When Change Isn’t Worth It: My Case Against the Four-Door Bubble Car

Not All Progress Is Progress

Change is often celebrated as a virtue—especially in today’s fast-paced world. And in most cases, it is. The ability to adapt, pivot, and embrace the new can be a superpower in both personal and professional life.

But not all change is progress. Sometimes, change is just compromise in disguise.

Style vs. Utility – A Childhood in Two-Doors

Take the car industry, for example. Somewhere along the line, automakers traded in style, character, and individuality for bland, mass-produced "practicality." And the buying public didn’t push back. We just… accepted it.

I grew up in a two-door household. My dad worked second shift and had Wednesdays and Thursdays off. That meant when he was on the job, any errands, appointments, or family outings with Mom happened in a two-door. A Camaro. A Charger. An Oldsmobile. Whatever she drove, it had just two doors—and attitude.

1979 Chevrolet Camaro Berlinetta

When Dad was off? Same story. My sister and I would pile into his Bronco or ride in the bed of his truck—which, yes, would be illegal now. But back then, it was just life. We weren’t coddled. We were along for the ride, however uncomfortable that ride might’ve been.

By age 15, I was already six feet tall—lanky and long-legged—but I still folded myself into the back seat of those sporty two-doors without complaint. It wasn’t always comfortable, but it worked. And not once did my parents consider trading identity for convenience.

So, when someone today insists their kids need a four-door, I have to laugh. If teenage me could contort into the back of a Charger, your ten-year-old can figure it out.

When I Tried to Conform

I did try to adapt to the four-door lifestyle—once. Before I started working at the City of Saint Charles, I bought what I now call a “commuter bubble”: a 2008 Chevrolet Impala. My wife and I already had a 2010 FJ Cruiser (technically four-door, but barely) and my beloved 2005 Jeep Wrangler TJ. Neither vehicle was great on gas, and I didn’t want to put

unnecessary miles on the Jeep just to get to work.

I also had the notion that, since I’d be working in government, I should drive something American-made. (Spoiler: I was wrong. Most department heads—and the incoming City Administrator—were proudly driving foreign brands.) I digress.

What I learned in four months was this: the backseat of that Impala had no more room than

2008 Chevrolet Impala

my mom’s old Charger. It just had extra parts, a heavier footprint, and a face only a manufacturer could love. It was indistinguishable from the sea of round-edged, badge-dependent commuter cars on the road. No soul. No pride.

So, I sold it. After just four months. Passed it off to a former client and bought myself a 2016 Jeep Wrangler JK. Not a JKU—the “U” stands for four doors. Hard pass.

My Escape From the Escape

While I was at Ghirardelli, I was issued a company vehicle for commuting and client visits. A four-door Ford Escape.

It was a turd.

It had the power of a snail and the personality of a sink full of soapy Dawn. White paint, plastic everything. It was a joyless drive, every day, through LA traffic. Free gas and maintenance couldn’t make up for the daily soul drain.

So I gave it back.

I went back to driving my own vehicles—my two-door Ram 1500 and, occasionally, my Rubicon. I was just happier behind those wheels. In a world where traffic and office life can feel soul-sucking, the least I could do was enjoy the drive.

Your commute doesn’t have to be glamorous, but it shouldn’t make you feel like you’re dying inside.

Identity Over Practicality

While I was at Ghirardelli, I showed off a photo of my new personalized plates: N04D0RS, for my 2021 Wrangler Rubicon JL. A team member asked, “Why don’t you like four doors?”

I answered, “Because four-doors have no style. No personality. I don’t need one.”

2021 Rubicon JL Personal Plates

He pressed, “Yeah, but what about family and friends?”

I replied, “At 15, I could squeeze into the back of a two-door. If my friends don’t want to climb into my Jeep, we can take their bubble car. I’ll wedge into the back seat or throw someone else back there so I can potentially have more legroom up front.”

Most of my friends already know the drill. With every Jeep I’ve owned—CJ, YJ, TJ, JK—I’ve pulled the back seat entirely. It’s not that I’m antisocial—I just didn’t need the extra seats. My wife and I have no spawn. Just dogs. And the dogs? They don’t throw tantrums, spill juice, or kick the back of your seat. They just stretch out in the open space and live their best lives. No booster seats, no complaints. Honestly, they’ve got better manners than most passengers. They seem to appreciate the extra room and not being elevated on a platform. They do not need a seat back.

I also told my colleague something else I hope stuck: No one is restoring a 2008 Impala or Camry in 25 years. They’ll be scrapped and recycled into the next generation of bland, disposable bubble cars.

But two-door vehicles—those get remembered. Restored. Revered. Go to any classic car show: muscle cars, coupes, trucks, SUVs. It's a two-door parade. Why? Because these models had soul. They meant something. They were aspirational. They stood out.

Stop Ruining the Good Stuff

I don’t mess with social media much these days. It’s turned into a mess of performative outrage and keyboard warriors preaching their gospel while hanging onto whatever half-truth fits their narrative. It used to be a place for real opinions, decent conversation—even the occasional fact. Now? Just noise wrapped in virtue signals.

But recently, something actually caught my eye—the Easter Jeep Safari. Stellantis rolled out a few concept rigs—most of them forgettable fluff. But then came the J6 Honcho. A two-door truck with a six-foot bed, just like my Ram 1500. Finally—something that makes sense. Something that feels right.

So I dove into the comments.

Right there, of course, were the predictable complaints: “Only two doors? Who would want that?”

J6 Honcho Concept

I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I should’ve scrolled on. But I didn’t.

My reply, repeated in various edits: If you want a four-door truck, take your pick—Ford, Chevy, Toyota, Honda, Nissan, Hyundai, GMC, and yes, Jeep all make one. You want a two-door truck with a six-foot bed? Good luck. You want a two-door SUV? Your options are Jeep, Ford, or Land Rover. Wrangler. Bronco. Defender 90. That’s it.

Yes, the concept has too much plastic. Yes, the drivetrain isn’t one I’d call optimal. But it has the right attitude. The kind that nods to the past without pretending to be something it’s not.

So don’t ruin the potential for the few good things some of us have left—those of us who would be interested in our next purchase having clean lines, compact form, and that classic attitude. The J6 Honcho gets it. It’s a glimpse of what could be, and it’s a damn good reminder of what some of us are still looking for.

Final Thoughts

Yes, adaptability matters. I’ve changed careers. I’ve embraced new tech. I’ve reshaped my lifestyle. I’ve relocated for a better life.

But some things are worth defending—not out of nostalgia, but because some of us believe they were simply better.

I’ll change when it makes life better. But I won’t pretend that every “evolution” is progress—especially not when it trades individuality for mediocrity.

Don’t be a lemming. Demand options. Don’t settle.

And damn it—bring back the two-door.