为什么90%的华人买日本车?
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加拿大哪有卖轮式装甲车的？4x4,6x6都中，省油就行，反正安全性应该已经不是问题了。
这个就挺好
http://www.chinapeace.org.cn/images/2007-05/17/xin_530504171320656204556.jpg
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鞋子现象
主贴已经贴出很长时间，该讨论的也基本都讨论了，除了缺个“句号”（《给仇敌国家排序》）以外，本不想再理它了。
既然又被顶起来，而且这次回国又有许多新感触，就多唠叨几句：
鞋子现象
这次回国时，我穿了一双厚重方敦的牛皮鞋。但没想到今年国内那么热！已经都立了秋，还到处三十五、六度，长江流域更是大蒸笼。
我这双皮鞋实在穿不住了，于是就想买双凉快一点的皮鞋、或者一双合脚的凉鞋。
没想到，我跑了好几个商店，都卖不到如意的鞋。原因是，几乎所有柜台里的皮鞋都都扁平、细尖，看上去象锥子一般，显得非常精巧、华丽、光亮。
凉鞋也是如此，小巧而精致。尤其是皮凉鞋，很少有其它颜色，几乎全是编制整齐的尖头黑皮鞋。很难找到加拿大常见的简洁、宽大、不发光的休闲凉鞋。
所有这些鞋子，你可以明显感觉到，不用上油，只要用鞋刷（甚至是抹布）一刷（抹），就能铮亮。
我只记得以前国内比较流行尖头的皮鞋，并且还在鞋底钉上铁片，走起路来叮当响。没想到，现在这样的鞋依然流行，只是少了铁片。
我的脚，除了稍为大点，形状并无特别，我本以为会很容易买双方头、色泽暗淡一点、穿着宽松一点的休闲鞋。可我居然找不着！
后来我开始留意人们都穿什么鞋。也正和柜台里一样，人们大都穿着那样的鞋，从大街上的行人，到接待我吃饭的局长、市长们。
这是一个位于华东的中小型城市。也许只是当地的特点。但后来，我到了西南的一个同样类型的城市，依然是同样的消费倾向。我还特意逛了很多商场，琳琅满目的商品令我目不暇接，然而鞋子都是同一类型。
我很不愿意把它联系到审美观、或文化的层次。否则，就又回到了《90%的华人买日本车》的主题了！
不是吗？精巧、靓丽，始终是我们的审美主流。这也许正是清朝的鼻烟壶文化、小脚文化的继续。
主贴已经贴出很长时间，该讨论的也基本都讨论了，除了缺个“句号”（《给仇敌国家排序》）以外，本不想再理它了。
既然又被顶起来，而且这次回国又有许多新感触，就多唠叨几句：
鞋子现象
这次回国时，我穿了一双厚重方敦的牛皮鞋。但没想到今年国内那么热！已经都立了秋，还到处三十五、六度，长江流域更是大蒸笼。
我这双皮鞋实在穿不住了，于是就想买双凉快一点的皮鞋、或者一双合脚的凉鞋。
没想到，我跑了好几个商店，都卖不到如意的鞋。原因是，几乎所有柜台里的皮鞋都都扁平、细尖，看上去象锥子一般，显得非常精巧、华丽、光亮。
凉鞋也是如此，小巧而精致。尤其是皮凉鞋，很少有其它颜色，几乎全是编制整齐的尖头黑皮鞋。很难找到加拿大常见的简洁、宽大、不发光的休闲凉鞋。
所有这些鞋子，你可以明显感觉到，不用上油，只要用鞋刷（甚至是抹布）一刷（抹），就能铮亮。
我只记得以前国内比较流行尖头的皮鞋，并且还在鞋底钉上铁片，走起路来叮当响。没想到，现在这样的鞋依然流行，只是少了铁片。
我的脚，除了稍为大点，形状并无特别，我本以为会很容易买双方头、色泽暗淡一点、穿着宽松一点的休闲鞋。可我居然找不着！
后来我开始留意人们都穿什么鞋。也正和柜台里一样，人们大都穿着那样的鞋，从大街上的行人，到接待我吃饭的局长、市长们。
这是一个位于华东的中小型城市。也许只是当地的特点。但后来，我到了西南的一个同样类型的城市，依然是同样的消费倾向。我还特意逛了很多商场，琳琅满目的商品令我目不暇接，然而鞋子都是同一类型。
我很不愿意把它联系到审美观、或文化的层次。否则，就又回到了《90%的华人买日本车》的主题了！
不是吗？精巧、靓丽，始终是我们的审美主流。这也许正是清朝的鼻烟壶文化、小脚文化的继续。
看看老外为什么不买美国车
I bought a car and it nearly killed me - Andrew Coyne - Macleans.ca
I bought a car and it nearly killed me
A man of a certain marital status, age, self-consciousness is not simply buying a car. He is telling the world how he sees himself.
by Andrew Coyne on Thursday, June 18, 2009 11:20am - 43 Comments
To know why the American auto industry is in such a mess, you only have to ask my neighbours. Once, long ago, the aspirational young couples and empty-nesters on my midtown Toronto street might have driven American cars. Now they would rather be on fire.
