I'm not into cars.
Never have been.
In fact, I've often wondered what could possibly make all those car nuts so nuts about their cars.
It's not that I have anything against them, you understand.
Not the legitimate ones.
Not the ones who take their fire-breathing monsters to the track for their idea of fun.
They have a different concept of how best to pass their time than I do - neither better (from my perspective) nor worse.
I have no use for the idiots who squeal their tires down at the corner as they roar through the four-way stop.
I have no use for the twits who rumble past my house, full throttle with their Thrush mufflers blasting.
I have no use for the fools who sit at red lights, torquing their engines in anticipation of an energy-wasting, rubber-burning, air-polluting, and downright dangerous jack-rabbit start at the first hint of green showing in the light above.
I have no use for the ones who never grew up.
But the guys (and occasionally gals) who dote on their super-cool, ultra-pretty classic rods, spending years worth of work (they would probably call it "play") polishing a fender or banging a tiny dent out of an old bumper they scored in some ancient farmer's fallingdown barn - I have nothing against them.
I just don't understand them, that's all.
I just don't get what's the big deal.
That said, I still remember my very first car- just like I do my very first kiss.
It was a 1962 Falcon, cream with red leather upholstery.
The car, not the kiss.
Dad helped me buy it. And it was a real eye-opener watching him wheel and deal on the lot. I have used several of the techniques he employed that day (those days, actually, because a real deal takes time - and timing) to knock thousands upon thousands of dollars off subsequent forays - sometimes solo, sometimes with friends or family - into the dark underworld where the car salesmen dwell.
That car taught me a lot.
With just a couple of gentle nudges she taught me to be more careful when the weather got nasty.
Not just snow - you can learn all about snow on a bicycle.
And with a far less gentle nudge, she taught me not to smoke a cigarette while driving.
(It wasn't the car that wised me up to stubbing out the cancer sticks altogether - that came years later, from a kiss, not a car.)
Oh, yes, she taught me lesson after lesson (the car, not the kiss) from the first day I laid eyes on her at the lot, right up to the tearful day I realized I'd have to find another kiss- er- I mean car to replace her.
We'd gone a lot of miles together.
Knowing that she was certainly headed for the wrecker after I had done with her (the car! NOT the kiss!) made me feel terrifically sad.
I still don't know why, really.
I never really cared much for cars, except as a rational form of transportation.
They are, after all, just cold, emotionless arrangements of metal, glass, and plastic comingled with grease and sundry fluids.
Nope, I don't understand what drives all those car nuts to bust their taillights on prettying up their cold, emotionless arrangements of metal, glass, and plastic co-mingled with grease and sundry fluids.
But I like art- and I admit I sometimes get a real kick out of seeing what the car nuts have done with all those bits and pieces.
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