Mustang Car Quotes

You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

I like storms. Thunder torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain. Don't ask me why. But it’s like this whole other realm of opportunity. I used to feel like a superhero, riding my bike over the dangerously slick roads, or maybe an Olympic athlete enduring rough trials to make it to the finish line. On sunny days, as a girl, I could still wake up to that thrilled feeling. You made me giddy with expectation, just like a symphonic rainstorm. You were a tempest in the sun, the thunder in a boring, cloudless sky. I remember I’d shovel in my breakfast as fast as I could, so I could go knock on your door. We’d play all day, only coming back for food and sleep. We played hide and seek, you’d push me on the swing, or we’d climb trees. Being your sidekick gave me a sense of home again. You see, when I was ten, my mom died. She had cancer, and I lost her before I really knew her. My world felt so insecure, and I was scared. You were the person that turned things right again. With you, I became courageous and free. It was like the part of me that died with my mom came back when I met you, and I didn’t hurt if I knew I had you. Then one day, out of the blue, I lost you, too. The hurt returned, and I felt sick when I saw you hating me. My rainstorm was gone, and you became cruel. There was no explanation. You were just gone. And my heart was ripped open. I missed you. I missed my mom. What was worse than losing you, was when you started to hurt me. Your words and actions made me hate coming to school. They made me uncomfortable in my own home. Everything still hurts, but I know none of it is my fault. There are a lot of words that I could use to describe you, but the only one that includes sad, angry, miserable, and pitiful is “coward.” I a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

Mrs. Winalski owned a candy-apple-red 1965 Mustang GT convertible, and she drove it like she could die at any minute and needed to get five things done before that happened.

You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all of those things, and I loved you. But now…you’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

I really couldn't see what the Socs would have to sweat about - good grades, good cars, good girls, madras and Mustangs and Corvairs - Man, I thought, if I had worries like that I'd consider myself lucky. I know better now.

You can start by wiping that fucking dumb-ass smile off your rosey, fucking, cheeks! Then you can give me a fucking automobile... a fucking Datsun, a fucking Toyota, a fucking Mustang, a fucking Buick! Four fucking wheels and a seat! And I really don't care for the way your company left me in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking keys to a fucking car that isn't fucking there. And I really didn't care to fucking walk down a fucking highway and across a fucking runway to get back here to have you smile at my fucking face. I want a fucking car RIGHT FUCKING NOW!

Just then the Mustang made a loud clanking noise and started to vibrate. Hastily shoving his coffee in the drink holder, Alex peered down at the dashoard. None of the warning lights came on, But then with alarming speed the vibration got worse the car jolting back and forth. " Oh, you ancient piece of crap,

I felt a tickle on my skin; it took me a moment to realize that Cole was driving his die-cast Mustang up my arm. He was laughing to himself, hushed and infectious, as if there was still any reason to be quiet. He turned the car around at my shoulder and headed back down to my hand, the wheels skidding a bit when he laughed. I thought it was the truest thing I'd ever heard from Cole St. Clair.

Liam “Lee” Nightingale could hotwire any car going. He had both a Mustang and a motorcycle, started smoking when he was thirteen, was rumored to be able to get a girl pregnant by just looking at her and was also voted Best Smile.

A CUL-DE-SAC in a working-class neighborhood in Arlington, Virginia, a little after midnight. It is a warm fall night after a rain. The air moves uneasily ahead of a cold front. In the smell of wet earth and leaves, a cricket is playing a tune. He falls silent as a big vibration reaches him, the muffled boom of a 5.0-liter Mustang with steel tube headers turning into the cul-de-sac, followed by a federal marshal’s car. The two cars pull into the driveway of a neat duplex and stop. The Mustang shudders a little at idle. When the engine goes silent, the cricket waits a moment and resumes his tune, his last before the frost, his last ever.

