I always believed that the ultimate expression of yourself on the roads of our great nation was embodied by the kind of car/truck/vehicle you drove. Building up a Mercury Montego with an overdrive trans, four-wheel disc brakes and a carbon-fiber front-bumper means that I wished to be individual at any cost. (My ’64 Dodge Dart convertible–sunny, fun, inviting opinion from all observers–is a bit of a ruse in this regard, and as a crusty, recalcitrant navel-gazer I decided it wasn’t me after all. The Nissan S-Cargo that replaced it was a far better fit, both metaphorically and physically.) Is it possible to drive a VW Microbus without some sort of Grateful Dead, anti-war or hippie-tinged sticker or slogan plastered on it somewhere? (Maybe, now that these are $100,000 vans when restored right.) Drive an SRT-badged Mopar, and your intentions are pretty clear. Drive a ’98 Pontiac Grand Am with mismatched body panels, and likely you can’t afford anything else, or don’t care enough about cars to drive anything more interesting.
Apparently, I am in the minority in this opinion, because since time immemorial people have chosen to spell it out for me–in the form of signs and stickers plastered all over their car’s hinders.
To stick or not to stick, that is the question in front of Hemmings readers today.
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