(before you read my long rambling bit, go read Mir’s plea for boobie support. Boobies are always better than anything I could write. Don’t worry, my rambling will still be here when you get back)

Anyway, when I was fifteen, my parents agreed to let me purchase an automobile. This was a Big Deal because they had said “no fucking way” or something along those same lines. I think somebody convinced them it might help me learn responsibility and accountability and things like that. This was the days before Oprah or Dr. Phil or internet chat rooms so I’m guessing it was Redbook or something that had a “how to get your teen to be more responsible” column.

Anyway, they let me buy a car. I had to earn money. I dug through the want-ads. I found it – a 1965 Mustang. White. Stick shift. Classic. $1,500.

We went and drove it (it was in one of the semi-scary neighborhoods on the east side of Dallas. At least, it was semi-scary to a white guy like me, who knew only the sheltered suburbs up to that point.) They agreed to take $1,100 if I paid cash. Deal.

They brought the car and parked it on the street. First thing it needed was – brakes. The thing had no emergency brake (couldn’t hold the car on a slight incline, like a driveway). Then it needed an exhaust system. And, well, a battery. It passed inspection. I was allowed to drive it when I got my license.

Freedom! That’s what this car meant. Freedom to, um, spend a lot of money with a mechanic.

Electrical system? First time it rained the windshield wipers stopped working. “Needs a new wiring harness.” First hot day? Radiator blew a hole. A hole. With steam pouring out. “Needs a new cooling system.” Also? Needed a transmission. Tires. Stereo. The brake pedal’s spring was worn out, so if you weren’t careful, the brake lights would stay on while it was parked. Say, in a parking lot. And then the battery would be dead. It wouldn’t start on cold days, or warm days, or any day you had to be somewhere in a hurry.

I loved that car.

Well, like all good things, this came to an end. I traded the car to a guy named “Froggy” for a motorcycle. We both thought we had the better end of the deal. (He wrecked the car, I later sold the motorcycle to a guy that tried to ride it to California and it died somewhere in a desert, he was rescued by a cropduster. Really)

Oh, yeah, why I’m feeling a little old? I realized that my car. My Honda. That we bought with 10 miles on the odometer? Is older than my classic mustang was when I bought it. Has more miles, too. By the time my son is old enough to drive, my car will be equivalent that a 57 Chevy was to me when I was his age.