You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all of those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

Through Jimi Hendrix's music you can almost see the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and of Martin Luther King Junior, the beginnings of the Berlin Wall, Yuri Gagarin in space, Fidel Castro and Cuba, the debut of Spiderman, Martin Luther King Junior’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, Ford Mustang cars, anti-Vietnam protests, Mary Quant designing the mini-skirt, Indira Gandhi becoming the Prime Minister of India, four black students sitting down at a whites-only lunch counter in Greensboro North Carolina, President Johnson pushing the Civil Rights Act, flower children growing their hair long and practicing free love, USA-funded IRA blowing up innocent civilians on the streets and in the pubs of Great Britain, Napalm bombs being dropped on the lush and carpeted fields of Vietnam, a youth-driven cultural revolution in Swinging London, police using tear gas and billy-clubs to break up protests in Chicago, Mods and Rockers battling on Brighton Beach, Native Americans given the right to vote in their own country, the United Kingdom abolishing the death penalty, and the charismatic Argentinean Marxist revolutionary Che Guevara. It’s all in Jimi’s absurd and delirious guitar riffs.

It was the gift that every girl dreams of, to be dead long enough for your parents to realize how meaningless their lives were without you, how they were suddenly and at once deeply sorrowed at all of the horrible injustices they caused you, how they had truly never appreciated your natural gifts of beauty and grace, being that their beautiful angel would have such a short time on earth and should have spent that time driving the restored 1965 convertible Mustang she had openly AND PUBLICLY desired. But nope, she spent her last, short, fleeting moments driving a 1980 Chevy Citation, every so clearly a GRANDMA car, with fake red-velvet upholstery, a hatchback, and an interior that smelled like spoiled milk and sometimes meat. Being temporarily run over by a car was the best present I had ever received, and I didn't even have to do anything dramatic to get it, like write a note or buy some rope.

What looks good to you?” he asked as if we were out for ice cream. Rocky road or pistachio? Like my Corvette sitting back in the shop, he had a penchant for American-made classics, the ones Detroit had long-since forgotten it once knew how to make. Slowly, I walked around looking at each one—the acid green Shelby Mustang with white racing stripes, the powder blue Ford Fairlane, the black Chevy Bel-Air— each in pristine condition and only because his blood and sweat coursed through them as surely as gasoline. But if he was serious that I could take my pick and drive it out of here, there was only one choice for me: the cherry red 1955 Ford Bronco.

No. That’s not what I want. You would have to go all in. We would go out to dinner, see movies, call each other, text. I’d work on your car—you know, the Mustang you left at my house earlier this week—install gadgets you don’t need ’cause you’re my girl. You might come to the Winston place and hang out with us boys. This would be both of us, all in for all twelve months—or less if we find we don’t suit.

Justice and honesty and loyalty are not properties of this world, she thought; and then, by God, she rammed her old enemy, her ancient foe, the Coca-Cola truck, which went right on going without noticing. The impact spun her small car around; her headlights dimmed out, horrible noises of fender against tire shrieked, and then she was off the freeway onto the emergency strip, facing the other direction, water pouring from her radiator, with motorists slowing down to gape. Come back, you motherfucker, she said to herself, but the Coca-Cola truck was long gone, probably undented. Maybe a scratch. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, her war, her taking on a symbol and a reality that outweighed her. Now my insurance rates will go up, she realized as she climbed from her car. In this world you pay for tilting with evil in cold, hard cash. A late-model Mustang slowed and the driver, a man, called to her, “You want a ride, miss?” She did not answer. She just kept on going. A small figure on foot facing an infinity of oncoming lights.

In my classes, we read great fiction obsessively, and then attempt to see how a writer managed to affect us. We try to understand which elements—diction, syntax, point of view and so forth—made us feel that way. After we spend several weeks reading this way, wondering how the author made us shiver like that, we try our own hand. I ask students to begin with ‘green lines,’ to isolate writing so good it makes one writer envious of another. Which parts do they wish they had written themselves? Students start to understand how their own writing works, where it ripples with energy… What they really want is to have some kind of firsthand, visceral relationship with a book—to see what it’s like to take a work apart and put it back together—using great stories as structural models, just the way the kids I grew up with in Detroit fell in love with cars by spending weekends trying to make derelict Ford Mustangs run again. When the engine finally starts, when you figure out how to make it fire, it’s an incredibly powerful learning experience.

