This morning I pull into work as normal, at my normal time, in a normal mood. But what should confront me? 1985 apparently. I mean, I'm not usually one to pick on others for what they do to their cars. Fuzzy dice from the rearview? I get the irony or sense of nostalgia. Truck nuts? Why the hell not?
But the car bra, for some reason, has always bothered me. It bothers me even worse now, 20 years since I last saw a mullet-driven Datsun 200Z sputtering down the road.
I guess I should get over it, I mean, the bra, more than truck nuts certainly, serves some kind of useful purpose. It, at the very least, shows us who did not get over their 80s-era car fetishes.