Christine, wherever you are, please take 'em up!

Have you ever been driving a F-150 through the desert at dawn? Watching the full moon four times bigger as you watch it in the city? It doesn't matter, if you can drive a car you may have your perfect driving moment and you may still be keeping to yourself, because it is kind of a zen experience you don't want to ruin by sharing it with a stranger.

Anyway, I should thank first Stephen King for introducing me to the then unknown pleasures of driving at the tender age of 13. I read his best-seller Christine, and boy did my life change after that. I thought I could relate a lot to Arnie Cunningham, who always had to put up with tons of misery until he found a little happiness and then his life force would be taken from him for good.

But he was driving the perfect car: a red-white '58 Plymouth Fury. Made just for him. Oh, did I tell you before how much I like rock 'n roll? Every time I see a fiftysomething Chevrolet Bel-Air, a Pontiac or an old Studebaker, I remember immediatly:

From the Beach Boys to the Beatles to Jan and Dean and a very long et cetera, driving a cool car and rock 'n roll music belong together. But not anymore. In the name of political correctness and enviromentalism, we have to endure this:

Driving a car won't be as fun as it used to be. Thanks for nothing, GM.

Christine, wherever you are, please take 'em up!