Dear son;

You stand before me, at the tender age of 15, with your new driver's permit not so much as creased in your hand, I see you eagerly hoping for my keys as you bend down on one knee. "Oh mother," you rhapsodize gallantly, "Wouldst thou take me driving such that I might-unworthy as I am-become a better citizen of the road?" With artifice you kiss my hand, offer to empty the trash, and grin with that twinkling-star smile made famous in those tooth-whitening commercials and the Bullwinkle show (the chime sound effects were a nice touch, by the way).

I say unto you, oh sweet young man, student of artless Colorado Driver's Education books, you have absorbed what could be offered by those wearied instructors pointing out myriad signs, what to do in case of blinker outages (which most of Dallas, TX, must succumb to, seeing as none use theirs), not to engage in distracting conversation or blare the radio, to keep your eyes in motion, minding those pedestrians, those pets, and those buildings.

I am thus before you today, dear sir, to impart upon you the nuances of driving which are little mentioned in classes. They are the rules learned from experience, whose trappings in no way outweigh the state rules and regulations, but which, for the sake of argument, will keep you in car keys for some time to come and will-- with any luck-- prevent me from appearing before a judge to explain why you found it a lark to scare little old ladies by throwing your arms across your face in abject horror every time one was trying to cross the street. (Mrs. Bindle was never quite the same.)

These rules are as follows:

Don't spit out of the car window. The laws of physics be hanged. That phlegm you liberated from your throat (I'm going to rattle) will hit the back window and the entire left side of the vehicle. If some sap in the back seat happens to have the window down, you're cleaning the upholstery. And your brother.

Ditto to urinating.

Thou shalt not head bang to Def Leppard. Yes, you look like synchronized head-bangers as you travel down the road, and the entire Pinto rocks as it did most righteously on Wayne's World, but we're talking a goose egg when your forehead makes contact with the steering wheel or when you pass out and become mentally indigent due to excess brain rattling. Shaken rocker syndrome is very real. Look at Ozzy.

There will be no country music in my vehicle. I don't need my wife to run away, the dog to die and my truck to stop. I also don't want to turn on the radio and hear Conway Twitty. It's not natural.

Do not take your pants off while driving.

Ditto to putting on pants while driving.

We've all seen the sign and found its irony to be humorous; nonetheless, when you see, "No Shoulder Driving," avoid the temptation to yell, "Look at me!" while you struggle to remain on the proper side of the road and steering with your clavicle.

Ditto to driving with your knees. It's all fun and games until someone's sock is stuck in the cigarette lighter.

Eating a chalupa, while driving, is not recommended. I've seen how you eat at home. With cutlery, napkins, a squeegee and a carpet cleaner, it's still not a pretty sight.

The coins gleaming with promise in the glove box are not for chalupas. Change is for toll roads.

Finally, there will be no kissing girls in my vehicle. Those wiles of pretty young things have a way of impeding upon a male's capacity for coherent speech, let alone driving. Let it be known that if any lip-wrestling takes place in my vehicle, said lips will be removed and thrown under a bus (the same bus you'll be taking for the rest of the year).

That said, it's also well-known that a good cowboy only ever kisses his trusty horse.

Son, you're lucky to have someone as wise as me sharing these important bits of knowledge with you. It is with great dismay that I inform you that my father (your grandfather) -- may his soul rest in peace-failed to pass such pearls of wisdom on to me.

That station wagon smelled like burnt socks and chalupas for at least a week.