I Visit Sin City

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Posted on August 23, 2013

The Las Vegas of 1974 bears little resemblance to the Las Vegas of today. In 1974, there were still plenty of vacant lots along The Strip. You could walk out of the front door of Caesar’s Palace and see all the way to McCarran Airport. You knew you were in the desert, because you could see it all around you. I wasn’t complaining, though. For a Detroit boy still getting used to LA, Las Vegas was like visiting Fantasyland at Disneyland. Las Vegas was a market that fell within the LA Chevy Zone territory. At the time, there were two Chevy dealers there. I had asked the LA Zone if Hawaii was part of their territory. That was a sore subject. Someone at GM had decided that the Hawaii dealers should be handled by General Motors Oversees Operations…GMOO. For some reason, Hawaii was considered a non-US market. GMOO’s agency was McCann-Erickson…they called on Hawaii. No problem! LA, San Diego, Palm Springs, and Las Vegas were all mine!!

Every year, the National Automobile Dealers Association holds a convention. Dealers representing all manufacturers, and from every part of the country meet to visit the trade show, go to “make meetings” where thy got to yell at car company management, and are wined and dined by these same manufacturers. This year, the convention was going to be in Las Vegas. At the time, it was the second largest convention to be held in Vegas. Most manufacturers were large enough to take over an entire hotel. Chevy had taken over Caesar’s Palace. You knew it was the Chevy hotel by the huge banner hanging on the side of the building, and the three new Chevrolet models they had parked in the fountain. For those of you who have never been, attending an NADA convention is like going to a four-day Black Sabbath concert where everyone there is much richer than you will ever be, and if you fall asleep, you might get killed. In an attempt to appease both God and Mammon that year, the featured speakers at the convention were Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, who had a down-to-earth religious show on the old Dumont Network in the 50s, and Harry James, trumpeter and big band leader from he 40s. He had been married to Betty Grable. I don’t think they were old drinking buddies.

I was sent there to “work.” Wink, wink. One of my tasks was to help with the entertainment at the big receptions Chevy put on for their dealers; one on Saturday night, one on Sunday night. Saturday’s guest entertainer was Glen Campbell. Chevy flew him in on a private jet, kept the jet’s engine’s running while they whisked him to the grand ballroom at Caesar’s Palace, brought him up on stage, pointed him toward the audience, then whisked him back to the airport after his 40 minute set was over. My job was to make sure the ballroom doors were closed during the performance, lest some wondering Ford dealers try to see a free show. Sunday night’s entertainment was the Johnny Mann Stand Up and Cheer group. I guess Chevy was still buying its way out of the syndicated TV mess. At the entrance door both nights were a Zone rep, and someone from the hotel. They each held counters to tally the number of people who came in. I was told that every person walking through the door cost Chevy $45, the per head price for unlimited booze, giant shrimp, baby lamb chops, gourmet cheese, and fettuccine with a mystery white sauce. Twenty-four hundred people the first night, seventeen hundred the second. Once the shows had ended, I was on my own. Unfortunately, at my tender age, I didn’t know about all the fantastic parties the magazines put on during NADA. These will be discussed more intimately in future posts.

After filling my pockets with giant shrimp and cheeses, and carrying two giant Jack Daniels roadies, I left the relative sanity of the ballroom, and began my descent into the mailström. My eyes and tender nature were not prepared for what I beheld as I entered the casino. Hundreds of rich millionaires were participating in the tribal rite of those with too much money. Heads thrown back, they laughed at their good fortune, or perhaps, the gas brought on by the mystery white sauce. Cigar smoke made the casino look like LA during a Level 3 Smog Alert. A very corpulent middle-aged dealer was staggering his way down an aisle of blackjack tables. Clutching tightly to his arm was his niece. I guess she was poor, because it was obvious that she couldn’t afford any underwear. The tables were all packed. The dealer stopped at an empty table and inquired why nobody was there. “Sir, this is a $1000 minimum bet table.” The Chevy dealer took the bait. “C’mon, Honey, I’m going to show you how real men gamble. I’m going to bet a wad on one hand. He reached into his pants and pulled out an envelope. In it was $15,000. He put it on the table. The dealer counted it and said, “Change for $15,000.” A pit boss, who looked eerily like Abe Vigoda, came over, looked at the money, looked at the dealer and his niece, and nodded to the blackjack dealer. The blackjack dealer counted out, and then pushed a stack of chips resembling the Chicago skyline to the dealer. The dealer pushed the chips back on the “Bet” mark on the table. By now, a crowd had gathered, like hyenas to an injured zebra colt. Everyone was cheering the man on. The blackjack dealer shuffled the cards and held out the green “cut” card. “Go ahead baby, you’re my lucky charm tonight.” The black jack dealer threw two cards to the Chevy dealer, and two cards to himself. The house showed a queen of spades up. The dealer slowly rolled the edges of his two cards up. A queen of clubs, and a two of diamonds! “Farg!” he shouted. He didn’t really say farg. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. Maybe betting $15,000 on one hand wasn’t such a great idea. He briefly wondered to himself if Caesar’s Palace allowed “Hey, on second thought, I’ll just take my money and go to my room” Probably not. His corpulent hand made a fluttering motion over his cards. “Sir, you want another card?” the blackjack dealer asked. “Yes,” the man croaked. It came floating off the top of the shoe and landed in front of the man. A king of hearts. The house’s hole card was a seven of spades. BUST!!!!

