And yet we all seemed surprised when we didn't get laid

(I got a little bored with that Clash story. This little antecdote from that same era jumped in the way.)

My first car was a 1974 Chevy Vega which I bought for $1 in a shady and complicated transation, the details of which are unimportant here.

The car was a hopeless lemon. It started rusting the minute it rolled off the showroom floor, and never stopped. At best, it was 50/50 whether it was going to start at any given time. It had neither power brakes nor power steering, no air conditioning and only occasional heat. It's amenities were an AM radio, and a tape player I had bolted under the dash which had an annoying propensity to unspool and eat every third cassette.

Still, having wheels was important, and I was better off than many of my friends who had to rely on their parents kindess for occasional use of the family station wagon or find some other creative solution. My friend Jeff was a prime example. From his paltry wages as a dishwasher at the local country club, he cobbled together just enough to buy a 125cc Honda "motorcycle." This in reality was a mini-bike which qualified-just barely-for over the road use. It sounded distinctly like a poorly running lawn mower, and, cruel youth that we were, we often told him he looked more than a bit girlish riding that damn little thing.

"Born to Be Wild," indeed.

Alas, when the chips were down-that is to say, often, on days when the Vega had left me stranded and Jeff couldn't bear the teasing that came with puttering down the highway on his scooter-we could always turn to our weird friend Kurt.

Kurt's family were the sort that always had a half dozen vehicles in various states of disrepair on the property. They also ran a cut rate truck rental business, meaning Kurt unfailingly had access to a vehicle. We just never knew what type he would show up in.

One Saturday night, late summer, the year after we'd graduated from high school, Kurt agreed to chauffeur us to Milwaukee's east side for a night of bar hopping. We were amped up and 18 (yes, this tale comes from those long ago times when that was the legal drinking age), a loosely contained bundle of hormones doused in cheap cologne.

Jeff and I sat on his front porch, awaiting Kurt's arrival. Nearing the annointed meeting hour, we heard a tremendous grinding and rumbling sound coming up the driveway. An enormous vehicle, it's headlights about 8 feet off the ground, crawled menacingly toward us.

To our absolute horror, for transport on our big night out, Kurt had secured the use of an 8-wheeled, diesel powered dump truck. So much for looking cool on this outing.

It was generally a short drive to the bars but this night it took well over an hour as this stinking monster couldn't go much more than 30mph. Kurt was grinding gears and stalling at nearly every red light, delighting other travelers. Black exhaust belched through the open windows into the cab, where the three of us were crammed in maximum discomfort.

Our ultimate, blessed arrival had to strike passerby as a scene from the opening credits of 'The Beverly Hillbillies,' or perhaps 'The Dukes of Hazzard'. We practically fell over each other as we tumbled down out of the cab, reeking of diesel fumes, walking stiff and bowlegged from the backbreaking lurch and rumble that had been our ride.

Oh, what I haven't endured in the pursuit of cold beer and hot women.