Varietal

I realized today that as far as cars go, I'm a variety snob. I'm sure many of you have long ago come to the same conclusion. The evidence isn't particularly well-hidden.

In contrast, the majority of car nuts who aren't me are brand snobs. The anthropologist in me thinks that this is because we tie our identity to our cars and, by proxy, to the manufacturer—but the auto writer in me knows that complaints about cars are endless and that the first car that we have good luck with seems like a monument of engineering. I think the reality is some mix of the two, and that we all have a huge ego about what's best for ourselves.

Anyway, I tried the brand snob thing for a while but it didn't work out all that well—I somehow got stuck on what I felt were the most inoffensive American and Japanese marques and ended up buying into the offspring, which promptly gave me a half-decade of understeer and transmission problems. I got annoyed enough to try to find an alternative brand to be self-important about but that Eagle was the last in a series of cars that shook my faith in the ability of a single company to produce enough compelling cars to occupy my attention for longer than a year or two.

So ever since then, I've been on an unofficial (and until today, largely unintentional) bender to sample the wares of the world's finest—and not so finest—automobile manufacturers. I should be clear that I'm on neither a hunt nor a quest for the perfect car; I'm on a journey. I imagine it feels similar to going on a wine tour, although I wouldn't know because I'm always too busy drinking the stuff to go taste it.

I fought this urge to be a sortof used-car-lot-wandering nomad for a long time for two big stinking reasons: first, I know that cars are terrible investments; and second, I don't have the inclination to turn my front lawn into a parking structure. Clearly there's no room to be buying a new car whenever I fancy, since I'll soon be drowning in chrome and Mugen stickers, and Layla will have left me long ago.

Oh, that part about how I can actually sell the cars I own? Apparently the part of my brain responsible for that has been dead for years, along with the part that keeps me from flatulating in public, and the part that makes Dennis Miller funny. Selling the Mercedes (did I mention we sold it?) jogged that part of my grey matter back into operation, and even though parting with an auto is always such sorrow, it's a little easier knowing that it helps keep my habit chugging along. But Dennis Miller still isn't funny.

What was I saying? Anyway, starting this year, I'm going to make it a point to change out my daily driven car for something different—at a bare minimum, it'll be in a new category of auto (defined in greater detail tomorrow) and at best, it'll be something with character. I'll hang on to the truck until it's dead and Layla's car until she bores of it or they get hailed on—but my side of the driveway will be open season at the beginning of every summer.

This is big excitement for me. It feels like I've come out of the auto hoarder's closet and can enjoy having a new toy car every year with little consequence. Maybe this is what it feels like when someone announces they're gay or will be voting Libertarian.

So as alluded above, I'll be putting together the big list tomorrow. And I'll be confronting my fascination with lists next week.