Lissa and I went to a car show Saturday. This was an unexpected pleasure.
We went because the article in the newspaper mentioned restored travel trailers, which are a hoot. It’s always been a fantasy of Lissa’s to buy a little old ’50s or early ’60s trailer and restore it. So we drove on over to Rio Rancho to see the car show that had the trailers. And the trailers were nice, for sure, six of ’em lovingly restored. But the car show – that was the attraction.
As we walked up and down the rows of impeccable autos, it occurred to me that this was some sort of quintessential American art form – the perfect upholstery, the shiny lacquered paint. The aesthetic is rich and complex – why a load of old ’60s Mustangs, but no Astin Martins? Why a Dodge Challenger (“the last American hero, the electric sintar, the demi-god, the super driver of the golden west”) rather than a Jaguar? And the wheels, almost always mags, rather than the stock? And one of these.