It Hertz

(sigh)…I don’t know where to start. So much rage, and then depression, and then rage…The airbag warning light in my car started to blink this week, so I left my beloved Miata

[picture here taken from a play date]

with the automotive doctors at Sierra Mazda. And now, my story begins…

Mazda says they will need a few days and will hook me up with a rental from Hertz. Naturally, I ask for a Shelby GT-H, but instead the Hertz dude offers me the choice of a Sonata or an HHR. I decide to go with the automotive incarnation of Elmer Fudd:

Despite the Fudd-mobile’s cartoony “kick my ass, it’s easy” demeanor, I think it might be a fun car to have for a few days. But then I look inside and find the interior to be...well...disgusting. The first thing I notice is this ghastly stain on the passenger seat:

Please tell me that’s spilt milk. I don’t carry a black light around with me, so I decide to put my bag on the floor. And then I notice more nastiness…

And what’s with the sawdust in the glove compartment?:

And it smells like the closet of a smoker with bad personal hygiene. (Hertz, is it too much to ask that you give me a car that doesn't compel me to wash my hands after every time I drive it? A complaint to the manager will be filed upon returning this car, and I will keep you all posted as to Hertz’s response. After all, we are for the people here at Chyo and Joe’s, especially if one of those people’s name is Joe.)

As I hesitantly plant my freshly laundered khakis onto the driver’s seat, I notice the shockingly poor fit and finish of the dash and steering wheel:

The chrome around the speedo and tach looks like it was sourced from Mattel:

The interior materials look more Tonka than Toyota. The rubbery steering wheel feels hollow, like it would weigh about 10 ounces on its own, and would feel equally at home in a child’s “Power Wheels” toy. I can't help thinking that my Logitech Steering Wheel for the PlayStation 2 is leagues ahead in terms of quality:
I consider asking for another car right then, but I am already late for work, and the guy helping me seems new as he’s double checked every aspect of the protocol thus far with his increasingly impatient manager in the arduous process of setting me up with this piece of sh*t. So I bite my tongue, start it up, and put it in reverse…and the lack of rearward visibility is immediately apparent. Looking through the rear window feels like looking through a glorified peephole, and although visibility is fine looking forward, there is an unmistakably odd “hiding in a cave” feeling to being inside. (I would understand if this was a Mini, but the HHR could swallow a Mini whole and still have enough room to pound a couple of Vespas for dessert.) Soon, the cabin stench begins to overwhelm my anger management skills, and I hunt for the window controls. About 5 seconds later, I find them buried at the bottom of the center console, forcing me to bend down to reach them while craning my neck to keep my eyes on the road.


I then try to find a place for my water bottle, and of course the large cup holder which is too big to hold a soda can or a fountain drink is too small to fit my Nalgene knock off. It is, so fittingly (pun intended), perfectly useless. Trying to ignore the rolling and crashing of my water bottle on the passenger floor, I decide to attempt option two: a soda. However, I can’t reach it because the arm rest is in the way:


Ok, fine. No arm rest. I can do without an arm rest. But still, the cup holder being right next to my hip adds tennis-elbow-inducing anti-ergonomics to every sip of my Canada Dry. (Later on, I discovered that I also have to move the passenger seat arm rest to access the handbrake. Nice. Props to the designers at GM—It takes talent to be this careless and still get paid.) With not a little frustration, I continue on toward work.

