Fresh and Powerful

I was sure I had already folded this song into a post as I often think of it at this time of day--especially after a week like this past one--but I haven't so I'm going to put it here as accompaniment for the rest of the post. For tonight I chose the fresh, powerful version performed in Hyde Park in London on June 7, 1969 when the song was new instead of the more mellow, polished version from the Crossroads Guitar Festival in 2007.



The week was just PACKED with activities and deadlines and responsibilities, but I made it through. And it officially ended when I picked Jessie up from school in a 2017 red Corvette Stingray convertible (rented for one day for her birthday tomorrow). Talk about fresh and powerful. Jessie was over the moon excited, and I have to admit I was pretty jazzed too. When I was her age I also loved Corvettes--though today was my first time in one--and driving on 2222 in it with the top down, the sun shining, and the tunes playing was magical. It might have triggered a mid-life something in me. It's not a crisis as I don't feel like I have missed out on anything and thus have to change my life drastically before it's too late, but there was definitely a feeling of having automotively settled over the past 18 years. I am on my third Honda minivan for criminey sake!

Thank you Zaga for the photo...

That Corvette... It rumbles. It roars. It doesn't screech or whine. It's low, and throaty-sounding, and more enjoyable overall than any car I've ever ridden in. I was a little intimidated when I first drove it thinking it would be drive differently than other cars and I would have to be careful not to accelerate too fast or turn too sharply. I guess I was expecting it to be a lot more responsive than it is. Maybe the rental place has some kind of child safety device on it dumbing it down so that renters don't do anything stupid. In any case, it wasn't tiring to drive (as a super responsive car could be), and it fit me like a glove--once I was able to get into it. It's about 6" off the ground, the seat has a deep recessed bucket surrounded by door and console, and let's face it I have old knees and a less-than-trim silhouette. Getting out is even more... fun. And yet, in spite of the difficulties getting in and out, it's a dream car. Once you're in, you never want to leave. You don't even have to go fast in it to feel a thrill. Because you're so close to the ground, going from zero to 21 gets your blood pumping, accelerating to 35 miles an hour feels like flying, and taking it from there to 50 will have your passengers white-knuckling the dash. Sixty was my top speed today. Tomorrow I might get out onto the freeway where the speed limit is 75 to see what it feels like.

So here I am over the mid fifties hill and lusting after a red muscle car that doesn't have a place to tuck my purse, which holds either my daughter OR my husband but not both, and in which Gallifrey absolutely will not fit. It has about 1/3 the interior room of the Mini Cooper convertible. As Dave says, sexy as hell for a car you can't even imagine having sex in. It's ours till 3:00 pm tomorrow. Guess I better live the fantasy now or resign myself to getting a full-time well-paying job to pay for my car habit. Heck, it could be clothes, it could be shoes, it could be jewelry! But no. Like daughter, like mother. I have a car problem.