Also at the Armory Show was a large, beautiful photograph of a white Fiat, its engine flying high above it in a field of blue, as in an advertisement for the joys of car bombing.
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A Tweet about the environmental joy of Prius cars had prompted me to reflect that the car itself, once made, might be better than others, but building a thwacking great nickel mine in an environmentally sensitive part of Indonesia to supply battery makers raised questions as to just how responsible electric cars are.
All of this seems cannily calculated to serve the mobility needs of a generation that is comprehensively networked, acutely aware of motoring's ecological footprint, and – if opinion surveys are to be trusted – not particularly interested in the joys of private car ownership to begin with.
The events rolled together so nicely — New England's complete thrashing of the Jets combined with the latest flaming demise of another supposedly Belichick-spawned miniature genius in Josh McDaniels — that it almost makes you want to start shopping for hoodies at the local thrift store and living your public life with all the apparent joy of having your car repossessed.
Adolescence involved training runs with my field hockey team down Main Street, where I often saw someone I knew; largely innocent keg parties in the woods; and, above all, the joy of driving a car down an empty, half-paved road with the windows open on a late June day.
The police chief, I seem to recall, asks the mechanic to "Tell him about the blower!" And that, in a sad little way, describes the adolescent joy of having a car with a turbo-charger that kicks in and whistles at you while it's doing it.
But that doesn't matter, because the joy of this type of car is that it shines come rain or… well, shine.
It conveys all the fierce joy of the racing cars down here, but in a tidier, admittedly more reliable little package suited to public roads.
