Ahhh, the memories. The five of us hurtling down the highway at 80 miles an hour in a smoke-filled, 5 ton Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser. Nary a seat belt in sight. The primo location for us kids was the backward-facing fold up seat in the back, nestled atop a tank of 29.9 cent Ethyl. You could spread out a little back there, plus you were out of reach of mom's flailing arms. Singing 99 bottles, counting license plates, and trying to get the 18 wheelers to honk -- hopefully scaring the bejeezus outta dad. Those were the days.