bangbgC6

I like green with a blue reflection.

Paul Scarpelli

Daytona Sunset Orange Metallic at 6 AM, about to leave Fichtner Chevrolet for the 900 mile drive home. The color looks best at dawn or dusk. Wouldn't that be a kewl color on an SG Special??

Gibson_L5

Does look real nice. I can call Ernie at the Gibson custom shop, he will paint your car right on to that SG, like they did Joe Perry's wife's face on his white ES 356!!

pdtsyzygy

I keep intending to call the Custom Shop to get a quote on a left-handed ES-175 in Blue Burst. Then I remember that I won't like the answer.

gjagoe

Have a Millenium Yellow and love it so much I painted my Street Rod the same color. You can see it coming for a mile.

hamshog

I think one of the best colors would be candy tangerine. I think bright is always better. I have M yellow.

FRC2

Unbelievable!!!

Gibson_L5

How about it! Is there a way to remove it!!

TheBigDog

Buy Yellow...C5

Gibson_L5

NO MORE POSTS PLEASE

alan64

the 1968 and 69, were the absolute worst cars in build quality. the interiors were just horrible and literally pieces would fall off the cars. the 67 was a great car, and in their rush to bring out the new body styles, quality just went the way of a dodo bird. i had most years of the vette, and the late sixties was the worst.....even at barret jackson its acknowledged that those years have the worst value of all the old vettes. As far as color is concerned... of course ita a matter of personal taste, however, the paint quality back then, cant hold a candle to the present day colors. Black always was , and will continue to be better looking in the shade, and better suited to someone younger with strong arms..Yellow is shown on virtually every exotic these days, and is a dynamite color on sports cars. The orange and the monterey red are truly beautiful in the sun as was stated... Silver really does show off the lines well and is elegant... there is nothing bad about any of the colors, and they hit the mark as far as showing off the car well.... the car built today is so many lightyears ahead of the old cars, there really is no basis for comparison... its obvious that this fellow is just trying to stir things up.

Corz

This is C6 gen, not C3.. and you want to talk about horrible build quality? Look at GM as of recent, not 35 years ago when no one cared about interiors. The Corvette STILL had the best interior and one of the most exotic dashboards south of 10 grand (the vette was based at 4 grand in 69). Today, the C6 costs upwards of 45 thousand dollars, where in a comparible market, BMW, Lotus (elise), Mercedes are mopping the floor with GM's flagship in build quality for the same price.

well thank you genious, this is called TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCEMENTS

so.. yellow = exotic?




what lines? granted a C6 has more lines then a 5, and a 5 more then a 4, but they are still glorified boxes. no offense, all vettes have great shapes, but the new ones just lack that over the top attention grabbing edge that made the vettes of the 60s so.. desired.

I will say that the late C4 on up has had some outstanding colors, they just dont show up so well on the new cars because as stated as before, they're glorified boxes.

Here's one prime example, Take Electron blue from the C5. yeah, a dynamite color and unless you catch it at the right angle (which is rare) will the car actually gleam. On a C3, you cant find one bad angle.



take note that I am not trying to start another flame war, I'm throwing my perspective down as an automotive painter.

All vettes are gorgeous, just some take to high metallics better then others

bangbgC6

It has been centuries since the Roman Catholic Church has elevated to the papacy a bishop who is both a deft shepherd and an intellectual giant; these two gifts rarely fill the Chair of Peter simultaneously. Avery Dulles, in his book The Splendor of Faith: The Theological Vision of John Paul II, mentions but two: Leo the Great and Gregory the Great–placing Pope John Paul II in company with the few who have most worthily filled the shoes of the great fisherman.

Dulles's book presents the reader with a concise and systematic, though sometimes rote, summation of John Paul's theological work. The book marches along to a familiar cadence of Catholic orthodoxy, which is echoed in many circles of Catholic theological interest–except, unfortunately, the academy, where such a book is nothing less than a breath of fresh air. What is more, the fact that Dulles is an esteemed theologian recently elevated to the College of Cardinals only adds to the book's credence, making it worthy of careful study. The Splendor of Faith is ideal for students of theology interested in understanding the fundamentals of Catholicism and knowing more about the themes of the current pontificate. However, nothing about Dulles's style grabs the reader; in fact, the book is at times dry and formidably academic.

Below the surface, however, a salient objective seeps through the book's pages. In a manner characteristic of this humble and intellectually refined Jesuit, Cardinal Dulles judiciously addresses the intellectual fallout within Catholic theology after the Second Vatican Council. In contrast to the negative assertions of conservatism that assail this pope, Dulles presents a tightly woven case for John Paul's being, unequivocally, a pope of the council and a most formidable theologian of the post-conciliar church.

The book opens with a chapter-long biographical overview of the pope's life, which enfleshes the themes that vivify this pontificate. The succeeding chapters engage one article of faith after another, beginning with the Trinity and concluding with the last things. By wading through John Paul's voluminous theology, Dulles presents the continuity of the pope's thought before, during, and after the council. He shows just how wedded John Paul is to the vision of the council and, in doing so, demonstrates that his desire to implement Vatican II is the very centerpiece of his apostolic ministry.

John Paul's intellectual dynamism has clearly provided him with an untiring impetus to confront the errors of secular humanism, and yet, as the successor of Peter, he does so by affirming all that is good in the modern world. As Dulles leads us to conclude, John Paul's theology is not simply an abstract intellectual exercise aimed at entrenching the church in the distant past but an undertaking inspired by a rapt conviction that Christ is the absolute fulfillment of human desire. And for those in the post-conciliar church who insist on rooting theology in praxis, John Paul's theology is conceived and developed from the seedbed of his evangelization and pastoral ministry, both before and after his election to the papacy. Dulles's many references to the pope's personal life illustrate this fact well.

Dulles identifies, therefore, the pith of John Paul's theology as Christ-centered and personalist. John Paul's every theological reflection seems to converge on the essential dignity of persons and the enormous revelation and gift of grace that is given in the incarnation of God's Word. At its core, the pope's theological vision is, in the very best sense, evangelistic and humanistic.

Moreover, John Paul is a masterful theologian because of the rigor that he brings to the papacy from his intellectual formation as a philosopher. In applying a personalist philosophy to the sacred science, John Paul has exercised his teaching office from within an anthropological framework that infuses new vitality into the age-old truths of faith. The pope's theology is extraordinary in its affirmation of all that is authentically human, and, though Dulles never asserts as much, the attentive reader can hardly help but notice the pope's systematic avoidance of authoritarianism.

The beauty of a Christocentric personalism is that it moves morality away from an over reliance upon extrinsic structures of authority and toward the very internal logic of human action and human nature itself. The pope's personalist ethic is an enticing invitation to take up the necessary work of relating ethical norms back to their intrinsic relationship both to the subjectivity of human action and to the objectivity of human nature. By pointing out the many ways in which the pope does this, Dulles introduces the reader to a relatively novel approach to moral thought that has multiple applications. Whether it be applied to the study of law, economics, political philosophy, or medical ethics, the pope's personalism may begin healing the breach between metaphysics and epistemology, which has sent modernity headlong into the culture of death.

The lengths to which Dulles goes in defending the pope as a theologian of the council par excellence conveys his commitment to standing against the deconstructionist current of theological discourse within academia. The Splendor of Faith reflects well upon Dulles as a theologian who has risen to the heights of respectability precisely because of his commitment to moving gingerly down the center aisle of theological discourse. This book challenges any who might be tempted to dip–even ever so slightly–into the deceptive waters of heterodoxy.

The Splendor of Faith is excellent, especially insofar as it graciously confronts the false perception that this pontificate is a throwback to the pre-conciliar church. One simply cannot come away from this book with such a conclusion. To the contrary, rarely in the history of the Catholic Church have Catholics been so blessed to have a pope who has such a striking pastoral charisma and a monumental command of theological thought.

A96LT4

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cg...DTL&type=autos

bangbgC6

In his latest work of fiction, 10:01, which comes in both a print and hypermedia version, Olsen reaches for an unusual appropriation of the lens, both theoretical and real. Set in the minds of several dozen viewers in a movie theater at the Mall of America, 10:01 explores the means by which different people try to make sense of themselves and their lives. It begins as something akin to reality TV, but soon becomes very Escher, laying bare the self-neurosis of our age and the extent of our sexual and psychological isolation within the context of a huge communal act: going to the movies…

To kick off I want to begin with something I picked up on fairly quickly in reading your work and a comment you made during an interview: You mention in your novel Girl Imagined by Chance that you employ “a mode that hovers between fiction and fact; a mode that in my mind is somehow profoundly concerned with the very nature of authenticity and, by implication, of reproduction.” That notion of “hovering” makes me think of the voyeuristic element of pop and contemporary culture and how in 10:01 we hover in front of neighbors, strangers, partners, television, film, between life and death, expectations and disappointments, truth and lies etc. You extend the metaphor into the most intimate realm of all: what I call the vanishing point of rms (reality&memory&self): the instantaneous moment of flux when rms dissolves into imagination and back again, by setting the reader/voyeur context against the instantaneity of “reproduced reality” of the pending but never seen cinematic piece.

