I went to Tennessee last weekend. My family has an old farm up there. We don't grow anything there anymore; there aren't chickens or dogs or cows. There's an ancient tractor that - unbelievably - still works. A house that mostly still works, and some barns that don't. It's all very nice. I'm ashamed to say this, but I'm very much a city boy now. That's done something truly unfortunate to my soul, because something about the wild human essence is undone by the city. It's a tragedy. Going back to my family's roots up in the Tennessee boondocks reminds me that I've let go of something precious while I've become a worldly metrosexual. Here's an example. Here in Atlanta, the night sky often holds the moon, Jupiter, a few of the most extroverted stars, a gazillion airplanes, and the glaring glow of the city lights. Up at the farm, I could see the entirety of the freaking universe - or at least the half of it visible from the Northern Hemisphere. Human progress has removed that spectacle from the ever-increasing chunk of our population that's been sucked into urbanity. Progress, indeed.
Look at my taste in cars for more evidence of my urbanization. I love the fast ones with big grip in corners, six speeds, a clutch pedal, a low center of gravity, and an engine that spins at near relativistic speeds. I like coupes, sedans, hatchbacks, sport wagons, and crossovers. Last weekend, I didn't see many of those. I think we had the only Honda Civic EX Coupe in the whole of Humphreys County. Everyone else had a truck. Rams, Silverados, F-150s, Titans, Tundras, Tacomas, Rangers... These are the wheels of America's put-your-back-into-it men and women. Five or six times a year, I'm overcome by a love affair with the truck. This is one of those times. Hand me the cash, and I'll go out and come back with an F-150 SVT Raptor. It won't be my zippy sports chariot; it'll be my throne, the seat of power with a commanding view over any street or offroad trail. It's the same up in the mountains. Appalachian, Rocky, or Sierra Nevada, it's all trucks and Subarus: cars that mean business.
Give me a week, and my love affair will have waned. I'll return to my long-term relationship with the likes of the BMW 135i, the Ford Focus RS, and the Volvo XC60. Like I said, it's a tragedy.
Look at my taste in cars for more evidence of my urbanization. I love the fast ones with big grip in corners, six speeds, a clutch pedal, a low center of gravity, and an engine that spins at near relativistic speeds. I like coupes, sedans, hatchbacks, sport wagons, and crossovers. Last weekend, I didn't see many of those. I think we had the only Honda Civic EX Coupe in the whole of Humphreys County. Everyone else had a truck. Rams, Silverados, F-150s, Titans, Tundras, Tacomas, Rangers... These are the wheels of America's put-your-back-into-it men and women. Five or six times a year, I'm overcome by a love affair with the truck. This is one of those times. Hand me the cash, and I'll go out and come back with an F-150 SVT Raptor. It won't be my zippy sports chariot; it'll be my throne, the seat of power with a commanding view over any street or offroad trail. It's the same up in the mountains. Appalachian, Rocky, or Sierra Nevada, it's all trucks and Subarus: cars that mean business.
Give me a week, and my love affair will have waned. I'll return to my long-term relationship with the likes of the BMW 135i, the Ford Focus RS, and the Volvo XC60. Like I said, it's a tragedy.
Posts
