Letter From The Editor: Dewlaps and Diablos
June 4, 2002
Lizards are people too. The male anole, better known as the common chameleon, inflates its gaudy crimson throat sack, or dewlap, to establish territory and to attract potential mates. Certain of our species—whether denizens of the mud hut or the Miami high-rise—have adopted equally conspicuous behaviors appropriate to their respective cultures and level of technological development to achieve similar ends. Fast automobiles are the dewlaps of our civilization, and none makes a more opulent display than the sleek and exotic supercar.
Rare and extreme, supercars come in a variety of flavors; the common thread that strings them together is speed. The generally agreed-upon magic number is 200 mph, an elusive velocity first achieved almost 80 years ago in a 3-ton monster driven by Maj. Henry Segrave. Today’s road missiles appear more up to the task than the major’s slab-sided behemoth, and outrageous good looks are the secret of their allure. The aerodynamic wedge profile conveys the essence of speed at rest or in motion, in the driveway or captured within the frame of a printed poster.
Supercars have been deified in popular music, films, and every facet of advertising. They have populated cereal boxes and vied for wall space with Farrah Fawcett in male adolescent bedrooms throughout the Western Hemisphere. They are the prize of any seized-property auction and the vehicle of choice in every music video. Quite an impressive dewlap, indeed.
The spell these cars cast can be extreme. Some years ago, I acquired a unique home that had been lost through foreclosure by its former owner, a rock star with several platinum albums to his credit. The premises appeared to have been vacated in haste and left unoccupied for quite some time. Its garage walls were decorated with exotic car posters, one of which featured a Lamborghini Countach. Six degrees of separation being the operative norm in Los Angeles, I later learned from a musician friend that his musician friend let another friend, a famous rocker, somewhat down on his luck, sleep in the garage with his—you guessed it—beloved Countach. Forfeiting home for car—one with paltry sleeping accommodations at that—the owner just couldn’t let go. And who among us can blame a man in love?
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