In 10:01 you delve into the desperation of that voyeuristic need on one hand and on the other play the game we all play when we wonder about other people’s lives and minds … and nothing is what it seems and nothing remains what it is.

I’m a movie addict, plain and simple, I should say right off, and one of those who still believe the most powerful, most resonant experience of film is to be had in the theater. In large part that’s because the scale of such imagined spaces allows you to fall completely into the spectacle, to become, in a sense, the show. But in large part that’s also because at some deep-structure level the experience of watching a film (as opposed to, say, the experience of reading a novel) is a communal act, a social celebration of what feels like, when you’re in the midst of a potent celluloid reality, transcendent timelessness.

What fascinates me about the communal event is how when you’re in it you’re always surrounded by an ocean of other people, an ocean of secret histories. And I have always suspected those secret histories are much more emotionally and intellectually engaging than what’s going on on the screen. That suspicion led me to write the print version of 10:01, which is set in an AMC theater on the fourth floor of the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota, one December Sunday—that is, smack in the heart of the American Dream. The narrative drifts in and out of the minds of forty-some-odd moviegoers, one mouse, and one cat during the ten minutes and one second before the feature begins, nestling into various narriticules behind what appears to be The Narrative (i.e., the about-to-begin movie) but isn’t.

Novels can mine psychology in a way that films can’t. Films are all about surface and speed. Novels are all about depth and taking one’s time. What other art form allows you to live inside another person’s mind—a theater of other people’s minds—for days or even weeks on end? So part of the fun for me in writing 10:01 was also using one genre (novel) to explore the limits of another (film).

About halfway through writing the print version, I got the idea for creating a complementary hypermedia one—a version that isn’t simply a digital adaptation, mind you, but a rethinking that through its hypertextual form opens onto questions about how we read, why we read, what the difference is between reading on page and screen, between reading and watching, about which text (the one made of atoms or the one made of bytes) is the more “authentic” one, and so forth. Tim Guthrie, an amazing artist and web designer, had approached me earlier with the suggestion we collaborate on a project someday, and 10:01 seemed like the perfect opportunity to do so.

For me, then, to return to our original metaphor, a third text emerges in that hovering between the paper and electronic iterations of 10:01. And that’s the text whose possibilities engage me most.

Extending this idea into the aesthetics of uncertainty: you refer to the ubiquitous popularity of the memoir and the apparent consumer need for its authenticity as serialised fiction of an absent past into a wholly present story. In 10:01, you seem to undo this and reverse the process by creating a certain degree of predictability and a textual comfort zone up front. Yet the deeper into the text one moves the more you challenge aspects about language and experience we take for granted.

Let me start by trying to clarify my position on memoir by enlisting a helpful distinction John Barth, I believe, once made between Boring Writing and Boring Writing. The first adjective refers to writing that is unselfconscious, predictable, tiresome, dull, and formulaic. The second refers to writing that bores—as in burrows, perturbs, troubles. Needless to say, he prefers the second kind of Boring Writing, and I do as well.

My problem with much if not most memoir is that for me it falls into the first camp. This is the case for several reasons. First, many of its narcissistic narratives seem drearily formulaic—essentially going something like this: I grew up impoverished or a victim or an impoverished victim in Lockjaw, Wyoming, or O'Yawny, Ireland, but triumphed (provisionally, of course) over life’s adversities and will explain how in my sequel. I know I’m oversimplifying … and yet, and yet … I wonder how that fairytale, in its bare-bones form, is essentially different from the one all of us learned to tell in grammar school about what we did over our summer vacations—dressed up, needless to say, in the robes of literary, or, worse, oracular pretensions.

