Okay, Cornerites, my car is a 1977 Camarro. A trunk like a glove compartment, not good on corners, useless in snow, but give it a long, long hill, and watch the bullying truckers fade.

I also have an ideological point in boasting. I was gassing up on the Mass Pike last week, when a biker on a Harley stopped alongside. “I love your–” he began. “Car,” I was sure would follow. “–column in the New York Observer,” he actually said. “I also liked your Hamilton book.” “Well,” I said, recovering, “I have a new one on Gouverneur Morris.” “Yes,” he replied, “I read the review in NR,” and he rode off into the sunset.