My sister has a '55 Buick Century station wagon: a true boat. It probably weighs about two tons as it's made of steel-wrapped steel beams.
I got to drive it today, well, yesterday. We took their two oldest kids (ages 6 and 7) to the San Diego Wild Animal Park. Along the way we stopped to pick up a trunk she'd bought on ebay which is too big for UPS shipping.
This car is so old that it's designed to take leaded gas. You have to add lead substitute supplement to your tank to make it happy. It has power steering and brakes, for which I am very grateful. I cannot imagine how hard I would have had to push on the brakes without power assist, in order to get the car to slow down at all. It's a lot like I imagine driving a harvester would be, only it tops out at 80 mph.
Oh yes, the speedometer was broken, registering 110 mph when I was going speed-of-traffic 70ish (speed limit 70). The dashboard lights never come on. The dome light is broken. The windshield wipers work when it's not raining but won't retract when it is, leaving the wipers extended. And the side-view mirror was shattered when a hit-and-run SUV sideswiped the parked wagon. The only mirror was the rear-view, which was blocked by the large chest.
We drove down in the carpool lane, which was a mistake. I spent way too much time freaking out about whether we were going to climb up the jersey barrier and flip. I'm still tense in my shoulders from steering out of leftward bumps. On the way back up, I drove in the #3 lane, which was much more calming.
It's funny: in the carpool lane, there's a solid obstacle to your left 100% of the time; in any other lane, there's one only when you're getting passed.
One night, I had a premonition that my future life would consist of endlesss hours spent in roadhouses along desert highways, listening to stupid drunk women vomiting. Tonight that premonition is fulfilled in all but the details.
We spent New Year's Eve with school friends... only they've aged and diversified. The last hour I was up listening to the drunken singing and guitar-playing of people I don't know and don't want to know. My spot on the couch was stolen by a pair of drunkards I don't care to kick off. And I've realized something about my ideal L.A.: it's empty of people. At least, if these are L.A. people, it's empty of L.A. people.
At least there weren't any terrorist attacks today.