Second, much memoir pretends to be something it isn’t: truthful, accurate, insightful, even (god forbid) spiritually enlightened. What I tried to do in Girl Imagined by Chance was to investigate the truth-claims of photography, memory, and memoir, and I found them all, at the end of the day, subcategories of fiction—special-case subcategories, of course, but subcategories nonetheless—that seem to demand for themselves a privileged status with regard to fact and history, a demand reminiscent of those made in such eighteenth-century novels as Robinson Crusoe that masquerade as “factual” journalism but are precisely the opposite.

Third, and perhaps most important, authors of memoir are frequently oblivious of the theoretical implications and complications extant in the very genre in which they are composing. They seem to me a weirdly unselfconscious, unthoughtful, naïve bunch.

That said, the memoirs I cherish are not surprisingly those that display a certain critifictional intelligence, are profoundly aware and troubled by their own processes. I’m thinking, for instance, of David Shields’s absolutely terrific one, Remote, which rethinks memoir into a fiction of cultural critique, or those by W. G. Sebald, whose explorations of consciousness like Rings of Saturn self-awarely fuse and confuse fiction with fact in ways that force the reader into a position of instability with respect to the truth-value of the text. I’d also include Shelley Jackson’s absorbing hypertext, My Body: an Autobiography and Lies and Ronald Sukenick’s Mosaic Man, one of the best transgressive avant-memoirs of the last twenty years, although most people talk about it as a Jewish novel.

Again, to return to your question, it’s only in those instants of readerly instability and uncertainty that things get existentially, politically, and aesthetically interesting for me, because it’s only in those instants that we are reminded that the text of the text, the text of the world, and the text of our lives can always be other than they are. In 10:01 I tried to push that sense of instability/uncertainty much farther than I had in Girl.

What is the difference between “avant memoir” and “a Jewish novel”—that sort of categorization reminiscent of some of the reactions to the writings of Saul Bellow?

Well, I can’t think of a thing that’s “avant” about Bellow, but the point about Sukenick’s Mosaic Man I find interesting is that readers and reviewers have a hard time knowing quite what to make of it because it defies easy market-driven pigeonholes. Many engage with it as a novel, since the word novel appears on the cover. If the word memoir had appeared on the cover instead, however, they would have read it through a different lens entirely. In other words, and in a profound and illuminating way, Sukenick’s text is amphibious, complicating easy assumptions about how and why it should be read. I find that sort of backbroke contract between author and reader more alluring than a cleaner—if more bromidic—one.

This leads us to the question of accessibility in innovative writing. I’m not at all sure what we really mean by that term, since “accessibility” is one of those highly subjective words that, as Nabokov claimed of “reality,” should always appear between quotation marks. Nor am I clear about to whom a work should be “accessible”—an M. F. A. student, a bus driver, an associate professor of biology, a politician, a waitress, a reviewer? Nor do I understand why many people seem to believe texts in general should be more than less “accessible.” But what I want to suggest is that, whatever we may think of when we use that word, texts in general should be just the opposite. They should be less accessible, not more. They should demand greater labor on the part of readers, even a good degree of uneasiness, rather than effortlessness and comfort.

Why? Because I want to suggest that texts that make us work, make us think and feel in unusual ways, disrupt our quotidian habits, are more valuable epistemologically, ontologically, and sociopolitically than texts that make us feel warm, fuzzy, and forgetful.

It was more the comparison to the “Jewish novel” than the “avant memoir” which brought Bellows to mind. Isn’t there a certain ironic (even tragic) implication that that “narcissistic narrative,” which demands that status of respect for its journalistic veneer, has become the very substance of contemporary visual storytelling, aka Reality TV, and suggests more and more that we, much like your characters, have become nothing more than our desires? How defining does this become in the business of publishing in evaluating a publishable book?

I’m not sure “ironic” or “tragic” are quite the right adjectives to describe the current situation. I might gravitate toward “pathetic.”

I was trying to play ‘nicely’..

In late-stage capitalist culture of the spectacle and conspicuous consumption, the human is defined almost solely by his or her desires, his or her ability to be thought of by others as a niche market. Consequently, if he or she wants the highly manipulated simulation of mimesis called Reality TV, well, that’s exactly what he or she is going to get—and in spades. A gas-guzzling behemoth of an SUV for two-minute jaunts to the local market? Ditto. All the oil beneath the Alaskan wilderness with which to fuel it? No problem. More offspring than you can shake a birth-control pill at? Planetary resources be damned.