Silence enveloped everyone within 30 feet of the table. The Chevy dealer just stared straight ahead. His niece slowly extricated her arm from his and slipped away to find a new uncle. The hyenas had caught scent of a new tragedy. Two dealers were skinny dipping in the fountain. They headed for the entrance. I went back to my room and emptied my pants of shrimp and cheese. Something told me not to touch any of it.

The next morning, as I checked out, I noticed the Stand Up and Cheer folks arguing with the front desk. Apparently the Amex card of their road manager had bounced. The hotel wasn’t allowing them to leave until their $4300 bill had been paid. Hmmm. I’m here to help the entertainment, I’ll see what I can do. Suddenly feeling an urge to, at least partially, emulate the poor Chevy dealer of the previous evening, I stepped to the head of the line. “What seems to be the problem?” I said. “They won’t let us check out,” the singers said in unison. “No problem,” I said, “I’m with Chevy’s ad agency and I’ll help you out.” I pulled out my brand new Amex card and tossed it to the desk clerk. He ran it. I waited. Would I “Bust?” Suddenly, he smiled. “Thank you Mr. Cavanagh, it’s been accepted. They’re free to leave now.” I was crushed by slaps on the back and hugs from well-scrubbed American youth. The road manager gave me his card. “Send us the bill at our production office and we’ll cut a check for you.” I did. They did…eight weeks later. Amex was not happy with me. I was starting to lose interest in Las Vegas.

Next: Power Politics

The Rocket Car

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Posted on August 21, 2013

Here’s my story it’s sad but true, it’s about a car I once knew. It took my love then ran around, through every light in town…Hayp, Hayp. Bumda hady hady hayp hayp… Well, most of you know the lyrics to the rest of the song. This is the story of a car that was born too soon. If Charles Dickens were to write a story about an orphan car, battered by cruel fate, and then cast aside, he would write about this car. Except, in this story, there is no heroic redemption as in “Great Expectations.” Our story begins in 1969 in the top floors of the GM Building. GM was looking for an alternative power plant to the internal combustion engine that would provide great low-end torque, and a true sporty car feel. NSU, of Germany, had developed a rotary engine, the Wankel engine. Felix Wankel was a brilliant engineer. He was also a high ranking SS officer during WWII. During the war he developed a revolutionary rotary engine. After doing his prison time following the war, he went to work for NSU Motorenwerke AG. The modern Wankel was shown to the world in 1960. Mazda, seeing its benefits, bought a license to manufacture it. GM saw that Mazda had a hot little number with the technology. In 1970, GM paid NSU $50 million to license the rotary engine. They were going to put it in the Vega. BUT…the GM version had durability problems. They went back to the drawing boards and decided to use it in a model, still in development, to be launched in late 1974. They went back to NSU and paid another $10 million to re-up the license.

The model in development was a sporty 2+2 hatchback based on a Vega frame. It was going to be called the Chevy Chaparral. Jim Hall Racing of Midland , TX., had long partnered with Chevy to supply him with engines and parts. Chevy made a deal with him to use his Chapparal name. Then, two things happened that would doom the as yet unborn child. GM couldn’t solve the durability problem with the Wankel, and the Arab oil crisis made the Wankel’s mediocre MPG numbers problematic. GM dropped the Wankel. The other was that Jim Hall Racing decided that they wanted more money for their Chapparal name. GM had already spent more than $60 million on an engine they weren’t going to use, they weren’t going to spend more money on a name. Chevy needed a name. And it had to be about 5 inches long, as the dies for the sheet metal forms had already been made. Someone in Chevy Marketing suggested that they let customers name their purchase, providing them with sheets of stick-on letters. That idea died when management begin coming up with some of the possibilities. Then, someone realized that they still held a license for the Monza name. Monza being a trim level name for the ill-fated Chevy Corvair. The unborn child would be christened Monza.

