20-some years ago, my husband had a life-changing experience. He saw Mad Max. And fell in love with a car. Really. I understand wanting a cool muscle car. But he had to pick one that was made only in Australia and is therefore a bit hard to get here in the good ol' US of A. Nevertheless, Mr. "I-must-have-an-XB-Falcon-or-my-life-isn't-worth-living" would accept no substitutes. He downloads pictures of XB Falcons, drags us to car shows to look at XB Falcons (there are 2 here in Portland, believe it or not), and generally behaves like a groupie... but over a car. Finally, he has found a way to get one and is waiting to hear from an importer that they've found a car for him. So he checks his e-mail every 3.2 seconds "to see if Phil has sent a picture of his car". But at least he was motivated to clean the garage to make room for it.
Last Saturday, he heard that one of the local XBs was going to be at a Ford car show out in Hillsboro, so off we went. He spotted it from across the parking lot (no small feat since the show was at the fairgrounds, where the parking lot is approximately the size of a small Northeastern state) and began behaving a bit the way I do when near a member of Def Leppard. Jerry and I had to explain to him that cars can't sign autographs (though Jerry did suggest having the car run over a piece of paper to leave a tire track). But they can pose for pictures:
He must've spent half an hour drooling and caressing the thing. Every time I thought we could go look at something cool, like the old Mustang convertibles, he'd drag us back to the XB. We finally made our escape, and hubby is relegated to sighing wistfully while looking at pictures of the car. Oh, well... it's better than 'net porn, I suppose.