Sunday, July 7, 2013

My Life in Cars

With the fear that Jeep was on its last legs, I started getting all melancholy about the true love of my life. I have many friends who identify themselves by the cars they drive. Before any of us had kids, I had many friends who identified themselves by the cars that they drove. I was always the one saying, "Who cares?!" I joked with these friends that it must be an Asian thing. Yeah, they are Asian. If they weren't, what would be the point of saying such a thing?

It being summer, the time of year that always hearkens me back to the past, I've been drawn to remembering all of those cars. So, as I am programmed to do, I started writing a blog post in my head about it. I shall now spew it out for you. You're welcome.

The 1971 Corolla. That was back when owning a Japanese-made car meant you had a piece of crap on your hands. My parents bought it when I was 14 or 15, and my older brother had it first. He crashed it mere days before I was supposed to get it. I suspected malicious intent. (Sorry, Steve!)

That car was the party car. The fact that it carted two or three or four of my friends all over Northern Virginia while the driver was often completely trashed should speak to its value. But we always just referred to it as a lemon. It was the most unreliable car of all time. (Or so I thought.) There was a Toyota ad at the time that went along the lines of, "You asked for it, you got it...Toyota." Being such pithy folks even way back then, we always sang, "You asked for it, you got it...a sucker."

But, wow, having a car all to yourself at 16, when your home life has gone to absolute shit because your parents are going through near about the world's worst divorce, that was amazing. Drive. Drive. Drive. Away.

It died the death it should have died years before. But, a year after it had bit the dust, we managed to crank it up one last time and drive ever so slowly for a mile or so to give it a fond farewell.

Oh, wow, I'm just realizing that I can write paragraphs and paragraphs about the cars and when I had them. Synapses work for shit nowadays, but that Sucker, I can remember.

Like the time it died and my mom had to drive all the way to who-the-hell-knows to retrieve me and several of my equally drunk friends from a cast party out in the boondocks. Hey, Dr. Stewart, esteemed psychoanalyst, do you really think it was a good idea to physically kick a bunch of passed out 15- and 16-year-olds out of your house? The only upside? Dude has got to be long dead.

I realize this post is a bizarre stream of consciousness. I hope you haven't bothered reading it. Or the next half-dozen posts relating to cars.

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