Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
March, 1984
Like every normal American male, I wanted a sports car—not a "sporty car" or a "personal-sized luxury car" but a real sports car, a blood-red, wire-wheeled, Devil-take-the-left-lane open roadster.I am talking about the kind they don't make anymore. You see, however slick or sophisticated, no Pontiac Fiero, Mazda RX-7 or even Porsche Turbo can match the visceral appeal of the MGA I had in college. It was lean, lithe and made a noise more glorious than a Bach concerto. It was b...