In a year, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be nothing but some washout whose height of existence was in high school. You were my tempest, my thunder cloud, my tree in the downpour. I loved all those things, and I loved you. But now? You’re a fucking drought. I thought that all the assholes drove German cars, but it turns out that pricks in Mustangs can still leave scars.

Is this a date? Are you on a date with him? And who the hell’s car is this?” Before I can answer, Genevieve makes a move toward me, which I dodge. I run behind the pillar. “Don’t be such a baby, Lara Jean,” she says. “Just accept that you lose and I win!” I peek from behind the pillar, and John is giving me a look--a look that says, Get in. Quickly I nod. Then he throws open the passenger door, and I run for it, as fast as I can. I’ve barely got the door closed before he’s driving off, Peter and Gen in our dust. I turn back to look. Peter is staring after us, his mouth open. He’s jealous, and I’m glad. “Thanks for the save,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard. John is looking straight ahead, a broad smile on his face. “Anytime.” We stop at a stoplight, and he turns his head and looks at me, and then we’re looking at each other, laughing like crazy, and I’m breathless again. “Did you see the looks on their faces?” John gasps, dropping his head on the steering wheel. “It was classic!” “Like a movie!” He grins at me, jubilant, blue eyes alight. “Just like a movie,” I agree, leaning my head back against the seat and opening my eyes wide up at the moon, so wide it hurts. I’m in a red Mustang convertible sitting next to a boy in uniform, and the night air feels like cool satin on my skin, and all the stars are out, and I’m happy. The way John is still grinning to himself, I know he is too. We got to play make-believe for the night.

I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top down--with John McClaren at the wheel. My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe. “Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it. “Whose car is this?” Kitty demands. “It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean--” He breaks off and looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so…real.” “It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick. “I know--I mean, it looks authentic.” “So do you,” I say. “Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-side door. “Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you want to get in the driver’s seat?” Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm casually draped over the steering wheel. John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did you ever get that uniform?” “I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?” “No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.” He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?” I flush. “I do. I think you look…super.

We'd reached the parking lot. Alex stopped. "You drive to school?" I demanded. He gestured me ahead of him through the break in the chain fence. "We don't all live five blocks away," he shot back. "It's eight, actually." "Fine,eight. And sometimes I walk." I pictured the stretch between Willing and Society Hill, where I knew he lived somewhere near Sadie. It was quite a distance, and not a particularly scenic one, especially at seven thirty in the morning. "Yeah? When was the last time?" He didn't answer immediately, leading the way now between the parked cars. He passed a big Jeep that still had its dealer plates, a low-slung-two-door Lexus, and a sick black BMW that all looked like just the sort of cars he would own. "April of last year," he admitted finally. "But it pissed rain on me the whole time, so that's gotta count for something." He stopped by the dented passenger door of an old green Mustang. "Your carriage, my lady." "Really? This is your car?" The door made a very scary sound when he opened it. "It's clean," he snapped, and I realized he'd totally missed my point. "It's amazing.

back. She knew she was lucky to have a job but she didn’t feel lucky. She felt depressed. Sad. Tired. And most of all, confused. She knew this was the week of Ruth Ann’s trial. There hadn’t been any press coverage yet, but she remembered the date. She had wanted to call Rick and wish him luck. In fact, she had picked up the phone several times and started to dial the number, but she just couldn’t go through with it. Not after all the things they had said to each other. She opened the back door to the office and stepped out into the night. The parking lot was barren except for her white Mustang, and the only sounds she heard were the passing of cars on Greensboro a few blocks up. She shut the door behind her, putting the key in the dead bolt and twisting it. “Kinda late for a pretty girl like you to be out.” Dawn turned to the sound of the voice, her stomach tightening into a knot. The lot was sparsely lit, and for a moment she didn’t see him. Then, standing by her Mustang, she saw a tall man dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt. As he stepped toward her, she noticed that his hair was sandy blond and he had a patch of stubble on his face. “Can I help you?” Dawn asked, her voice shaky. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone but then remembered that the battery was dead. Damn, damn, damn. The man was in front of her now. He had continued to approach as if his appearance were completely natural.

