Brian walked into our kitchen at 4:15 AM on Friday, and at 9:30 that evening we both walked into our parents’ kitchen (what is it about these houses with kitchen doors?) in Evansville. That’s 10:30 Boston time – eighteen hours door to door. We stopped five times for gas and once for hamburgers and ice cream (Graeters) near Columbus. While it was a blast for me – I got to hang with my older brother, we both vented about family matters, I could rest my weary orbs and still make miles, and those miles, they just flew by – for Brian, well, he’s flying back with Matt and Diane on Wednesday. “The problem with a crummy memory (which he doesn’t have but he’s making a point here) is I’ve forgotten how horrible it is to be locked in a car for eighteen hours.â€Â Look, he’s my older brother; he’s not as flexible as I am. The most entertaining moments of the trip (for me) occurred during those gas stops. I’d hop out first and then watch him roll out of the truck onto the pavement and then try to stand up.
Brian pulled me over to this Mustang in Ohio and waited until I noticed
the license plate.
el Kib
Reminds me of a Bill Morrissey song called “Car and Driver (which I heard him perform live at Passim’s), in which he matches cars to their stereotypic operators. One of its verses goes:
“I drive a Ranger truck
I’m for import quotas
I wont park
next to no Toyotas.”
rakkity
Our late neighbor, Walter Ambler (~1913-2002), swore he’d never buy any Japanese or German car. He fought against armies of those countries in WW II, and was damned if he’d forgive them for their atrocities. He went to his grave not realizing that most of the parts of so-called American cars are, and continue to be, made in former enemy countries. Apparently, for whatever reasons, others have similar feelings.
Michael
And the same delusion what it means to be made in America.
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