Oh, when I see these glorious old automobiles parked around town, they look just like time travelers. They lounge against curbs the way Veronica Lake leaned against a bar. The sunlight sparkles from their fenders like the glint flashed from Barbara Stanwyck’s anklet in Double Indemnity. They’re more than cars, they’re the steel and chrome relics of a past we can no longer visit. Like the elusive Maltese Falcon, they’re “the stuff that dreams are made of…”
And you’re telling me they actually need gas? That they don’t run on the internal combustion of 1940s femme fatales and timing of classic Bogart quotes? They aren’t really apparitions materializing from a former era — not noir joyriders from an alternative monochrome dimension? I’m supposed to believe that they aren’t driven by the spirits of Chandler and Cain but, instead, by a guy wearing Dockers and a shirt from the Gap? There’s probably not even a flask in the glove box. Probably just the insurance and registration.
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