![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I was stupid. I should have read the FAQs before getting all excited. The Online D&D game will not be released for the Mac and it looks like there are no plans to ever do so. My application to be an alpha tester must have gone right in the garbage.
Apr. 21st, 2005
Should we candy-apple the civic?
Apr. 21st, 2005 06:36 pmNot many people understand my love of cars. Especially now that I live in the big city surrounded by people who grew up in the city or suburbs. Cars are just things that take you from one place to another. Or they are status symbols, something to have the latest model of but not important in and of themselves.
I came of age in the middle of nowhere. For me, cars became inexorably tied up with freedom and personal statement. I always feel like I can tell something about a person by what they drive. It is surprising how much in common the cheerleader daughter of a wealthy farmer in her TransAm has with a real estate agent in her Escalade.
Being a designer and artist my eye is always drawn to cars that say something. Something about speed, or form, or motion. Classic cars are my favorites. They wear the era of their creation in their lines and under their hoods. In the way they sound and handle. A 1959 Crown Victoria drives unlike anything made today and nothing will ever drive that way again.
My eye is also caught by cars that have been customized. Blinged out cars are just gross, but a car that has had subtle body work and a custom paint job always catches my imagination. I love going to the western store in Renton because there is a sizable hispanic population and customizing cars seems to be a passion for many mexican americans. A lot of the customization is derivative so even thought it is fun, it is not really art (though a great deal of artistry goes into the skills that actually did the customization.) Sometimes though, a car pulls up next to us that makes my heart beat just a little faster. I couldn't tell you the difference between a car that is just tricked out and one that has been reshaped by someone who understand that cars mean something beyond their wheels and engines, but it is there.
My real love though is cars that are inherently beautiful as they roll off the assembly line.
Many years ago when I lived in West Seattle, I was down at the beach and stumbled across a classic car show. There at the front of the show was the car that, for me, distills the essence of what a car is. It was a 1965 Mustang Convertible. Whimbledon White with a black interior. I dated a guy for awhile that owned one just like it. I still miss that car.
I looked at the other cars but my eyes kept finding the Mustang. And then I saw the raffle booth. The prize was the Mustang. Now, I was broke. That seems to be my natural state. It was made worse by the fact that my partner of 5 years had moved out a few week before so all the bills for the apartment were on my shoulders. I bought one anyway. Just one. There were not many people at the car show so I figured my chances were pretty good. So good that I became really stressed on the bus ride home. What if I won? What was thinking? I had no way to properly care for a classic car! My little pickup was parked out behind the building under a tree that shed sap all the time. I would have to get a car cover. Did they still make them for 1965 Mustangs? Maybe I should rent a garage for it. I was almost home when I saw the fine print. The drawing would be held in several months after the car show had been all over Western Washington.
There was something different about this ticket though. I knew it. I had the winning ticket. I knew it deep down where I hold tight to my dreams long after they have had their horns broken off. I pinned the raffle ticket to my bulletin board. I wasn't going to loose this ticket, or send it through the wash or any of the other fates that befall small pieces of paper.
It is still there.
They will call someday. I know they will.
I came of age in the middle of nowhere. For me, cars became inexorably tied up with freedom and personal statement. I always feel like I can tell something about a person by what they drive. It is surprising how much in common the cheerleader daughter of a wealthy farmer in her TransAm has with a real estate agent in her Escalade.
Being a designer and artist my eye is always drawn to cars that say something. Something about speed, or form, or motion. Classic cars are my favorites. They wear the era of their creation in their lines and under their hoods. In the way they sound and handle. A 1959 Crown Victoria drives unlike anything made today and nothing will ever drive that way again.
My eye is also caught by cars that have been customized. Blinged out cars are just gross, but a car that has had subtle body work and a custom paint job always catches my imagination. I love going to the western store in Renton because there is a sizable hispanic population and customizing cars seems to be a passion for many mexican americans. A lot of the customization is derivative so even thought it is fun, it is not really art (though a great deal of artistry goes into the skills that actually did the customization.) Sometimes though, a car pulls up next to us that makes my heart beat just a little faster. I couldn't tell you the difference between a car that is just tricked out and one that has been reshaped by someone who understand that cars mean something beyond their wheels and engines, but it is there.
My real love though is cars that are inherently beautiful as they roll off the assembly line.
Many years ago when I lived in West Seattle, I was down at the beach and stumbled across a classic car show. There at the front of the show was the car that, for me, distills the essence of what a car is. It was a 1965 Mustang Convertible. Whimbledon White with a black interior. I dated a guy for awhile that owned one just like it. I still miss that car.
I looked at the other cars but my eyes kept finding the Mustang. And then I saw the raffle booth. The prize was the Mustang. Now, I was broke. That seems to be my natural state. It was made worse by the fact that my partner of 5 years had moved out a few week before so all the bills for the apartment were on my shoulders. I bought one anyway. Just one. There were not many people at the car show so I figured my chances were pretty good. So good that I became really stressed on the bus ride home. What if I won? What was thinking? I had no way to properly care for a classic car! My little pickup was parked out behind the building under a tree that shed sap all the time. I would have to get a car cover. Did they still make them for 1965 Mustangs? Maybe I should rent a garage for it. I was almost home when I saw the fine print. The drawing would be held in several months after the car show had been all over Western Washington.
There was something different about this ticket though. I knew it. I had the winning ticket. I knew it deep down where I hold tight to my dreams long after they have had their horns broken off. I pinned the raffle ticket to my bulletin board. I wasn't going to loose this ticket, or send it through the wash or any of the other fates that befall small pieces of paper.
It is still there.
They will call someday. I know they will.