A coworker brought in an entire cardboard box full of her sons’ Matchbox, Hotwheels, and knockoff cars less than 4 inches long to give away and I couldn’t help myself. It was the perfect way to come home to the girls an hour before bedtim two nights in a row: dumping a big pile of 4 wheeled candy on the floor and teaching them how to play “one for you, one for me” to divy them up. For Crane’s birthday I tried to get some at Toys R Us and was extremely disappointed. Especially because Ti picked out the “clown” themed set for herself…to me, the whole point of the cars is that they’re realistic, just like real cars on the highway or in the grassy graveyards along the Northern Pacific railroad. This clown shit, or the entire 5 car set with the Home Depot logo on it just doesn’t cut it. I managed to find a “normal” set of “Classic” themed cars that include a ’56 Ford with flames (I’d prefer a rusty fender myself) and a luscious 68 Camaro with simple red racing stripes. I found a 67 Firebird that was individually packaged by a company I’d never heard of, but it was 5 bucks and mine all mine. The 67/68 Firebird has been my dream car now for so long I should be banished to Mulletville forever, but instead I’m stuck here bitching on my wireless laptop computer about the state of little cars. Suffice it to say I’ll spend the next 20 minutes trying to explain to my daughter why the red 78 Celica is better than her ridiculous Matchbox “Snail Truck” and that we should really drive the yellow and hot pink 1990 Miata off the cliff (the coffee table) over and over again, or at least let the 4 door Eldorado ram it a few more times. Oh god, I must get back to playing, I think I just realized how much of the time I spent playing little cars with my brother 25 years ago was really about deconstructing class and glorifying the proletariat.