I have a theory that the cleanliness of one’s car is reflexive of the state of one’s affairs in life. Quite a simple idea, really. Perhaps a bit too obvious at first glance. Yet like Meis van der Rohe’s “less is more” Seagram building ; “…its aesthetic impact on the elegance of its proportions and …verticality” (Allen Temko Horizon Sept. ’56) is brought to dawn.
For example I enter brief recollections of my first driving experiences as a licensed youth; seemingly related to encounters with women:
1987 Brightly tarnished canary yellow Escort. First Car. Black interior. Dad and I repair the floor so I don’t feel like Barney Rubble. Keep car clean.
Noticed girl-friend has incredibly hairy bush while on swings at park. Scared by implications. She collects her toe-nails.
Wreck car in blinding sun. Hood folds in slow-motion. Not my fault
1988 Drive dad’s car and burn out clutch on way to pick up date for prom. Wearing new suit. Was model for group of black guys at mall, manager wanted to show his keen sense of fashion to buddies. I am pleased with advice and meeting. An uncle rescues date and I. We get to boogie.
Mother picks us up in Decorator Den business van. All 3 vehicles are clean, yet I have to sit on large swatches on way to returning date.
1989 Inherit the Red Camaro with white interior and tape deck. Uncle and friends imbue her with good vibes. Car is straight up teeth. Keep car clean . Cheese puff balls spill in dash vent, would hover while air turned up high.
Made a girl laugh so hard she peed her pants in car.
Offer suggestion to police while accosted during beer slamming session in parking lot, to “lock my keys in the trunk and walk away from this whole experience. Break in car after teen-dance club, and rip back seat out to get to keys.
‘Cops R us Interuptus’ late at night rebounding with hairy pussy girl in parking lot.