Detroit Steel, Man

That I still accept my father's opinion: "Cars are just transportation. Even when they don't cost much, they cost too much" heartens me this morning. It suggests that whatever family traditions I've dumped, I've shed for a reason - and this one I've only slightly tweaked. I mean, we can't completely disregard semiotics. Oh, and forget the utter hair shirt of that childhood succession of rickety, uncomfortable and vaguely cool Beetles.

Having my first car, purchased with gambling winnings and a loan from my girlfriend, stolen within six weeks of purchase and without theft insurance - well, aversion therapy can certainly reinforce rational conviction. Cars still make me twitchy.

So, after renting that Ford Crown Vic in California, I now know what I want to do: Buy one. A big boat of Detroit steel, with a barcolounger ride and all negative signification: domestic = red state, redneck, nonurban; fullsize mushy suspension = middle aged or elderly (I may get a straw boater too); bottom brand make = economically challenged. As my father's son, I'll also buy it 2-3 years old, letting someone else take the off-the-cliff depreciation of American cars, but recent enough that the real improvements Detroit made to their cars will be mine. Because, y'know, the only thing worse than an expensive car is a car that doesn't work at all. Oh, but leather seats? I did mention leather seats, didn't I? No point in a cloth barcolounger.