© Dan Sherman
In my gym's parking lot the other day I saw a classic '56 turquoise T Bird that looked like the model from the movie American Graffiti.
On closer inspection, the Thunderbird was a remake. It had the same round window in the rear, the same toothy grille, the same low-slung roadster look. But the four cup holders gave it away. In American Graffiti days we were happy holding a brew in one hand, smoking a cigarette with the other and steering with our knees.
At least they kept the name Thunderbird. I love the name because it combines what I want out of a car: Thunder -- or Power, and bird -- or Freedom. I want my car to make me a combination of Superman and Dion's The Wanderer. That's not much to ask, is it?
Cars used to have exciting names, because when as teens when we finally learned to drive we became animals behind the wheel. We drove Mustangs, Roadrunners, Impalas, Wildcats, Cheetahs, Lions, Tigers and Bears. Oh my! We were mild-mannered Algebra students by day, and hormone-raging beasts at night.
The names not only described how fast we drove in those 25 mph school zones (ha!), it described the overriding purpose of our cars. Telling a pretty blonde cheerleader you were going to pick her up in your Cougar gave her a small hint of the mauling that was on your mind.
So, what does a red-blooded American boy get to drive now? He gets a Cayenne, Kahunna, Triant, Touareg, Navicross, and OLV.
If the Beach Boys sang, "She'll have fun, fun, fun 'til her daddy takes her Touareg away," they'd still be playing pool parties in Manhattan Beach.
I don't recall the names of all my cars, I've been through so many. However, I do remember the first one. Like a first love, it's my sentimental, all-time favorite.
It was a hot rod, a red Ford Fairlane with a 428 Cobrajet engine, one of the fastest production cars ever made! It would go an astounding, whiplash-producing 3 mph when my pals and I pushed it to the gas station for repair, which was 99% of the time.
I then had a succession of cranky old Fords and Chevys that came with jumper cables as standard equipment and were always missing the perks, like heat, which would have been nice during New Jersey's artic winters.
One car was a white Ford station wagon I bought for $100. I had my sister sew up purple curtains for the back as if it were some kind of lusty, hippie van. I equipped it with an FM converter I hooked up under the AM radio, which was supposed to give me Black Sabbath songs, but the most I ever got out of it was a band called White Noise.
Still, the nice thing about the American cars was that when I opened the hood, I saw an engine I recognized. I had one major tool in my arsenal, which all teenage guys in Maplewood, N.J. were required to carry: a pocket comb.
I would jam it into the "butterfly" carburetor, which magically would start the car. Then, as it dripped with grease, I'd use it to comb my hair. It was part of the look.
But then came the Japanese cars, and I traded character for the convenience of a working car with heat that didn't have to be jumped every five miles. I owned a string of efficient but soulless Toyotas. When I looked under the hood it looked more like the Manhattan Project. Any nuclear scientist worth his salt could change the oil.
Today my Japanese car works great, but I'd never "cruise to the hamburger stand" in it. It's never cranky and there's nothing I can putter with without a PhD. I can't use my comb on it. I don't even know if it HAS a carburetor.
Sure, my Lexus may run, run, run. It's just not a T Bird. It's not "Fun, fun, fun."
What was YOUR favorite car from your youth, and why? Write to me c/o Daily Sparks Tribune Editorial Dept., 1002 C St., Sparks, NV 89431, or email dan@danshermanonline.com. I'll print the responses in an upcoming column.
Dan Sherman is a nationally syndicated columnist. His website is dan@danshermanonline.com.
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