Iconography

Everybody’s life drafts a statement. But so many people let their existence define their life.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m in advertising, working to shape business branding; but I’m always thinking about guiding perception. In a world of spin, others might think I’m creating a groomed personal facade, building my 24-7-365 around an artificial exoskeleton. There’s a tinge of that in the mix, I’ll admit while daily checking my online social network pictures for hits. Intrinsically, though, it’s living the life I want to live—breathing with fullness and adventure vicariously for those who don’t dare live the life they deem exciting but unpractical.
I want my legacy to read creative nonfiction, my path to wind though vivid memories, my obituary easily summed but insufficient, and my days to be replayed thematic but not dramatic. The simplified life, even if a branded one.
So, I worship in a freestyle, dynamic church. I work in my PJ’s, designing with an Apple and 30″ monitor on a cantilevered glass desk. I vacate the office for trips that all but require head-band video cameras. I’m on the MVP buyer’s list at both Victoria’s Secret and Frederick’s. I’m on film, both shirtless at a December Bills game and barefoot at my beach wedding.
And I drive cars with three pedals.
So, when it came time to buy a car, I couldn’t purchase status quo. It had to be me. It had to be cool. It had to make driving an adventure. It had to make ownership simple.
I was shopping for an icon.
Thankfully, I live in an auto era with a good selection of unique designs and distinct statements. And, thankfully, their niche clarity made it easy to weed out the no’s.
The Volkswagen Beetle proved the definition of cute, chick, and grandma—somehow all at the same time. The macho Jeep Wrangler showed the highway manners of a buckboard wagon. The Subaru WRX, with it’s rally car rep, required race-car-driver touch even for normal driving. The Nissan XTerra accelerated more like a backpacker than a whitewater kayaker.
The Audi TT lacked practical space, the Porshe 911 a practical price tag. The Chevy SSR disingenuously claimed to exude sport without a stick shift model (at the time of my shopping). The Hummer H2, without both clutch and fuel card, came automatically off the list. The Toyota Prius would have put me in the wrong fraternity.
Then I found my Cooper S. It was love at first site, passion at first drive. It was the simplicity of silver with the showbiz of metallic, the rumble of a stampede with the slipperiness of satin sheets. It was a she, and she was a pending mistress.
I still stare at her in the driveway. I still exclaim, “Man, she’s hot” (even in front of my wife). I still tap the dash after skid-padding a clover ramp. I still thank God for letting me have her—and for the kind of life where this car matches everything else.