Apart from a rooting interest in the major professional sports and an inability to dress with anything approaching “style” (or even “color coordination”) I have spent my whole life as a dismal failure in the matter of exhibiting most of the markers of traditional American masculinity. I don’t lift weights or play glorified forms of catch or enjoy strip clubs or shoot guns or know which highways get you to places faster or mow lawns or like or own or possess the ability to differentiate between tools or even know what they would be handy for. I prefer wine to beer. But my red-bloodedness has been especially deficient in my utter lack of shit-giving when it comes to cars. I do not care about cars one bit. I will drive them, although I prefer not to, but I don’t have opinions one way or the other. Cars do not get me hot. They do not fuel my dreams or desires. I do not equate them with any kind of potency, virility or other penile signifiers. They are devices to transport one from a place to another place, and hopefully they have a decent radio in them, but otherwise, whatever. That said, there was a brief moment in 1989 where the one thing I wanted more than anything else was a blue Miata. Everyone did. It was that kind of car and that kind of country. And now we are all content to sit in our homes looking at tiny screens showing video of amusing children and adorable animals that complete strangers have taken on their phones, while outside our windows the planet slowly strangles itself in response to all the poisons we are shooting into the air. Young people don’t even want to drive anymore, which makes sense because where are they going to go, every place is terrible and shabby and sad and apparently nothing can compete with the mindless joy of crushing pixelated diamonds or sharing genitalia pictures with friends. Where was I? Oh, right, the Miata. I never got one, but it seemed like it would be a fun thing to drive. And now it’s old. Like me.