TR and I have a lot in common. We are middle-aged guys from New Jersey. We are the sons of immigrant fathers who were raised by mothers who divorced said immigrants. We both grew up middle-middle class, but in the bottom tier of that socio-economic strata so we didn't get everything we wanted as kids and from time to time we indulge ourselves with things we feel we missed out on (looking at you, Jets PSL). We now live among upper-middle class people and we're proud of what we accomplished, essentially on our own, and feel smugly (if secretly) superior to those around us who got here with minimal effort. As a result we both revel in our outsider status and brazenly flaunt our contrarian views.
That said, TR gives even fewer fucks than I do. Way fewer. His no-fuckery is downright brash at this point.
TR and I differ in several ways, many of which I learned soon after we first met. For example, TR loves everything relating to the 1970s. The depth and breadth of his knowledge of adult film is astounding--his smut scholarship is nonpareil. And attendees of Pledge Auction 1993 recall his immodesty (no matter how hard they all try).
TR loves PT Anderson movies and he LOVES "Boogie Nights." I mean, he LOVES "Boogie Nights."
TR should drive a 1977 Corvette with a 350 cube, three and a quarter horsepower, four speed, 4:10 gears, ten coats of competition orange, hand-rubbed lacquer, with a dual-plane manifold ... full fuckin' race cams, whoo.
Unfortunately, no such car exists, at least not stock OEM. By 1977, EPA standards had strangled the 350 cubic inch engine down to 180 hp. The go-fast version of the 350 only made 210 hp. There were no other engines available that year. Further, there was no color called "Competition Orange," it was "Corvette Orange."
TR would want the bigger engine. So he gets it.
This C3 is just right for TR. It's brash but vintage. It is simultaneously a workingman's car and a collector's car. Orange is the perfect color--plastered on a C3, it essentially gives his entire neighborhood of German and Swedish black or gray seven-row SUVs the middle finger. But it's still a classic car eligible for QQ plates in NJ so it passes snooty muster. None of his neighbor's dads ever drove a Corvette in the 1970s or 1980s--they were afraid of the guys who did. TR also gets T-tops because, well, they're perfect for TR. Aluminum wheels, no luggage rack. Boom.
Every American man has at least a small part of him that wants to be the louche with the cigarette and the chest hair and the gold chains and the mustache and the sex and the drugs and the rock and roll driving an orange C3 Corvette. And some of them are that guy. It’s fast and brazen and loud and self-confident and I-don’t-give-a-fuck-eriffic. That's what TR should drive.
Posts