Only one hurdle remained. How would the child be powered? The base engine would be the Vega inline 4-cylinder aluminum block engine. The upgrade would be a V-6 that Buick offered. There was one, teensy, tiny, microscopic, picayune problem with all of this. California, where GM was hoping to repulse the Japanese car invasion, had air quality requirements much more stringent than federal EPA standards. At the time, GM’s solution was to strap on post-combustion air pollution devices. This caused nasty back pressure problems. The Vega for sale in California had a unique problem. They tended to blow up. The aluminum block engine would heat up and expand, causing the cylinders to jam in the combustion chamber, causing the rods to bend and blow. Not good. What about the V-6? Again, Fate had dealt a cruel blow to young Pip. The engine was “dirty” in the state of California, and couldn’t be sold there. What was a mother to do? Again, American ingenuity came to the rescue. A GM engineer had measured the square foot area of the Monza’s engine well. The GM plant in Tonawanda,NY., had excess capacity. They built the monster 5.7 Liter, 350 HP, V-8 engine that went into Corvettes and the Chevy Caprice. The engine developed 250 HP. GM discovered that this engine (clean in California) would fit, just barely, into the Monza engine well. Chevy made it a California-only engine option. There were a few problems to this, however.

The Monza had been designed to accommodate a much lighter Wankel engine. It could handle the inline Vega engine, but the huge V-8 weighed hundreds of pounds more than the front end was designed to support. A Monza with the big engine looked like it was always driving downhill, as the weight forced the rear end into the air. This was an engine that was built to power cars weighing almost one ton more than the Monza. Because the car was so much lighter, it was only available with an automatic transmission. Revving it up with a stick, would have torn the gears apart. Being the savvy auto consumer that I was, I bought one!

What a car!! Pulling up to muscle cars at stop signs, knowing that I had a comparable engine, but weighed as much as a ton less, challenging them off the stop light was child’s play. I didn’t drive this car, I aimed it. Being a rear wheel car with it’s butt up in the air was no handicap. Pushing the accelerator sent 250 horses into the back seat. I was the King of the Road until one day I heard a fwap, fwap, fwap. The front tire treads had been worn off on the inside, exposing the steel belts. The car had less than 10K miles on it. The Firestone dealer honored the warranty and gave me new tires. Six thousand miles later, the same thing happened. I went to a different Firestone dealer for new tires. I figured out what was going on. Since the front suspension was burdened with hundreds of pounds of extra weight, it sagged and pushed the front tires into a bowed position. I was only driving on the inner six inches of tread! No wonder the tires were failing so quickly. I also discovered that the engine’s radiator, designed to cool a much smaller engine, was the size of a small Frisbee. Another vestige of an earlier incarnation. Maybe Dickens shouldn’t have written the story of the Monza. Maybe Mary Shelley should have.

Next: I Visit Sin City

Baseball, Something, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet

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Posted on August 20, 2013

America’s Bicentennial was approaching. Marketers all across the country were wrapping themselves in all things American. So it was with Chevrolet. Campbell-Ewald had come up with a catchy ditty called “Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet.” Words by Campbell-Ewald writer Jim Hartzell, and music by Ed Labunski, the commercial launching the theme line has been voted one of the best in American history. Chevrolet was selling 3 million cars and trucks a year. They were running on all cylinders…sorry, I had to say that. Chevy had introduced the Monza 2+2, a sporty hatchback “import fighter.” Early in 1975, they introduced a notchback coupe version. The South Gate GM Assembly facility was now making “H” body vehicles, including the Monza, in anticipation of the nation’s move to smaller cars. Bob Lund, GM VP and General Manager of the Chevrolet Division was going to visit Southern California to inspect the plant, and tour local Chevy dealerships to see how they were promoting the launch of the new Monza Town Coupe. This news hit the LA Zone like a thermonuclear bomb. They were being visited by “the man.” All hands on deck! Spare no expense! Cordon off Interstates! Alert GM PR! Order the food! Kill the fatted calf!

The South Gate GM facility was Located in South Gate, CA., a few miles southeast of downtown LA. Built in 1939, it had churned out Buicks, Oldsmobiles, and Pontiacs for 36 years. Now it was going to make small cars. The South Gate High School band was on hand, playing the “Baseball, Hotdogs” music. The mayor and city council of South Gate were there. The press was there. I was there. The Zone wanted me to attend all of the day’s activities so I could include a glowing report of them in my weekly report to Detroit. The Regional Manager had flown in from San Francisco and was waiting for Mr. Lund’s arrival at LAX. District Managers were poised to take Mr. Lund’s baggage claims and rush his luggage to the hotel. A fully loaded Chevrolet Caprice Classic was waiting curbside with the a/c running for him to exit the terminal building and be whisked away in a motorcade to South Gate. When he entered the car, a Zone staffer made a call to a land line in an office in factory, telling the Zone Manager that “the package had left the building.” About 45 minutes later, the motorcade drove through security and entered the main parking lot. The band struck up. Mr. Lund was introduced to the dignitaries. A parade of Monza Town Coupes festooned with red, white, and blue ribbons drove by the reviewing stand. The speechifying began. A sumptuous buffet had been laid out in case Mr. Lund was hungry. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. Unfortunately, the buffet had been put out two hours earlier. Unfortunately, it was already 94 degrees. Unfortunately, every fly south of the Santa Monica Freeway had already found the buffet. Unfortunately, I could see the rare roast beef slices apparently moving on their own.

