It's how we roll.

Many people have cars that like spouses, just look like they belong with each other. William Conrad, who portrayed private investigator Frank Cannon on the old Cannon TV series absolutely had a kinship to his Lincoln Continental Mark VI. My younger daughter Katie looks like her Saturn Aura was modeled and built specially for her.

Yesterday I was waiting at the bottom of the I-29 exit ramp to 72nd street and found myself behind an aging Ford Festiva occupied by a large curly-headed Seth Rogen-looking kid wearing a T-shirt that said only "CLOWN." As we all waited for the light and the other six million cars to clear, he alternated between sitting bolt upright and dropping the seat back into full recline position all the while talking on his cell phone. "He's a clown, all right," I thought. His buddy sat next to him, a little skinny guy with a white rag tied around his head. He had a scrubby beard and never moved so much as a muscle. "Those guys are perfect for that car," I continued to muse, observing its faded red paint and hearing its rumbling (yes, it really rumbled) exhaust. They were perfect for it: not at all polished, loud and goofy, very casual.

Pretty teenaged girls are meant to drive Mazda Miata convertibles, preferably red ones. They may continue to do so until in their mid-twenties by which time they really need to trade for a Mustang convertible. Incidentally, no man should ever be seen driving a Miata. Most men have the top of the windshield obscuring their vision and are so ill-fitted in this vehicle that they look like Shriners heading to a parade; Miata is for girls only.

When I used to pick up my kids after school I got a good education in car-driver agreement. I sat there in my Ranger, one of the rare trucks in the parking lot, watching the mini-vans roll in. All of the thirty-something moms parked, got out and had mini-conferences in twos and threes gassing about who knows what. In their nylon jogging suits and mom jeans they all appeared to be a good fit with their Voyagers and Caravans, a sea of which spanned the lot by the time the kids charged in from school. I would venture that mini-vans are the jogging suits of the automobile kingdom. Ten years before, the mini-van--or its older brother the venerable station wagon--would have caused these same women to recoil in horror and run screaming back to their Mustangs. Now they had sliding doors, cup holders and even televisions in the back to entertain restless urchins.

Boys are more complicated, and have to have a gimmick. Even before high school they emerge with car personalities. There are always a few who think they have to have the speediest car and only look at ease in a Corvette. Some prefer an old Firebird, which always seems to be black or have no paint whatsoever. A lot of teens abandoned the muscle car and express themselves now with pickup trucks and vie to have the largest, loudest and highest off the ground. This is the 2009 equivalent of fully-extended peacock feathers, replacing those bygone but equally loud big-block Plymouths and SS396 Chevelles. The vast majority of boys however will just settle for what they can afford, sliding into hand-me-down family cars or perhaps an aging SUV. Reflecting their individuality, boys will turn them into neat, shiny jewels or let them deteriorate into something like the Festiva, maintaining it only to the extent that it will qualify for a state license.

In some communities your car is a statement of who you are, not unlike your clothes or hobbies or even your home itself. My buddy Norton, from Garden City, bought his first car when we were in college. He selected a 1967 RS Camaro, which like Norton himself, was small, quick, sporty and agile. If Norton was not "sporty," he at least liked sports. It was a good pick. They looked like each other. Now, later in life, he has an Acura sedan. Just conservative enough, and just edgy enough for a busy internist.

Some men go into a midlife crisis and opt for Corvettes, Mustang V-8's, or exotic roadsters from overseas. Like the crisis, these cars fail to reflect the true nature of their owners, as very few men in their fifties have anything in common with high-powered, sexy, low-slung automobiles with low profile tires. These men would normally drive Buicks or Mercurys. I really don't know what makes them do that.

The one thing you can count on is guys who wear their hair long or shaggy and have a beard are almost obligated to drive a four-wheel-drive truck. The more full the beard, the bigger the truck. Even if they don't need a truck, that is how they roll. This is a way of life. Sometimes the more disheveled they personally look, the dirtier the truck stays. It has nothing to do with their work and everything to do with how much a bad-boy they want you to believe they are. I have known men who do construction for a living and drive trucks but you would need to look long and hard to find any dirt on the ones they drive.

Then there are the celebrities. Britney Spears is a match for her white Mercedes, but she should be denied a driver's license. Her driving--like the rest of her life--is a mess, thoroughly documented in endless magazines and on TMZ. Another mess, Lindsey Lohan, just this week was given a $130,000 Maserati by an adult movie producer so I guess that's a pretty good match too, for a variety of reasons. The best match ever? Sean Connery as James Bond in Goldfinger with the legendary Aston-Martin DB5. A sleek, fast car for a similar international spy-playboy.

This isn't an exact science but consider your friends and the cars they drive. As people and their spouses grow to look like each other, don't people and their cars somehow wind up as mirrors of each other? I think they do. Folks want to project an image of who they are if they can afford to do it. So check out their cars, and then lets have a look at their pets...