I LOVE driving. The freedom to just go, $4/gallon be-damned. Inherently and wonderfully American, isn’t it?

But as carbon-footprint-conscious as I like to think I am (and although I’ve never actually owned a Volkswagen) the idea of “driving pleasure,” to me, is as self-evident as apple pie.

Which is why last weekend, on the return home from New Hampshire, I took the long way. It was, after all, a Sunday drive of sorts; I had the entire afternoon if I wanted… just me, an impossibly sunny sky, the adventure of unfamiliar, squigley backroads, my hand-me-down Volvo station wagon (dubbed “Meatball”), and my new favorite rock crush, Matt Mays. Hubba hubba.

For 2 + hours, I had it bad. Terminal Romance on replay baby!

Were those (gulp!) guitar solos? In 2008? Pant, pant.

Thank you Jesus, a red light at the intersection: cue feral air-guitar spaz-out.

My poor eardrums. The volume couldn’t possibly have been loud enough… a family of Berkshire tourists gawking? I turned it up louder. We’re talking knee-driving, hand-dancing-out-the-moonroof-loud.

I wanted everyone to know: I was hopelessly (and clearly shamelessly), shit-hot in love with the whole damned record.

And still am.