As I drive, I find that there’s roughly an inch of play in the steering wheel. I can literally turn the wheel almost 10 degrees off axis with no affect while moving at freeway speeds. The brake pedal has the feel of one of those plastic step-on air pumps used to fill up yoga balls and is about as effective at doing its job. The engine/transmission seems to have a mind of its own. I start thinking about the contrast between what I gave up and what I received, and realize that the trade was nothing short of tragic. My Miata feels like its always trying to anticipate my intentions in order to transform its behavior into an apparent extension of my will. Now, I am the one trying to guess what the car is going to do despite my inputs. My Miata’s steering wheel is like a scalpel that allows me to carve corners with surgical precision; the HHR’s wheel is like a syringe that injects my hands with Novocain. But then I see it: the looping connector on the 134 from Pasadena going west. My workday ritual is to take the curved passing lane on the right and pass all the lesser drivers on the left. I see my opening and floor the gas pedal. Nothing. Still nothing. With my right foot still on the floor, I watch helplessly as the passing gap closes. And then, suddenly, the car lurches forward with a violent downshift resulting in flurry of wildish revs sounding off with all the composure of a post-water-boarding confession. Finally, the car accelerates, but too late to help me pass, yet with just enough vigor that I must brake to keep from tailgating the car in front of me. The gross discrepancy between the two vehicles is made even clearer. When passing, my Miata reacts to my input like an eager athletic puppy aiming to please; the HHR reacts like a lazy beer-bellied misogynist to his wife’s request to help with the dishes. The HHR discourages all attempts at engaged driving and consequently beats down the will of its driver until all that remains is a soulless being trying to survive a daily sentence in a boredom chamber. And I realize that in this car, what I want really doesn’t matter. A wave of depression ripples deep in my chest, and I imagine burying myself under 6 feet of dirt. After paying my respects, I get in line behind everybody else in traffic. I start to feel restless, squirmy. I am utterly pining for distraction. I think, "Who can I call right now to kill time? Who can I call right now to kill me? Hmmm…there’s an accident on the other side of the barrier…better slow down to get a look." I turn on the radio and start channel surfing like a teenage boy looking for scrambled porn as I thoughtlessly hold the wheel with my left index finger. And then, in a moment of horrific clarity, the reality of my own degradation hits me square in the unders like a two-fisted Jean-Claude Van Damme. My eyes open and I can see that I am becoming the very driver I hate. Even more, I realize that, for years now, I have unfairly berated people for their inattentive driving habits. Instead, what I should have been doing was shaming them for their inexcusably poor decision-making as consumers. My mind races with questions, accusations, and random syntheses of socio-political/economic thought: “Who in their right mind decides to buy this car? If you own an HHR, please say your piece because my curiosity is boiling over, and I’m guessing you have nothing better to do. Did you even look at the competition? Forget about the Japanese and the Germans, even the new kids on the block from Korea are putting out cars that grossly outclass this thing. You, the middle class American consumer, are allowing a once esteemed American Automaker to get away with murdering itself. And you, GM, buy yourself the cheapest Japanese and German cars you can find (I suggest a Volkswagon Rabbit and a Honda Fit) and take a look at what you’re up against. Study, study, study. Notice the build quality, the higher end materials used, the logical layout of the dash, the smoothness of the engine, even the assured click of the turn signal stalk. Details matter. I know, I know, the Union issue. Figure it out already. Our popular religion may be based in the book of Genesis, but the way we live is rooted in The Origin of Species, and evolution doesn't sympathize with anyone. Your daddy’s trust fund can only take you so far. At some point, even the foulest droppings of nepotistic greatness have to grow up and earn their keep. I long for the day I can proudly buy an everyday American car and not feel like it’s a charitable act of ignorant patriotism. The Corvette’s a great car (the interior is about as cutting edge as the Zip drive, but the car’s performance and consequent value make it great nonetheless). The Caddie CTS seems like a legit effort. But what about a decent car for us common folks? After all, we are your largest group of consumers, and most of us aren’t as stupid as you might hope.”

…and with those thoughts, I finally arrive at work. I put the transmission into Park and all 4 doors automatically unlock. I shake my head, bewildered at how the bad just keeps on coming at you in this car. More accusations ensue: “Did no one at GM think that maybe this could be a potential safety issue? My 8 year old Volkswagon Golf is set up such that the doors stay locked but as the inside handles are pulled, the corresponding door automatically unlocks itself. We’re not talking Mercedes or Lexus here. We’re talking about a $15k economy car from 8 years ago.” After a bit more head shaking, I exit the car and reach to close the door, hoping to put an end to a most regrettable morning. But as my finger touches the door, I get a static shock so severe that I nearly drop my computer bag as my arm shoots behind my head. I fight a seemingly ageless internal battle to refrain from keying the car or driving it inland and asking my friend from the last post to run over it. Now calm, I carefully close the door. Out of habit, I lock the car, but catch myself thinking, “Why? Who would steal this golden turd when there’s a perfectly good 21-speed sitting there on the rack?”