Business leadership is based on two elements: vision and technical competence. Top people in a given industry always embody at least one of those two elements. Sometimes, but rarely, they embody both of them. Simply put, vision is the ability to see what other people don’t. It’s a Ford executive named Lee Iacocca realizing that a market existed for an automobile that was both a racing car and a street vehicle—and coming up with the Mustang. It’s Steven Jobs realizing that computers needed to be sold in a single box, like a television sets, instead of piece by piece. About one hundred years ago, Walter Chrysler was a plant manager for a locomotive company. Then he decided to go into the car business, which was a hot new industry at the time. The trouble was, Walter Chrysler didn’t know a lot about cars, except that they were beginning to outnumber horses on the public roadways. To remedy this problem, Chrysler bought one of the Model T Fords that were becoming so popular. To learn how it worked, he took it apart and put it back together. Then, just to be sure he understood everything, he repeated this. Then, to be absolutely certain he knew what made a car work, he took it apart and put it together forty-eight more times, for a grand total of fifty. By the time he was finished, Chrysler not only had a vision of thousands of cars on American highways, he also had the mechanical details of those cars engraved in his consciousness. Perhaps you’ve seen the play called The Music Man. It’s about a fast-talking man who arrives in a small town with the intention of hugely upgrading a marching band. However, he can’t play any instruments, doesn’t know how to lead a band, and doesn’t really have any musical skills whatsoever. The Music Man is a comedy, but it’s not totally unrealistic. Some managers in the computer industry don’t know how to format a document. Some automobile executives could not change a tire. There was once even a vice president who couldn’t spell potato. It’s not a good idea to lack the fundamental technical skills of your industry, and it’s really not a good idea to get caught lacking them. So let’s see what you can do to avoid those problems.

oaks, the forest opened up and we flew in an oval pattern around the scene. The grille of a blue Mustang was nosed up against an earthen barrier, the vehicle’s doors open. Two bodies, both male, were sprawled nearby in the grass. Between the long drying sheds, three gray, refrigerated semitrailers were lined nose to tail like elephants on parade. The truck windows and windshields were shot through and spiderwebbed. Behind the last semi was a black Dodge Viper with two dead men in the front seat. The pilot landed out by the highway, where a perimeter had been established. After checking in with the Virginia State Police lieutenant and the county sheriff, we went to the crime scene on foot. It was hot. Insects buzzed and drummed in the forest around the tobacco facility. Truck engines idling swallowed the sound of blowflies gathering around the Viper. “They’ve swept their way out again,” Mahoney said when we were ten yards from the Dodge. I looked at the glistening dirt road between the Viper and us. I saw faint grooves in the moist dirt and said, “Or raked.” The door to the muscle car was ajar. The window was down. The driver had taken a slug through the back of the skull, left occipital. Blood spattered the windshield and almost covered two bullet holes, one exiting, and one entering. The passenger in the Viper had been rocked back, his left eye a bloody socket and a spray of carnage behind him.

When I wrote The Betsy, I spent a lot of time in Detroit with the Ford family. The old man running the place had supplied me with Fords, a Mustang, that station wagon we still have…. After he read the book and I was flying home from New York the day after it was published, he made a phone call to the office on Sunset and asked for all the cars to be returned. I guess he didn’t like the book.

