Is it stupid to buy a convertible as the only car in Seattle?
Whatever you do, don’t become one of The Convertible People. On the first sunny day of the year (mid February, perhaps March), temperature in the 40s, they come out of their oppresive suburban dwellings to worship their blinding, skin-destroying god. They ride forth upon the concrete ribbons, exposed to the overpowering brilliance of the sky, yet, paradoxically, hiding their pallid features behind an array of masks, hoods, parkas, and gloves. They haven’t had the top down since October (except for the occasional, shameful, bit of garage masturbation, up and down, up and down, quickly, secretly, “just making sure it still works”; they all do it, but nobody talks about it), and the great light in the sky robs them, temporarily, of their sanity. They unsteadily laugh off the threat of frostbite to satiate their hunger before the day’s 6 hours of taunting, glorious sunlight comes to a dark end, and the oppressive grey wool, tinted by the streetlights almost to the color of blood, fills the
