Cars are clothes, even lovers.
“Fashion is architecture: it is a matter of proportions.” – Coco Chanel
I was conceived in a car. So were many of you.
Model T? Any color you want. As long as it’s black.
I can’t say it since I feel like a dumb kid doing so: the only time I was ever truly calm, as in ‘The Right Stuff’ or Bill Wittle’s rants about flying actual planes (http://www.ejectejecteject.com) was when I was driving fast, way way…way too fast, every day.
Has our “consumer culture” finally lost its car component?
No. It’s been dumbed down a bit though.
A history of the cars we have driven is almost sexually confessional.
Why? Girls who drive fast cars are fast girls. Simple fact. Guys who drive “efficient” cars have sex once a week instead of twice a day. Simple fact.
Because, unlike clothes, or booze, or rock concerts, even houses, the car you drive makes you into a superman, quite literally. Mostly a guy thing, but with latest middle-aged modern culture, I know more gals than guys who own, albeit somewhat less than real “super car” super cars or motorbikes and surfboards.
So they sell them off. Why? No balls. My experience is limited, but sincerely honest experience it is. Men enjoy being control of life and death. Women, as a rule (if you mention Earhart, you are making my point for me) do not enjoy LONE voyages along snake curved roads at 95 MPH, nor must make up excuses about where they just were, black break dust on all the wheels of the “family car.”
“If you are looking for perfect safety, you will do well to sit on a fence and watch the birds; but if you really wish to learn you must mount a machine and become acquainted with its tricks by actual trial.” – Wilber Wright