The moral of this story for me, for you, and for GM: I should have chosen the Hyundai.

You know you've gone too far inland when...

you see this:

Remember what I wrote a few posts ago about braking distance? This is what I'm talking about. And by the way, what possesses a person to ruin a truck that is already so perfectly inadequate by design? How does society break a man down to such a degree of shamelessness that he decides to load up his credit card for this craziness? Seriously, I wear a shoe size 8, sometimes even a 7-1/2, and I drive a miata. That should set your insecurities at ease, sir. Now come on down from that monstrosity and let's see if we can't find you a therapist and a proper date.

Irony

A Plea To End Life Threatening Boredom

I drive a 2006 Mazda MX-5 (or Miata) which I absolutely adore, sexual ambiguity be damned. But I will save a thoroughly comprehensive ode to the utter joy factory that is “Mia” (I know, 2 points to Joe for creativity) for another time. In this moment, I shall focus on something utterly different. Something ugly and menacing both in its ability to kill and its propensity to kill with the most torturous of all methods: boredom…


So Mia is obviously a lightweight. In the event of a collision against almost all other vehicles, I would be foolish to think that the airbags are going to save me like a Royce Gracie submission maneuver in the early days of the UFC. No, in the automotive world, for better or worse, size matters, and against something like this GMC Whatever (Ok, fine, I think it's called an "Envoy," but nobody cares anyway), my best option is to avoid , which, lucky for me, my car is quite adept at doing. Driving on the freeways in Los Angeles in a Miata is not for the faint of heart. I am ALWAYS on the defensive, reminding myself that the best defense in my situation truly is a good offense, despite how much I hate that saying and Bill Walton for that matter. My only viable option is to aggressively avoid a collision with trucks, SUVs, and ever growing not-so-minivans, all of which combine to comprise what seems like the majority of vehicles on the road. My daily commute is a life or death game of Frogger.

So alright, I admit that I signed myself up for this. I wanted the small, nimble car. Maybe it’s because I am 5’8” and 135lbs and have small man complex. Yes, I grew up fantasizing about dominating brutishly built bully schoolmates by Kung Fu-ing their asses, ending the furious flurry of fists and feet with a dramatic shriek and a death touch, but only to one unlucky soul, sending a clear message to the others. And of course, all of this occurs in front of the ladies, who just happen to secretly love Kung Fu. As you might have guessed, I never came close to acting on that dream. Instead, I joined the tennis team and developed thumb calluses playing Street Fighter II. But I am a grown man now. I realize that in this game, “Game Over” does not automatically mean a “Play Again” option. So I scheme. I develop strategy. If I see an inattentive driver on his/her cell phone, I immediately start surveying the situation for all possible outs in case that person starts to drive as stupid as they look. I look to pass. I look to get away…as far as possible, especially if this person is behind me, and even more so if this person is driving a substantially larger car with worse brakes, which in my case, is pretty much always the case. I happen to know that my car stops from 60-0mph in 116ft. I also happen to know that most trucks and many SUV’s stop from 60-0mph in roughly 140-150ft (if it’s an American model, I tack on an extra 10 feet just for good measure). That means if I’m being tailed by a perfectly alert driver of one of these cars at 60mph (who happens to have superhuman reflexes), they must be roughly 35 feet behind me prior to when I brake to avoid Big Foot-ing me, ending these intermittent blog entries, and completely nullifying 7 coats of meticulously applied Zaino product. For every second that tailing driver waits to brake, another 88ft is added to the required distance for collision avoidance. What this means on the freeway is that any idiot behind me driving alone in an over-sized gas guzzler with the radio blaring while screaming at a cell phone (which sadly is most drivers during rush hour) should give him/herself at least a 200 foot buffer to process the situation and mash that Tempur-Pedic sponge of a brake pedal. But of course, in LA, tailgaters are as ubiquitous as…well… American-made SUV’s with bad brakes. It’s a symbolic picture of what some tragically believe to be the American way: “I’m bigger, so I’m entitled to be as stupid and selfish as I want, and you better get used to it until you get as fat and ignorant as I am, and then we’ll mud wrestle each other for the right to be king of all that is crude and embarrassing to anyone outside our bacon-wrapped bubble…and if that doesn’t work, we’ll just have to shoot each other.” I support a different kind of America, the one that wrote in the right to bear arms not to bully others, but to defend itself against the rule of any tyrannical government within its own borders. But alas, I have made a digression of the worst kind. Consider my political soap box burned and under 24 hour surveillance. So back to the issue at hand. This is a plea to all of you out there whose vehicles move like a worn out Sumo wrestler: Let’s a make a deal. You stop mad-dogging me, and I shall refrain from giving you the finger for polluting twice the air, taking up twice the space, and making the road a generally unsafe place for those of us who actually like to drive.