I press the button and it opens. My fingers find the handle of the gun I’d seen stashed in here the first time I rode in this car. It’s easy to pick it up—too easy—and though the gun feels heavy in my grasp, it feels right too. I lift it and point towards the windshield. I picture the guys. One by one. Standing in a line in front of the twin beams of light pouring from the Mustang’s headlights.

two flatbed tow trucks lumbered down the driveway. Each with a covered vehicle on the back. They pulled up in front of the house and positioned themselves to unload the vehicles. The man in the first truck got out and said, “This Stargazer Ranch?” Jack replied, “Yeah.” “You the owner, Jack Turner?” “Yeah.” “Delivery’s for you, man.” Jack and Caleb came off the porch, staring at the trucks and the man. “Whose cars are these?” “Yours. Sign here, please.” Jack signed and the man got out two pink slips. “Who gets the Camaro?” Caleb and Jack looked at each other blankly. “She didn’t,” Caleb blurted. “If the she you’re referring to goes by Jenna Caldwell, then yes, she did,” the delivery man said. “Uh, the Camaro is mine, I guess.” Jack couldn’t believe it. She bought him a car. “Okay, sign here.” Jack did and took the pink slip. “Is the Mustang for you?” the delivery man asked Caleb. Caleb opened his mouth, closed it, then said still unsure, “Uh, yeah, I guess it is.” “Sign here and we’ll get them unloaded.” “Jack, she bought me a car. Why did she buy me a car?” Stunned, they could only stare. “This can’t be real. People don’t buy other people cars. Not like this.” “I don’t know. She bought me one, too,” Jack said, dumbfounded. -Deliveryman, Jack, & Caleb

Granny was a huge fan of The Price Is Right, hosted by Bob Barker. She had an amazing memory for grocery-store prices and always nailed the answers. One day when she was in her eighties, Granny announced, “I’m going to California to be on The Price Is Right. I’m going to win it. No problem.” Granny talked my Uncle Harold into driving her to California, walker and all, and the family gathered around our television to watch Granny compete live on the country’s largest game show. And Granny did it! First, she won a Ford Mustang automobile. Then when it came time to guess the value of the showcase, she won that too. She came home with a truckload of appliances and not one but two cars. She had to sell one car to pay the sales taxes, but she was a winner, and she’d done what she said she was going to do. For the rest of her life, Granny slept with a signed photo of Bob Barker right next to her bed.

Closer, still careful and quiet, and all is exactly what it should be and then we are at the door of the Mustang. Unlocked—the contemptible little beast has made it far too easy for us and we slide into the backseat so careful-quiet and melt into the unseen darkness on the car’s floor—and then we wait. Seconds,

He’d never been the materialistic type, anyway. As evidenced by the fact that, currently, he slept in a tent and drove a mustang. The real kind of mustang, lower case, and not the upper-case car manufactured by the Ford Motor Company.

Tick could feel his eyes start to droop again, so he pressed the stereo unit and turned up the volume. His and Sally’s favorite song was burned on every inch of the CD, so he could play it over and over. “Mustang Sally.” He started to sing along with Wilson Pickett at the top of his lungs, “Ride, Sally, ride!” He was two streets away from where he lived on David Court when he saw the strobe lights shooting upward to the sky. Blue, red, and white just like it was the Fourth of July. But it wasn’t the Fourth of July. He knew what the lights meant. Good cop that he was, he knew he was going to have to stop to offer any assistance if needed. Sally, the kids, and sleep would have to wait just a bit longer. He turned off the CD player and turned the corner, and his world came to a screeching halt. He saw the barricade, the yellow tape, the crazy arcing lights, the crowds of people, and too many police cars to count. All parked in front of his house, in

She walked over to a car that was covered with a drape, pulling it away to reveal a dark-red Mustang Boss 429. “Holy crap, I haven’t seen one of those in years,” I said with more than a little bit of excitement. “I think it’ll make enough of an entrance to turn heads. Might even help get us in.” She grabbed a pair of keys from a well-organized key rack and threw them over to me. A few seconds later the car’s engine was roaring with joy as a smile broke my face. Caitlin took a garage door opener from her tiny purse and clicked it open as she got into the car next to me. “Do you feel all manly?” she asked. “I’m so goddamn manly, you better make sure you don’t get pregnant just by being in my proximity.