Walking down the street, I count several Audis, a few BMWs, a couple of Volvos, the odd Mercedes-Benz or Saab. Not an American car in sight. Why? Much has been made of Detroit’s history of poor quality, and deservedly so. But it isn’t really about that. If it were about quality, or safety, or price, or any of the things people claim to care about when they buy a car, my neighbours would have all bought Japanese and Korean. That the street is instead tiled with European cars tells you something else was on their minds. And that something is self-image.
It isn’t really cars the Europeans are selling us. It’s Europe. Tooling about in the climate-controlled interior of his Audi A4 or BMW 335, the mid-towner can briefly imagine he lives in Berlin or Paris, and not in ghastly dull Toronto. Mind you, not just any European car will do. You are unlikely to see many French or Italian cars parked in front of my neighbours’ houses. But a German car precisely meets our complex psychological needs, reflecting back to us our desired image of ourselves: stylish, yet stable.
On another street, you might find other cultural codes prevail, and other cars proliferate: flashy Italian, sensible Japanese, even those insipid American cars my neighbours find so alien. Every purchase is the product of a cross-current of different sociological urges and identifications—age, class, race, and so on—which the buyer, as much as the seller, must navigate successfully. I should know, for I have just bought a car. And it nearly killed me.
You have to understand: when a man, especially a man of a certain age, marital status and self-consciousness, buys a car, he is not simply buying a car: the business takes on all the complex symbology of a graduate class in semiotics. You are telling the world how you see yourself, and how you want others to see you, and how you suspect they see you, and how you suspect they suspect you suspect they see you, and—well I told you it was complicated.
The basic rule is that any car you really want to drive you really don’t want to drive. That hot little two-seater? Forget about it. Looks like you’re having a mid-life crisis. Or you’re trying too hard. Or you’re compensating for something. On the other hand, go to the other extreme and buy a Taurus, and it means you’ve given up. Or never started.
There are any number of other rules you must learn, without being taught. The car you buy cannot cost too much, but neither can it cost too little. It can have leather seats, but not burl walnut trim. It should not be bland, but on no account can it be interesting. For interesting—an antique car, say—is halfway to whimsical, and whimsy in a man’s car has something of the overripe to it, like a deerstalker hat. Or an ascot.
Then there’s the phenomenon of the “chick car.” Automakers live in fear of this, for if at any moment the culture suddenly takes it into its head that something is a chick car, half its market drops out overnight. And yet for just about any car you will find someone who will decree, with utter authority, that it is a chick car. That rules out not only the Miata or Mini—cars whose chief sin appears to be that they are well-made, cheap and fun to drive—but also certain species of Audi, Lexus, and every car ever made by Volkswagen.
And who are the enforcers of this ludicrous orthodoxy? In my experience, women. A Mini, a woman of impeccably progressive and feminist leanings told me at a party, says one thing: I have a small penis. Another said with a shudder she would refuse to open the door if her date showed up in a Miata. I looked at her to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.
I suppose it’s a kind of revenge. A car is for a man what clothes are for a woman: an opportunity for others to judge you. You wear a car the way you wear a suit of clothes. You are putting on the same set of vanities and insecurities in yourself, the same prejudices and assumptions in the viewer.
In my own case, this is overlaid with filial guilt. My father has only ever driven a Ford—the cheapest, most practical Ford he could find. This is because my father is a better man than I am. I know that I should be more like him, and yet I fail. I am weak, and my willingness to spend more than $15,000 on a car is further proof of it.
So I cannot help seeing some sort of divine retribution in this coda. After months of dithering, I finally settled on a car: a nifty little BMW 128i, in “space grey.” Sporty, yet dignified, I thought. (Chick car, I can hear some reader snorting.) Picked it up last Thursday, wheeled about in it for a bit, feeling alternately pleased and sheepish. That evening, as I was driving downtown, a cop ran a red light and smashed into me. They had to tow the car to the shop.
My shallowness and self-importance, they left spread-eagled on the road.
I bought a car and it nearly killed me - Andrew Coyne - Macleans.ca
I bought a car and it nearly killed me
A man of a certain marital status, age, self-consciousness is not simply buying a car. He is telling the world how he sees himself.
by Andrew Coyne on Thursday, June 18, 2009 11:20am - 43 Comments
To know why the American auto industry is in such a mess, you only have to ask my neighbours. Once, long ago, the aspirational young couples and empty-nesters on my midtown Toronto street might have driven American cars. Now they would rather be on fire.