Does the MDX come with a cup?

I truly have a heart for Honda. Growing up, my dad's first new car purchase was a 1985 Honda Accord LX. It was metallic blue. Together, we loved that car for what seemed like an eternity at the age of 12. When we sold it, I sobbed as if I had lost a brother, and I have a feeling my dad did the same behind closed doors. So please know that these last couple of posts come not from a flippant desire to criticize but from a sincere and heartfelt disappointment.


Seriously Honda, you are so much better than this. SH-AWD? Are you kidding? Kudos to your engineers for the clean execution of a brilliant idea, but you should have left the branding to another department void of pocket protectors. Ask 10 relevantly dressed Americans to do a free association exercise with the word "SHAWD," and I pretty much guarantee that what you hear from them will not be words you want associated with you or your car.

I happen to be wearing a fairly spiffy shirt today, so let me take a stab at it: Hmmm...SHAWD. Sounds like a dirty word. I can just hear Joe Rogan screaming, "Ooo!!! Wow!!! That was nasty! He got a knee square in the shawd! Looks like Referee Herb Dean is gonna have to stop the fight...Yeah, that's it. It's over. That's really unfortunate..."

Acura, have you no shame?

You've got to be kidding me. There is nothing remotely "refreshed" or "restyled" about this design. Enough with the "re"-marks. All Acura has "revealed" is that they are willing to redo someone else's design ideas. The only redeeming quality about this regurgitation of design is that it provides Chris Bangle yet another chance to realize the repercussive stench emanating from the refuse of his misguided pencil.

There's A Spur In My Slalom

Please understand, I really do like the 2008 Subaru Impreza WRX STi. Sure, it looks like the spawn of some minor role Transformer and Robocop’s twice decapitated head, but nonetheless, a practical 4-door hatch that does 0-60 in 4.8 seconds and goes 72 mph through the slalom is nothing to laugh at. I would even go as far as saying the STi has the potential to look attractive: swap out that nasty front grill for something reasonably tasteful, and I would be satisfied. After all, STi’s were never meant to look elegant, graceful, or even natural, just as bulldogs were never meant to win beauty contests. Even justifying the STi’s appearance as “function over form” would be misleading, as this car is really an exercise in “function despite form.” Ultimately, focusing on the STi’s aesthetic appeal is as pointless as buying a Michael Graves power tool…or is it? Why concern yourself with how the STi gets results when the results are this good? Up until now, I happily did not have an answer to this question, but then I saw this… (Pay special attention at the 1 min 55 sec mark.)