I notice being noticed immediately – I’m a freeway goddess! In the past five minutes of gridlock, I have been checked out by a bald man in convertible Mustang, a cowboy in an F-150, and a body-builder in a Lincoln Navigator. Watch out road warriors! I don’t want to be responsible for any accidents. If only I had a car decal that advertised: Available – if you meet my eligibility criteria!

San Francisco is still the loveliest city in the world for my money, despite how they've tried to ruin her. Yeah, it attracts all the weirdos, and some of them aren't harmless like they used to be in days gone by, but for the most part the people are lovely and easygoing, and there is a romanticism that exists in San Francisco that you can genuinely feel as you walk around. The wonderful things about her still remain; the wharf and fabled Pier 39; the little cable cars climbing upward toward the stars; the Painted Ladies of Victorian Row; the thousand or so acres of Golden Gate Park; and the up-and-down streets where Steve McQueen once hopped in his '68 Mustang and chased the bad guys in their '68 Dodge Charger. Tony Bennett left his heart here for good reason.

the buzz is that the general shape of the car is dead-on.” So wrote Hot Rod editor (and my former boss) David Freiburger in the March 2003 issue. His words supported a “sneak peek” cover story on the 2005 Mustang. Looking back, we now know the prototypes shown

One day you’re out driving along with the family having a wonderful time. The trees are going by, the cars are going by, and then a light blue Mustang drives by with two people hugging in the front seat. Immediately, something changes in your heart. Your heart actually skips a beat. Then it starts beating faster. You start getting moody, irritated, and agitated. You aren’t having such a nice day anymore. All of these inner changes occur because your heart got disturbed when you saw one particular car. It is truly amazing to step back and look at this process. Five years ago, for just a few moments, an event took place. You never discussed it with anybody, and now five years later, a light blue Mustang drives by and it changes the energy flow through your heart and mind. As unbelievable as this seems, it is true. And it’s not only true about light blue Mustangs; it’s true about everything that didn’t make it through you. No wonder we’re so overwhelmed.

When you place an item in memory, it’s as if you’re sending a message to your future self,” according to Robert Jacobs, a professor of Brain and Cognitive Sciences at the University of Rochester. “This channel has limited capacity, however, and thus it can’t transmit all details of a message. Consequently, a message retrieved from memory at a later time may not be the same as the message placed into memory at the earlier time. That is why memory errors occur.” Jacobs conceives of memory as a kind of communication channel which, like all communication channels, may break down. For instance, the brain is designed to favor filling in details when only the gist of an experience can be recalled. Was the Shelby Mustang I considered buying last month outfitted with a manual or an automatic transmission? If I don’t remember, it’s natural to “mentally fill in the missing details with the most frequent or commonplace properties,” says Jacobs. The car must have been equipped with a manual transmission because I don’t think Shelby ever made a car with an automatic transmission, I conclude, although I’m not all that sure of my memory for this fact and this car could be an exception or a conversion. In J. G. Ballard’s dystopian novel Rushing to Paradise, he writes of the dangers of a “collective amnesia for the future. . . . a willed refusal to face the imminent.” Could this failure in future memory be part of the explanation for our response to the threat of Global Warming?

Licorice tattoo turned a gun metal blue Scrawled across the shoulders of a dying town Took the one eyed-jacks across the railroad tracks And the scar on its belly pulled a stranger passing through He's a juvenile delinquent, never learned how to behave But the cops would never think to look in Burma-Shave And the road was like a ribbon and the moon was like a bone He didn't seem to be like any guy she'd ever known He kind of looked like Farley Granger with his hair slicked back She says, I'm a sucker for a fella in a cowboy hat How far are you going? Said depends on what you mean He says I'm only stopping here to get some gasoline I guess I'm going thataway just as long as it's paved And I guess you'd say I'm on my way to Burma Shave And with her knees up on the glove compartment She took out her barrettes and her hair spilled out like root beer And she popped her gum and arched her back Hell, Marysville ain't nothing but a wide spot in the road Some nights my heart pounds like thunder Don't know why it don't explode 'Cause everyone in this stinking town's got one foot in the grave And I'd rather take my chances out in Burma Shave Presley's what I go by, why don't you change the stations? Count the grain elevators in the rearview mirror She said mister, anywhere you point this thing It got to beat the hell out of the sting Of going to bed with every dream that dies here every mornin' And so drill me a hole with a barber pole And I'm jumping my parole just like a fugitive tonight Why don't you have another swig and pass that car if you're so brave I wanna get there before the sun comes up in Burma Shave And the spiderweb crack and the mustang screamed The smoke from the tires and the twisted machine Just a nickel's worth of dreams and every wishbone that they saved Lie swindled from them on the way to Burma Shave And the sun hit the derrick and cast a batwing shadow Up against the car door on the shotgun side And when they pulled her from the wreck You know she still had on her shades They say that dreams are growing wild Just this side Of Burma Shave

