Prius

I drove Tom's Prius once.

Also, whereas in L.A. you could step out your front door, whisper “I’m going to slash the tires of your Prius,” and within seconds about thirty neighbors would be calling the cops in an effort to protect their Prii, that would never happen at the ranch. The ranch was completely isolated. Our nearest neighbor was a good half hour drive away.

I drove Priuses in Michigan, Jeeps through Colorado, and pickup trucks around the Texas Hill Country and Midtown Manhattan, feeling right at home in the former and like an alien invader in the latter.

The parking lot was a zoo of suburban moms with their Starbucks cups commandeering their Prii (the Toyota-approved plural of Prius) and SUVs into empty spots.

The two Prii that we found were probably the last to be driven.

A PR agency had even contacted Toyota to procure five Priuses (or Prii, as Toyota calls them) for the Oscars—allowing environmentally conscious celebrities to eschew their ostentatious limousines for Toyota’s fuel-sipping green machine. […] Car and Driver mocked the display of “pop royalty . . . Meryl Streep, Ted Danson (who made his fortune leading a gang of pathetic boozers in the alcohol-soaked sitcom Cheers), the serially deranged Richard Dreyfuss, and Jeff Goldblum” cavorting around in their Prii.

It was more quietly fancy, drawing in the kind of wealthy people who thought they were better than their counterparts because instead of spending money on fancy cars, they spent it on their Priuses and perfectly done cottages filled with shabby chic furnishings.

Most of the players grabbed their kitbags and made for their Priuses, but my partner gulped long and deep from a litre of Gatorade and strolled my way, rubbing the sweat from his brow.