scratch the crack and smell the fumes, dude
by Michele Christopher
So I get an email from a long lost friend today: "When are you going to talk about Mustangs??"
I once had a Mustang. Unforunately, it was of the 77 variety, produced during a time when perhaps Ford thought Mustang was synomous with "looks like Dad's car!" I did love that thing, and driving a stick was one of the greatest autombile pleasure of my life, but it wasn't, you know, a Mustang.
Let's talk real Mustangs.
There ya go. This here is a 1970 Ford Mustang of the Mach I variety. Unlike the previous cars I've talked about - where I envisioned myself driving them - this one is pure testosterone. It's a guy's car. If cars were dicks, the Mach I one would belong to John Holmes. It's the kind of car I might not drive, but would keep in my driveway and spend every Saturday afternoon lovingly soaping it up and hosing it down while entertaining the neighborhood with Mach I worthy tunes.
In the denim buggies across the dunes,