership today and try to pick out separate makes on the fly. So many of the current flock of new cars and light trucks look as though they were all designed and built in the same East German Tractor Factory. I've seen prettier grills on a cornpicker.
The AMC Pacer, '60 Plymouth Valient, and '62 Ford Thunderbird were arguably among the world's ugliest cars, but at least their designs were creative. . . sort of. To look at the Pacer is to suspect that its designers were medicated for non-medical reasons. Would that help the current design bureaus? It might be worth a try.
