Have you?

        You really need to see it.

        Take your shoes off. Wipe your socks before stepping into my new machine.

        Don't touch anything. Just look, and be appropriately admiring.

        Like the color? It's red. No. Excuse me. Metallic flame red. Metallic fl-a-a-ame red.

        The color of a hundred midlife crises. This is what my wife has accused me of. Buy a two-door car with a little spoiler and a V-6 engine (190 horses, zero-to-60 in 6.1 seconds) and you're charged with losing your, um, practicality.

        Well, yeah.

        When you have kids that aren't so little anymore but are still hanging around scarfing the Froot Loops, you're not supposed to get a car that requires a backseat crowbar to enter. But whatever.

        Did I mention it was red?

        Everyman has had a showroom full of lousy cars. If you took them to the junkyard and squeezed them, you'd have enough lemonade for a lifetime of family reunions.

        This is the first entirely new car I've ever had. Go ahead, ask me the mileage. Thirteen. Thirteen miles on the odometer.

        I could drive this car a year, commuting from here to Borneo, and it'd still have fewer miles on it than any other car I've ever owned.

        (To all the car salesmen I offended last week . . . what's it gonna take to get back in your good graces? Let me ask my editor. Have a seat in my office. Want a soft drink? I'll be right back. I'm sure we can work something out.)

        Buying this car was the product of intense research, unwavering attention to detail, head over heart . . . and the best shade of red I have ever seen.

        “You like this one?” my salesman John asked.

        “It's OK,” I said. I was cool. What I was thinking was, I've never seen a tomato look this good, nor an Hawaiian sunset. If I don't walk away from this vehicle right now, I'm going to break every rule I set for myself before this whole car-shopping excursion began.

        Car shopping ought to be logical and practical. Maybe it is if you live in Havana. Look, honey! It runs!

        But here in the land of the free and the home of the Corvette, car buying comes less from the head and more from the blood. There is a time to buy the minivan or the four-door midsized with the best gas mileage in its class. There is a time to ingest the reliability data, the safety reports and the resale values. And there is another time.

        My salesman, bless him, knew what I wanted. John made it easy by reducing his sales shtick. He even dropped off my floor mats, two days later. I take back everything bad I ever said about car salesmen. I love them. They are fine human beings.

        Oh, yeah. My little slice of midlife angst looks like a Toyota Solara VE, V-6, eight speakers, keyless entry etc. etc. She's my little deuce coupe, or would be, if I knew what a deuce coupe was.

        See you later. I'm cruisin'.

       Contact Paul Daugherty by phone: 768-8454; fax: 768-8330; e-mail: pdaugherty@enquirer.com.
       

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