Well, oiled, that's what you are
Come on, and ride, in my muscle car

I have written before that I love driving. Indeed, I adore being in my car. My car, is nothing particularly special to anyone but me. It is about the right size for me, with enough get up and go to give me a thrill, and quality braking to suffer through my (rare!) occasions of poor driving. While I have never wanted a Lamborghini or even a Porsche, I have often coveted the power that such cars represent on the road.

Lately, I have noticed that my taste in cars has taken a certain turn. It appears that I have finally started channeling my inner bogan from my somewhat repressed youth. I seem to be finding muscle cars and similar, a turn-on. It scares me somewhat to find myself leering appreciatively at a Torana (restored to its glory) pull up beside me on the road. I can hardly contain myself in the presence of a XY Falcon GT. A Ford Mustang Coupe (65 vintage) is the auto equivalent of a wet dream. An even the association with a Nicholas Cage movie cannot turn me off a Ford Shelby.

Surely this degeneration into such cars is not a slight on my otherwise "classy" persona? But if I should ever decide that a mullet is the haircut du jour - all are given permission to shoot me on sight!