Shake The Frost" You remind me of a Sunday Back home in ole' Kentucky With the church choirs just beltin' to the pines And I love you like the mountains Love's the way the mornin' opens To a soft and bright greetin' from the sun So if it'd make you stay I wouldn't act so angry all the time I wouldn't keep it all inside And I'd let you know how much I loved you every day So darlin' will ya stay right here And shake this frost off of my bones Well I used to ride a Mustang And I'd run that thing on high hopes Til' they raised the price of dreams so high I couldn't pay So I let that car just sit there When I should've took you driving With the windows down while the music played So if it'd make you stay I wouldn't act so angry all the time I wouldn't keep it all inside And I'd let you know how much I loved you every day So darlin' will ya stay right here And shake this frost off of my bones Darlin' will ya stay right here And shake this frost off of my bones Tyler Childers, Live On Red Barn Radio (2013)

Jeremy George Lake Charles Sports Car Collector His collection includes several Lamborghinis, including one from the late 1960s and early 1970s, as well as a number of other rare models. His collection of 40 cars includes a Porsche 911 GT3 RS, a Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG and a Ferrari 458 Italia. Jeremy George Lake Charles Other cars in his garage include a Ford Mustang, an Aston Martin Vantage, two Porsche 918 Spyders and two Rolls-Royce Phantom IIs. This extraordinary collection of cars included a 1964 Ferrari 488 GTB with Stirling engine and four-speed manual transmission, an original Lotus Elans and an early Ferrari F40. The Boxster is generally a great sports car, but the 718 badge certainly makes it a classic of the future. This collector's car is always the one I see lined up in front of me, and I have seen the owner pull the car out of the car every weekend with a sense of pride. The Type R will probably be a lethal collector's car that we will see for many years to come. He is a collector of cars, which is something I'm not sure what to do. M is for sure it will be in a few years. Jeremy George Lake Charles Another advantage of owning sports cars is that most eventually become collectibles. For the super-rich, though, there are some amazing car collections on the list of collectibles, but I can't remember all of them for that long. It should come as no surprise, then, that Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the owner of the world's largest collection of sports cars, has 7,000 cars, including cars from brands such as Ferrari, Porsche, Mercedes-Benz, Audi, BMW and Porsche. Sheik Mohammed has taken 19 years to sort through his entire collection because he has to drive different cars every day from now on.

I’d never been here after dark and this parking lot was worse than I remembered. Maybe things just seemed better when Haley was around. Aiming back toward the main road, I hit the gas and my Mustang jerked forward to the right. Metal scraped dirt as my tire went deep enough into a pothole for the car to bottom out. The sound set my teeth on edge. Why did everything that had anything to do with Haley have to be so difficult? I took a deep breath and stared at my steering wheel like it might have some answers as to why my life was so messed up.

And I will eat those cupcakes too. In your Mustang. Because I don’t care about your stupid rule of not eating inside your car.” He does have that rule. He told me that once and all the time we were together, I never broke it. But I’m going to break it now and he can’t stop me. “Fine.” He throws me a short nod of his own. “You can eat your fucking cupcake in my car.” So I finally get inside his car and open the box of cupcakes. When he closes the door, I hear him mutter, That rule was never for you anyway.