Hey Guest!
Hey - did you know if you click on the title of a thread it will take you to the first unread post since you last visited that thread?
but were afraid to ask: 
STOP!! Never post your email address in open forums. Bots can "harvest" your email! If you must share your email use a Private Message or use the 
smilie in place of the real @
Pretty Please - add it to our Events forum(s) and add to the calendar! >> 
Tabcon
Jedi Warrior
Offline
Okay, okay...I realize I started a small maelstrom here by threatening to "customize" my new TR4. It was never my intention to do that...well not entirely. Honestly, in the back of my mind I suspected that someone, or ones, would get their feathers ruffled and squawk. What the heck, that's half the fun of being in an online forum. This ain't my first rodeo, so I was sort of prepared.
The whole thing got me thinking. Thinking about mans eternal quest to mark his territory. To define his possessions by making them uniquely his. To leave his mark. To outline his boundaries.
This imprinted genetic carry over from when we lived in caves and wore reindeer hides, is as primal as mans need to create fire, procreate and hunt. Not necessarily in that order.
To what end is this instinctual drive satisfied...by buying his wife implants, building a backyard kitchen, turning his garage into a rumpus room or home theatre, painting the family home in his old school colors...maybe, but the one prized and adored possession that truly has the uncanny ability to define a mans need for individuality and creativity in a world of carbon copies...is his car, his ride, his topless trip back to the halcyon days of his youth when he stood tall...like a rock...and had hair...on his head.
You see brothers, for a man NOT to customize his car, at least in some small way, is an aberration, a freak of nature...a cry for help.
No, pimpin yer ride is not a crime, nor is it blasphemy, no; it's merely another one of the many rights of passage into manhood we all endure. It's nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. No, quite the contrary, for it still remains one of the few things on this God forsaken rock we can call our own, climb up to the highest parking lot and scream...I AM MAN...HEAR ME (and my custom dual chrome tipped with yellow interior exhaust) ROAR!
Now go do your taxes.
T.
The whole thing got me thinking. Thinking about mans eternal quest to mark his territory. To define his possessions by making them uniquely his. To leave his mark. To outline his boundaries.
This imprinted genetic carry over from when we lived in caves and wore reindeer hides, is as primal as mans need to create fire, procreate and hunt. Not necessarily in that order.
To what end is this instinctual drive satisfied...by buying his wife implants, building a backyard kitchen, turning his garage into a rumpus room or home theatre, painting the family home in his old school colors...maybe, but the one prized and adored possession that truly has the uncanny ability to define a mans need for individuality and creativity in a world of carbon copies...is his car, his ride, his topless trip back to the halcyon days of his youth when he stood tall...like a rock...and had hair...on his head.
You see brothers, for a man NOT to customize his car, at least in some small way, is an aberration, a freak of nature...a cry for help.
No, pimpin yer ride is not a crime, nor is it blasphemy, no; it's merely another one of the many rights of passage into manhood we all endure. It's nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. No, quite the contrary, for it still remains one of the few things on this God forsaken rock we can call our own, climb up to the highest parking lot and scream...I AM MAN...HEAR ME (and my custom dual chrome tipped with yellow interior exhaust) ROAR!
Now go do your taxes.
T.
) and may do whatever we please with them. Sadly, this sometimes includes butchering and debauchery of these rare and beautiful machines, at least from a purist's standpoint.