The same sort of mentality guides publishing, and has done in the States since the seventies. In the U.S. the three major publishers in New York are subsidiaries of huge entertainment corporations that use said companies as tax write-offs. Combine that unnerving fact with an emerging audience reading less and reading less to be challenged than comforted, and, um, welcome to the United States of Shopping.

That’s why a rich palette of independent presses have been springing up across the country. They exist as antidote to the literary equivalent of Zoloft, functioning on much the same models as indie music companies and microbreweries. FC2, of which I am currently chair of the Board of Directors, is one of the longest-running not-for-profit publishers of artistically adventurous, non-traditional fiction here. Last year we celebrated our thirtieth anniversary. Granted: every week is an economic nightmare for us. But, then again, no independent press would have it any other way.

Back to the question of authenticity. Does it have a form and function in fiction?

At first the obvious answer appears to be yes. Yet the more I think about what we may mean when we use that word, especially when we use it with respect to fiction, I feel things quickly turning complicated. That isn’t to suggest, of course, that some sorts of writing (journalism, say, or history) aren’t based on facts. But it is to suggest that there’s always an author behind those facts shaping them to reflect his or her own sense of “authenticity,” no matter how hard he or she tries to be “objective” (another troubled word). One need only compare a report of a suicide bombing in Iraq broadcast on Fox News with one broadcast on Al Jazeera to see what I’m getting at.

So in a sense I suppose I want to say that authenticity’s function in fiction is to announce the absence of authenticity.

You talk of pushing reader instability/uncertainty farther in 10:01 than you had in Girl. Is this because you raise that third text of hovering between the paper and electronic iterations of 10:01, and do you think readers will automatically sense this between the two readings?

I enjoy the idea of a third virtual text hovering between a very concrete paper version and a less-concrete digital one. The paper version, by its very nature of existing between covers, presents itself as a text that moves from a beginning to an end, from one cover to the other. It implies both by its structure and its physical presence a chronology, a story arrow, a method of reading. The electronic version, on the other hand, presents itself as a very different narratological beast. Open it, and you find an image of the interior of a theater filled with silhouettes representing audience members. Your instinct, I’m guessing, given that in a very real way there is no beginning here, no clear place announced as the start of your journey, is to click randomly on one of the silhouettes to reveal his or her secret history. In other words, the paper version asks you to take a linear, Cartesian approach to the text, asks to be read completely from alpha to omega, while the electronic asks you to take a nonlinear, Derridean approach to the text, asks to be read in as small and as aleatoric bits as the reader (or, better, reader/viewer) sees fit.

There’s another major distinction between the two texts as well. The paper version presents itself as a written text, “only” a written text, while the electronic one presents itself as a more open space comprised of written blocks, but written blocks that find their existence amid a sea of video, static images, music, sound effects, and more. One could argue, in fact, that the actual writing segments no longer maintain an advantaged position in the encounter between reader/viewer and authors (remember, too, that the electronic version is a collaborative, not a solitary, enterprise—not unlike film is a collaborative enterprise, as opposed to fiction writing, which one usually does alone). That is, the latter presents itself as a multimedia performance, and so I suspect that those who come to it will experience it in very different ways than those who come to the paper version. Perhaps each version will actually attract quite different sorts of readers with quite different sorts of interests.

Finally, the closer you read the two iterations, the more textual dissimilarities you will uncover between them. Some characters appear in one, for example, but not the other. Some details of their lives don’t harmonize between versions. Some of the text blocks have more or less information in one form than the other. And so on.

I’m not sure what readers will automatically sense when exploring the two versions side-by-side, or even one after the other, but I’m very interested to find out. Perhaps it will tell us something more about how we read and why.

To appreciate the full scope of this journey, then, are you saying the reader is obliged to read both the print and electronic versions?

Yes. Absolutely yes. No. And maybe.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carl Granquist

We used to call this hawgwash. C3's are here to stay. So what are you rambling on about?

ROKNBLU

OK color is a thing. Everyone has different taste.

I like mine! It's not too dark for me!

Carl Granquist

Reply and pictures good. Thanks. But I still don't understand the volumes writen just earlier that are so dumbfounding. The question was color and the technology for the era.

troy144

He wants no more posts

alan64

corz to each his own, and you are intitled to yours, no matter how off.