They come in varying shapes and sizes and colors and scents and tastes and– to put it simply they are the chariots of the American Dream; a customizer would sell his or her family to obtain a classic beauty and jazz it up; some children believe it their rite of passage to be handed those jingling keys and the dependability which accompanies them.

Old men love them. Old women love them.

Young men love them. Young women love them.

Teenagers drool over them: what would you do if your dream vehicle all of a sudden appeared in your driveway? There is your parent holding the keys over your trembling head–as a matter of fact it is your sixteenth birthday, and you did pass the driving test yesterday. No coincidences in this situation.

Of course I am referring to cars.

What is the first image popping into your head? A Volkswagen beetle, or even better a van; although nowadays those prices are steep. A hot rod–my neighbor owns a loud one. A pickup truck…not a bad choice. A Jeep.

Hold on. A Jeep?

Please tell me you’re lying; someone put to you up to this. Were you double dog dared?

I see–triple dog dared. Okay, go ahead and sit down in the back…yes, we’ll talk later.

Geez, man, Jeeps? Can you believe that guy?

Back to the point:

There is something to be said about the thrills received from driving aimlessly across the interstate system. Towns you never heard of appear instantaneously on the sides of the road; for example you see a sign reading Kimbolish and beneath it in blue letters, 4 miles, but you realize Kimbolish sounds like the dumbest name for a town and you stopped to take a leak not five minutes ago. So grab a t-shirt, a mug with the town name spelled in foam letters upon the ceramic…call it a day. But if you forget to try their local burger joint, then stop off at Fernaningo–the ghost town fifteen miles ahead. I heard they specialize in mystery meat.

Cars are also the social markers of our world. The next time you are prowling the streets–to some of you it may be an everyday routine–watch the reactions to the driver in the sports car compared to the driver of the mini van; babies laugh when one of those horns go off—and it is not the latter.

What was your first car?

Think daily,

A Southpaw