Owning and driving an old car---if it's by choice---is a lifestyle sort of thing. Like going to thrift stores instead of the mall for clothes; not because you can't afford new jeans but because you are a scavenger, an adventurer, a conservationist. Old cars give you endless trouble, but there is nothing cooler or more fun than pulling up to church or a busy gas station in a rusty, modified, tattered hot-rod-of-sorts. I reality you end up spending significantly less money and significantly more time in repairs and upkeep...but you get the added bonus of learning how to keep it on the road through your own resourcefulness. And the occasional mechanical breakdowns give you an excuse to notice things around you that you wouldn't have while whizzing by; you gain an appreciation for what you have and a confidence in your ability to deal with a tough situation. Pain and accomplishment. Frustration and satisfaction. And you feel as if you really have the right be proud because there is sweat, fatigue, tears, blood, and laughter wrapped up that car...you have worked on it, hated it, burst with pride over it, slept in it, cursed at it, caressed it, and ignored it...and you tell yourself you could live without it if you had to...but deep down there is no way you could be satisfied driving something of a lesser complexity, something with less aged class, less subtle seduction. It's a choice and a way of living; and it's something of an art. Something both wonderful and foolish; tragic and beautiful; perhaps even poetic.