Cherry Red Dreams

There is a fever brewing in town. It's cherry red. It's ebony black. It roars in the heads of locals like twin cams on a tricked-out Shelby. Old men in khaki shorts with tube socks and sandals and expensive cameras pressed against their good eye are milling about. The privileged ones wear their shiny badges on a twisted lanyard hanging proudly around their thick necks. Guys with unlit cigars dangling from their lips and women with silly hats and ridiculous shoes traipse through the lobby of the convention center. All focused on the cars. The automobiles that remind them of their teenage dreams. The tricked-out Porches that can only be driven by the very rich, very foolish, and very fast circuit jockeys. Concepts. Ridiculous. One-of-a-kind. It is an auction of these fine specimens of Italian and German and, yes, even American ingenuity. No price tags. As they say on Rodeo Drive, if you have to ask, you probably can't afford it. But wishes are free. And dreams are plenty. And for a moment, on a sunny, breezy, summer afternoon, I too wandered through the maze of elegance, gawking at the things that go vroom... reliving the desires of my youth listening to the self-proclaimed experts expound the virtues of their favorites. Shelby. Jaguar. Mercedes. Porche. Not a Volvo or a Pinto in the bunch. I've caught the fever. I am there, amongst the serious and not-so-serious. I too will wish and dream and remember. I even have a silly hat to wear.