When I was a teenager, one friend regularly drove his parents' old Ford Falcon Futura.
It was a pretty nondescript car. Inoffensive, really. But we enjoyed acting as if it was an affront to all that was decent and well-designed.
“The Futura,” we would say with theatrical disdain.
If that heap was a harbinger of the future, we would prefer to cling to the past. Or so we said.
Still, no one ever refused to ride somewhere in it when the other option was staying home.