Random, certainly. Stupid, maybe not. I wanted to post the first few paragraphs of Dan Neil's review of the latest Ford Mustang in today's Wall Street Journal, mostly as an example of great writing. Neil is the only auto writer I know of with a Pulitzer.
"AND SO, the deed is done. House, wife, kids, beautiful neighbors, joy. It's all mine.
Ho-hum. Day 2. Wife, joy, yada yada…
It is astonishing that happy people can get bored. Me, for example. My life is that of a well-fed academic, working from home on a never-ending dissertation. It's college with kids.
What is this shameful Mustang-shaped hole in my heart? Why can I actually, practically imagine myself owning one of these redneck hoo-hahs? What need would it satisfy? Admit it, the Ford Mustang has baggage. Six-cylinder Mustangs are chick cars. I'm sorry, it's in the Bible. And when people start piling horsepower on top of the V8-powered cars—a rogue's gallery of Saleens and Roushes and Super Snakes—they get completely ridiculous. Commuting in one is like wearing a bejeweled codpiece to work.
And yet, as I imagine what it would be like to own our test car—a 662-horsepower, 200-mph Ford Mustang Shelby GT500—I dig it. I savor the wantonness and random foolishness it would bring into my otherwise fairly measured life. Yes, this is exactly what Dad needs: a hateful American hot rod, a drag-racing demi-urge brooding in the driveway. I'm going out for a drive. If anybody needs me, I'll be in jail. "