Spotted at a tea party:
Be sure to watch for my report card on Obama’s first 100 days, coming this Wednesday. (I do so hate to spoil it, but I don’t think he’s going to get very good grades.)
Do you like convertibles? I like convertibles. I’ve never owned one, but Dad had a few here and there when I was growing up. He picked Jenny and me up from school once in this 1968 Shelby Mustang GT500KR. We sat on the folded top and held the roll bar as he drove around the circle and off the grounds (which we absolutely ruled for that brief period of time).
Good times. ‘Course, that’s probably a federal crime now.
Do you remember the convertible-less years? There weren’t any American mass-market convertibles for sale from 1977 to 1983. We have Lee Iacocca to thank for their return. Shortly after he got to Chrysler, Lido had the top lopped off a LeBaron, drove it around, and stopped traffic everywhere he went. Chrysler brought ’em back, and everyone else followed.
Convertibles are special. They convey a certain whimsy, and there are two rules for their use. If you’re not going to comply, then you are not allowed to get a convertible:
1. If rain is neither present nor imminent, and the temperature is between 60º and 80º, put the top down. There is nothing more pathetic than a motorist fortunate enough to have an open-air car on a heavenly day driving around closed in. Well, except for the doofus with the top down and the windows up.
2. When the top goes down, the windows go down. Do you have any idea how ridiculously precious driving a top-down, windows-up convertible looks? Men, you look prissy. Women, you look bitchy. Are you so delicate, so spectacularly coiffed, that a little crosswind willl sully your perfection? Please. Just get an Accord with a sunroof and be done with it, wuss. The only person who ever looked cool with a window up was Jack Cates, and that eternally-up rear quarter probably didn’t work.
I’m glad we’re clear on these things now.
I’m totally shot tonight. I apologize, dear readers. It’s a little Blu-ray escapism, and then off to bed for me. Back tomorrow.
So what did all of those late ’60s/early ’70s hippies who spent all of their time baked and/or tripping eventually do with themselves?
Well, I don’t know what else they did, but it definitely appears they produced public service announcements that ran during Saturday morning cartoons in the late ’70s.
“Look! A wagon wheel!”
(What is Timer, anyway?)
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