Walking down the street, I count several Audis, a few BMWs, a couple of Volvos, the odd Mercedes-Benz or Saab. Not an American car in sight. Why? Much has been made of Detroit’s history of poor quality, and deservedly so. But it isn’t really about that. If it were about quality, or safety, or price, or any of the things people claim to care about when they buy a car, my neighbours would have all bought Japanese and Korean. That the street is instead tiled with European cars tells you something else was on their minds. And that something is self-image.
It isn’t really cars the Europeans are selling us. It’s Europe. Tooling about in the climate-controlled interior of his Audi A4 or BMW 335, the mid-towner can briefly imagine he lives in Berlin or Paris, and not in ghastly dull Toronto. Mind you, not just any European car will do. You are unlikely to see many French or Italian cars parked in front of my neighbours’ houses. But a German car precisely meets our complex psychological needs, reflecting back to us our desired image of ourselves: stylish, yet stable.
On another street, you might find other cultural codes prevail, and other cars proliferate: flashy Italian, sensible Japanese, even those insipid American cars my neighbours find so alien. Every purchase is the product of a cross-current of different sociological urges and identifications—age, class, race, and so on—which the buyer, as much as the seller, must navigate successfully. I should know, for I have just bought a car. And it nearly killed me.
You have to understand: when a man, especially a man of a certain age, marital status and self-consciousness, buys a car, he is not simply buying a car: the business takes on all the complex symbology of a graduate class in semiotics. You are telling the world how you see yourself, and how you want others to see you, and how you suspect they see you, and how you suspect they suspect you suspect they see you, and—well I told you it was complicated.
The basic rule is that any car you really want to drive you really don’t want to drive. That hot little two-seater? Forget about it. Looks like you’re having a mid-life crisis. Or you’re trying too hard. Or you’re compensating for something. On the other hand, go to the other extreme and buy a Taurus, and it means you’ve given up. Or never started.
There are any number of other rules you must learn, without being taught. The car you buy cannot cost too much, but neither can it cost too little. It can have leather seats, but not burl walnut trim. It should not be bland, but on no account can it be interesting. For interesting—an antique car, say—is halfway to whimsical, and whimsy in a man’s car has something of the overripe to it, like a deerstalker hat. Or an ascot.
Then there’s the phenomenon of the “chick car.” Automakers live in fear of this, for if at any moment the culture suddenly takes it into its head that something is a chick car, half its market drops out overnight. And yet for just about any car you will find someone who will decree, with utter authority, that it is a chick car. That rules out not only the Miata or Mini—cars whose chief sin appears to be that they are well-made, cheap and fun to drive—but also certain species of Audi, Lexus, and every car ever made by Volkswagen.
And who are the enforcers of this ludicrous orthodoxy? In my experience, women. A Mini, a woman of impeccably progressive and feminist leanings told me at a party, says one thing: I have a small penis. Another said with a shudder she would refuse to open the door if her date showed up in a Miata. I looked at her to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.
I suppose it’s a kind of revenge. A car is for a man what clothes are for a woman: an opportunity for others to judge you. You wear a car the way you wear a suit of clothes. You are putting on the same set of vanities and insecurities in yourself, the same prejudices and assumptions in the viewer.
In my own case, this is overlaid with filial guilt. My father has only ever driven a Ford—the cheapest, most practical Ford he could find. This is because my father is a better man than I am. I know that I should be more like him, and yet I fail. I am weak, and my willingness to spend more than $15,000 on a car is further proof of it.
So I cannot help seeing some sort of divine retribution in this coda. After months of dithering, I finally settled on a car: a nifty little BMW 128i, in “space grey.” Sporty, yet dignified, I thought. (Chick car, I can hear some reader snorting.) Picked it up last Thursday, wheeled about in it for a bit, feeling alternately pleased and sheepish. That evening, as I was driving downtown, a cop ran a red light and smashed into me. They had to tow the car to the shop.
My shallowness and self-importance, they left spread-eagled on the road.
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如果不同意我的观点，你可以给出正确的解释。为什么一上来就进行人身攻击呢？
任何现象的存在，总是有原因的。尤其是当一个现象在一个国家（或人群）普遍存在时，你就不能用偶然、或随机来解释。
能够注意到生活中的极端背离平均值的超常细节，并试图给出解释，又有什么不好呢？
关于鞋子的审美观，中国和北美大不一样。我们为什么一定要视而不见呢？
再看看你、我说的话，到底是谁在“谩骂”呢？
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美国好像没有加拿大人那么喜欢开日本车。 我看到的很多是GMC 的车，跟我的一样。
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谢谢！
乍一看，还以为您是把老华侨给挖出来了。
两年多过去了，汽车业发生了很多变化。
也许由于是广泛呼吁，加之美国汽车质量的进一步提高、和丰田汽车的几次严重安全召回事件的影响，最近日本汽车在华人中的占有率略有下降，但仍然高踞80%左右的占有率。
现在再看这篇文章，虽然有些不足，但基本状况、基本思想、和最终推论，是没有变化的。有些部分，甚至更有说服力了。
