When I was in high school 200 years ago, the car you bought with your fast food paychecks, at least where I grew up, helped define your youth.
Every red blooded male at my high school aspired to drive a '69 Chevy Camaro or, alternatively, '69 Pontiac GTO. I was insufferable and pretentious, so I drove a Peugeot. My best friend, Travis, had a classic beat up Camaro. We spent most weekends messing with the engine, and the sound system, of course. Music in that day was blasted out of speakers with aftermarket receivers and equalizers. Happily, I did not know what an ear bud was. Like the mechanic on The Andy Griffith Show, I deemed it merely an honour to work on Travis' car.
Today, the brand of cell phone one carries in one's back pocket confers status and cool. I'm glad I was young when I was young. You can't get nookie in a cell phone. You can't pull donuts on icy parking lots. And, The Dead Milkmen never sang about a bitchin' iPhone.
Oddly, though, you can now view and purchase a bitchin' Camaro with a phone. Never in a million years did I see that one coming.