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IT IS as easy as hell to become ponderous and pedantic about the whole phenomenon of the imported car in America. I don't want to do that, and hope I won't. My experience with foreign cars goes back almost 10 years, to the day when I had my first ride in a TC-model MG. I was doing a late-night record show in Cincinnati that wound up at 2 in the morning. One night, about 15 minutes before the end of the show, a friend of mine whose profession was precision machine-tool designing and who was and is the commander of a naval fighter squadron - in short, the machine-oriented type with the addition of a fertile imagination - showed up for a late cup of coffee and a ride in his new car. The car turned out to be a black TC. From the first instant, I was gone...
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