Once everyone had been duly overcome with bonhomie, it was time to visit Chevy dealerships. We all piled into a luxurious GMC motor home someone had cleverly named Chevrolet One. We only lacked the F-14 fighter escort as we headed out onto the freeway. Onboard, more food and a full bar added to the jocularity. Bob Lund turned to the Zone Manager and said, “Stop and park the motor home 1/2 mile before we get to a dealership.” “Why, sir,” was the Zone Manager’s response. “Because this isn’t a Chevrolet motor home”, Mr. Lund said. “Sir, Chevrolet doesn’t make a motor home. This is a GMC motor home, made by GM. The same company as us,” the now sweating Zone Manager offered. “I know that! But GMC also makes GMC trucks which compete with our Chevy trucks, and I’ll be darned if I’m going to show up at a Chevy dealership, riding in a competitor’s product. We’ll park 1/2 mile away from each dealership and walk!” Everyone put their drink down. We would be doing a lot of walking today.

That day, now remembered fondly as the “Great South Gate Death March,” started to unravel. We would park the motor home and trudge 1/2 mile to a dealership in the now 96 degree heat. The dealership staff would be shocked, and somewhat terrified, to see this bedraggled group of pedestrians walk into their stores. Each dealership, thinking that perhaps Mr. Lund hadn’t eaten in several days, had put out their own lavish buffets guarded by management keeping hungry sales and service people away from the food. We’d all nod approvingly, wait for the dealer to have his picture taken with Mr. Lund, and then turn to trudge back to the motor home. Fortunately, since I hadn’t eaten since the night before, I was able to squirrel some cornichons into my trouser pocket. We were all hoping that the day couldn’t get worse. That hope was dashed at the next dealership.

The dealer shook Mr. Lund’s hand and said “Sir, welcome to our dealership. We have something very exciting to show you. Boys, bring it out!” From around the side of the dealership came something that even I, with my limited automotive knowledge, knew was a big no-no. Pulling up in front of the General Manager of Chevrolet was a brand new Monza Town Coupe that had been customized with a landau roof and an opera window. The Chevrolet people averted their eyes in anticipation of what they knew was coming. “So, Mr. Lund, what do you think?” the dealer cluelessly asked. Bob Lund turned to the dealer and asked his own question, “What’s wrong with the product we painstakingly designed and built for you?” The entire crowd went silent. The party was over. We shuffled down the street back to the air conditioned bosom of Chevrolet One.

Of course, every dealership we visited that day had a variation of the current Chevy theme. One dealership we visited was having a promotion. Showroom visitors that day received a plastic baseball, a Little Debbie apple pie, and a hot dog. The problem was that the dealer wanted the event to be in full swing, so he wasn’t giving anything away until the Magical Mystery Tour showed up. In this pre-cell phone age, he could only estimate our arrival. We were early. The music started. the people rushed in. Baseballs started flying. Their sales manager realized that he had three cases of hot dogs that hadn’t been cooked yet. Emergency!! I told him not to worry. That GMC motor home parked 200 yards down the street had one of those new-fangled microwave ovens on it. He could take the hot dogs down there and nuke them all in a jiffy. About fifteen minutes had passed when Mr. Lund decided it was time to head to the next dealership. As we pulled away, I noticed a horrified man running next to the motor home, waving his arms in the air. It was the dealership’s sales manager! It was about five hours later when we began to notice the smell. The pleasant smell of rotting processed meat. It was traced to the microwave, where two dozen shriveled hot dogs were found, and to the cabinet under it, where two and a half cases of hot dogs were resting next to the motor home’s muffler. “What are these doing here?” everyone asked. The driver shouted back over his shoulder, “Some guy brought them on this morning. He was here for about three minutes when he heard the loudspeaker calling him to the showroom floor as he had a customer waiting. He never came back.” We had driven off with the dealership’s hot dogs. Oh well, I hope they had a successful “Baseball, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet” sales event.

Next: The Rocket Car

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Category Archives: Chevrolet

I Visit Sin City

The Rocket Car

Baseball, Something, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet