Something tonight is throwing me back to my roots. Deep deep far back. To my first car. The 1984 Pontiac Phoenix. Little did I know then what the phoenix actually meant. To rise again. Rise again after it had probably died a nice and peaceful grandmas death in 1991 only to be born again in 1998 to have a fro-ey red-haired punk mother. Carting around miscreants after highschool detention let out for the day. The small price of $900 to rebirth what would go on to only live another year or two before being replaced by a hybrid (Geoda) but would emit such awesome tunes as Operation Ivy, old school Rancid, and some Suicide Machines. What new reborn automobile wouldn't love some punk rock mixtapes? Back then there was no CD players. Only CDs recorded onto beloved tapes to be played in such sweet rides as the two toned Phoenix. Adorned with stickers on the back window, Drastic Plastic bought "Heroin Sucks" which my dad happened to (accidentally) scrape off during a snow storm, hot pink "Girls Skate" shop of CA, homemade cards taped on with "unity" and "Sublime" drawn in old english.
I loved that car like my first born. There was nothing better than coasting down Elmwood Drive, sun roof glued closed, windows down, a new found freedom like never before.
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