"Hey, just for the record, what the hell kind of car is this?"
"Uh . . . what do you mean?"
"Just what I said. What kind of car is this? Like, is it a Ford or a Plymouth or what?"
"Gee, now that you mention it, I don't really know."
"You don't know!"
"Well ... it's my wife's car."
"You mean because it's your wife's car you don't know what kind it is? How long have you had it?"
"Oh ... a year or so, I guess. What the hell are you driving at?"
I decided I was getting into murky waters and that I'd better ease out of the goo before it got too thick. We were booming along the San Diego Freeway, just one more jot in an endless river of whistling metal. . .