An ode to Subaru, the unofficial car of Colorado
But to say a Subaru is ugly is unfair, since these cars were seemingly born out of utilitarian necessity. They look best wearing bike and ski racks, or wounds from extreme driving through forests and up off-road trails. (Or in my case, missing bumpers from a teenager's rear-ending while I sat at a stoplight waiting to get the hell out of Boulder after Demetri Martin romanced me.)
Subarus are also often covered in bumper stickers, usually referring to physical feats accomplished by the owner. ("New York London Paris Tokyo MOAB" is a sticker that comes to mind. Every once in a while, you might catch a retro "No Pain No Jane" sticker, if you're lucky.) But this is all because Subarus weren't made for driving, they were made for l-i-v-i-n'! These vehicles are designed to haul anything and everything -- camping gear, snowboards, Greyhounds, chairs found in alley dumpsters -- but unlike their pick-up-truck counterparts, they're conveniently designed not to help with your girlfriend's BFF's couch move. Subarus are truly made for transport.
Seriously, any year of an Outback model can hold at least five adults, three Labrador retrievers (or an unlimited number of chihuahuas) and several large purses. I say that because I carry a large purse, and you know what? Sometimes there isn't enough room in a car for it. But that's never a problem in my Subaru. Yes, in Wooderson, I can pack two people, two ancient Peavy amps, two guitars, a full PA, a suitcase full of our band's merchandise or miscellaneous dude body parts and my Mary-Kate-sized purse. Wooderson handles it all.
I know I'm not the only one who feels this way about their not-so-pretty-but-always-reliable Subaru; if you live in Colorado, walk out of your office/apartment/cave right now and count how many you see on the block. I guarantee there is at least one Subaru within a fifty-foot radius. And it probably belongs to someone you know. Who am I kidding? It's probably yours.