If your Ford had a Matthew McConaughey, it would be a Lincoln

Bohemian RockAutosody

In retrospect, all the warning signs were there. Hipsters had started to identify with things that I liked a long time ago, and the convergence happened so suddenly there was nothing I could have switched to that would have escaped their frantic, clawing grasp.

It began with Volvos, as so many things did. I would go to the Grope-a-Part “too nice to scrap” yards, the forecourts of retirement homes, Swedish cosplay towns in California. I would get there only to find a hipster driving away with my newfound five-door grail, happily tootling a miniature cloud of oil smoke behind them. Well, people threw these away for decades before they knew what they had, I would rationalize. The economy is bad. It’s bad, right?

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But then other things changed. Mopeds. There were suddenly pop music songs about my beloved two-stroke forty-nine-cc hoonmobiles. I could not abide such things. I stormed from my grisly laneway home to find myself the victim of yet further abuses of this nature.

The scene before me was akin to that bit in Blade Runner where everyone eats at noodle bars, except behind them a series of urban hipsters did a burnout competition in square-body 80s Dodge Rams and massively-overtired offroad converted Toyota Tercels.

I got invited to speak on stage during the recitals of bands I didn’t recognize that no longer played things strictly defined as instruments. Hipster girls on the avenue lowered their oversized Trivex safety glasses and fanned themselves because they couldn’t take the combined heat of their flannel coverall onesie and the desire for the dented-fender-chic of my gently rotting Subaru. Wait, that last one wasn’t so bad.

Well, you know what they say. If you can’t beat ‘em, start a garage co-op and sap their parents’ trust fund to build an even freakier piece of shit. I chuckled to myself as a throng of admirers bustled about me, attempting to clear the way on the garage floor as I lowered the warped 427 between the DOM-tube frame rails and etch-primer-green megafenders of the city-block-length ‘59 Cadillac Motherfucker.

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