The sunshine streaming in through my Mustang’s windshield is almost spring-like, a welcome relief from the oppressive cold of last week. I want to stretch like a cat as my face and arms absorb the warmth. The snow banks alongside the road are melting, casting thin silver streams out onto the asphalt where they shine and flash and shush beneath the car. I happily sing along with the song on the radio, remembering all the times I sang this one as a young man with a cool car and no particular place to be: “Some people call me the Space Cowboy… some call me the Gangster of Love… ”

And then suddenly I remember Homer Simpson singing the same song, under the same circumstances, and the words catch in my throat, and I look around self-consciously, because… Homer Simpson, man.

D’oh.