In 1969, there was a Boss. And it wasn’t Bruce Springsteen.
At about 6 p.m. on a rainy Halloween in 1969, I took delivery of a chrome-yellow 1970 Mustang Boss 302 from Dan Rohyans Ford in Columbus, Ohio. I don’t know what my father was thinking. He dropped me off, thus installing me—age 18—behind the wheel of a violent muscle car on the one night the wet streets were guaranteed to be clogged with hugely distracted children in dark clothing. Why not also toss in a bottle of Wild Turkey and a suitcase full of thermite?
Keep Reading: John Phillips: Memories of My Favorite Boss – Column
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