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Wednesday, July 03, 2002


In California They Make You Drive

Why do people in convertibles always seem to be having fun? I don't think I've ever seen a soft-top Cabriolet or Le Baron shoot by without seeing the driver and passenger with heads thrown back, laughing like it was a traffic law, hair whipping into their eyes. And I stand there on the corner, waiting for the walk signal, wondering what fun I must be missing out on. Or I find myself sitting at a red light behind the wheel of my car with the permanent roof (actually, I have a sun-roof) and some Jetta pulls up next to me, the Van Morrison pouring out like Kool-Aid at an office picnic. They're not having fun--not yet. After a moment, the convertible Fahrvergnugen is unbridled and a virtual topless car wash keg party breaks out in the vehicle next to me. Hair whipping into faces (though they are at a standstill), an impromptu game of Twister, maybe three downs of slow-motion flag football. They leave a trail of scorched rubber as they speed away, sucking the sunshine into their tailpipe. Off to somewhere, fun.

My brakes squeak because I didn't pay the extra fifty dollar extortion for the "ultra-quiet" package. Squeaky brakes won't get you past the doorman at the convertible party. Trust me.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen