I meant to start this out by writing about, well, writing.
See, as a writer, I feel like I should occasionally write about craft. You know, on occasion, so people think I’m a real writer and not just some crazy hack with a blog who happened to publish a book.
But hey, not today, because all I can think about today are muscle cars. (Check out that Hudson Hornet. Is that not completely awesome?)
The pseudo-hippie in me is mortified by my fascination with muscle cars. I’ve never been all over the convertible BMW, even in my younger years, even though I think they’re darling, and I like going fast. As a teacher married to a cop, with two kids and two dogs, I drive a Honda, and my goal is to one day own the minivan. (The hippie in me argues for a Prius, but the two kids and the 100 pound dog won’t all fit in there at the same time, so… Sorry, hippie. Them’s the breaks. Minivan it is)
But the dream car? Muscle car all the way, baby.
The Dodge Charger is my favorite, being honest:
I do harbor the “but it’s not green” guilt, but dammit, that car is purdy. And when it’s turned on, and it makes that deep, purring sound… Ah hell, there’s really nothing better.
There’s just something about putting your hand on the hood of one of those cars and feeling all that horsepower that’s, frankly, awesome.
Granted, a car like that doesn’t really fit into the suburban soccer-mom lifestyle, and, on our salaries, is definitely a luxury we can’t afford.
But they sure are nice to look at.