"Excuses are the nails that build the house failure."

Paul Bunyan's Beard

The Way Way Back Seat.  A Traveler's Luxury.

The Way Way Back Seat. A Traveler's Luxury.

Step Aside, King Arthur, and behold the one true Throne.  The backseat of a station wagon.

I can only imagine that the one thing Your Highness and I have in common is that the feeling he must have had standing defiantly over the stone, whence the sword had been pulled, was the exact same feeling I had when I planted my rear end onto the back bench seat of a wagon.

That station wagon was my kingdom, its passengers and all surrounding traffic my subjects.  Bow to your King!

What a glorious feature for an automobile.  The back seat was so highly regarded that it didn't even face the same direction as the other seats in the car.  You were granted a view upon the lands of which you had so recently conquered.  

From time to time luck would shine its warm bright light upon your face, and a passing trucker would grace your presence.  And just like that, you became a puppeteer of the highest caliber.  Go on, raise your fist and pull down with confidence knowing that you will be rewarded with the blaring honk of a semi's horn.  Now toast to your victory!  Indulge yourself with that little plastic jug of Sunny D resting at your side and get drunk on the unacceptable amount of sugars which it provides!

Your powers know no boundaries.  Flex the muscles of freedom you have at your disposal.  Quick!  A family of four is inching ever closer.  Shall you give them the finger?  Perhaps a pair of quaint hams against the window will do the trick.  It matters little.  You will elicit a response of utter disgust either way.

You know, if I had enough disposable income I swear to you I'd find an old station wagon, purchase that majestic machine, hire a random guy as my chauffeur, and have him drive me around as I sat in the back with my buddies and relived all the tales of old.

The setup was almost too good to be true.  Your dad was too far away to smack you and if he yelled something you were too far away to even entertain his threats.  You were on an island.  An island comprised of fake leather and magic.

I pray to all the ghosts of car manufacturer's past that they bring back that splendid saddle of the station wagon.  And when they do, you can bet your pretty little ass that I'll be sprawled out in that back seat slamming down one Sunny D after another.

Ride on.


You're Too Big For Your Britches....Music (Part II)

You're Too Big For Your Britches....Music (Part II)

Late Night Strings....A Lay-Low Playlist