The Red Horny

Every man, I think, must at some point prove his manhood. For some it involves feats of derring-do (feats of derring-do…heh heh…I can’t think of the last time I ever saw that in writing) like climbing mountains or diving the depths of the ocean or skiing down precipitous slopes…flinging, as they say, caution to the winds. Proving yourself; proving your maleness. Even the less athletic have this urge but the proof can take different forms.

I think owning the car-of-your-dreams fills the bill. In a recent discussion among certain members of my posse this subject came up. All of us own cars and a couple of us have fairly nice ones, but not one of us has a car they are totally in love with.

Admittedly, in my own case, I’m at the stage where utility and function overcomes visual beauty but, still, there are cars I wouldn’t mind parking under my bed if I could rationalize the expense. But, sigh, these days it is just so economically practical to make room for the whole Magilla and I have given over to that philosophy without too much regret.

For about six years of my life I got lucky. I bought a brand new, red, 1964 Chevy Malibu Super Sport convertible (white top and a red interior) with white wall tires and wire wheel hubcaps. It was truly the car of my dreams at that time and I took care of it like it was valuable jewelry. Of course gas was cheap and taking joy rides was exactly as described. I tooled around California with my sideburns blowing in the wind, a barely concealed smirk of satisfaction tugging at the corners of my mouth. My monthly car payments, although amazingly low by today’s standards, were the horrible reality--but that only mattered on the first day of the month.

I owned that car for six years but that dream ended due to grand theft auto and, consequently, I never again lusted after any particular set of fancy wheels. But I did have the dream for a while. And it was sweet.