About midway through, this video shows footage of the STi making its way to a stellar 72 mph slalom run. But here lies the rub: a 72 mph slip through the cones should conjure up images of supercars like the Porsche 911 Turbo or the Ferrari Enzo. Instead, I find myself engrossed by memories of my dog marking a tree or the time I got seasick on a budget ferry ride to Catalina Island. Two words: body roll. Check it out for yourself one more time and notice how even the shamefully one dimensional (only good in a straight line) Mustang gets through the slalom with a lot more…dare I say it…style. Despite the STi’s undeniably impressive slalom result, its flailing lack of composure is really an eyesore, sort of like watching Manu Ginobili drive to the rim:

The sad thing is, the STi’s body roll issue is drastically improved from its less formidable sibling, the plain old WRX. Watch a video of the WRX seesawing its way through a few cones, and you will be overcome with musings of inserting random objects in those intermittently huge gaps between the tires and the wheel wells. I seriously think I could jam a basketball in there.

A final thought: it would be a nice touch if the folks at Subie included a Subaru-branded, adult version of this weighted cup for everyone who buys a WRX or STi:

Evolution & The 2nd Law of Thermodynamics: An Ongoing Conundrum, Part 3

Let us at last take a moment to pay our respects to the last great Mitsubishi Evolution...

The 2006 Evolution IX arrived on our shores like a tourist whose fashion sense was more than a little lost in translation. Frankly, the IX looked like the hormonally imbalanced attempt of an angry teenager to salvage the remains of an automotive lost and found bin. The trademark rear wing remained laughably disproportionate. Apparently, the designers from Mitsubishi had learned absolutely nothing in regards to aesthetics (or aerodynamics, for that matter) since the Evo VIII. The IX, like its predecessors, continued to reject the standard “slippery finesse” sports car motif. Instead, its aim was to free itself from the shackles of the wind tunnel through brute force, blast itself halfway across the globe, and literally crash the caviar-laden party at Pininfarina. This car was not about the art of seduction, but about getting down to business, unapologetically shoving its over-blown cylinders in your face with a dare. From there, you could take it or leave it. As expected, most turned away in disgust, but the few who were able to put aside their yuppie machismo experienced a ride they would never forget.

The greatest attribute of the IX was its undeniable integrity. This machine was raw and uncompromised, never attempting to be anything other than what it was: a stripped out driving machine ultimately more intense and connective than any 4-door coming out of Bavaria. Its heavy fisted intentions were grotesquely clear, and were made even clearer as they mirrored the unscrupulous intentions of its buyers. Choosing an Evolution IX meant that you had only one thing on your mind, and you were going to get it, societal approval (and The Highway Patrol) be damned. The IX’s presence in the market was a refreshingly brisk slap in the Botoxed faces of other “performance sedans” that grew softer with each generation, systematically reducing themselves to “sport trimmed” baby carriers bought by consumers whose true affinity for athleticism rivaled that of Sporty Spice. But the IX was different. A drive around the block would never put the baby to sleep at night, but my oh my did it wake you up in the morning.

Accelerating, braking, and turning in the IX were seemingly commanded by your will and not the pressing of pedals or the twisting of the wheel. Driving this car was like riding a rocket powered Segwey, but without the embarrassing “prick on a stick” factor. This same responsiveness, however, resulted in anxious fear and potential danger for the inattentive driver, as every millimeter of movement registered a comparatively mountainous response, for on the other side of the connectivity coin we always find words like “fidgety,” “frenetic,” and “twitchy.” If you took your eyes off the road and your hand off the wheel for a second to reach for your Grande Latte, you could find yourself inadvertently pulling into the non-existent Starbucks on the right. It was that good at reading your intentions. The IX responded to your instinctual desires before you could filter them, and that was a dangerous thing…if you happened to be the mindless fingertip-steering type who frequently got the “the wandering eye” during your commute. Like a jealous wife, the IX made you instantly aware of any potential duplicity in your focus. On the other hand, if you were the type that delighted more in the dependably moving song of a high performance engine than in the decision making of a franchised radio station, this was the safest car you could buy. For such people, the IX was safe not because of its crumple zones, airbags, or its fantastic brakes—it was safe because it made us better drivers. The Evo IX practically frightened us into keeping both hands on the wheel, our eyes pinned to the road, and our minds cleared of distractions. In truth, every car on the road going past 30 mph carries life or death on its wheels, but the Evo IX made us viscerally aware of this reality, and the sane among us responded with respectful attention to the only important task at hand: driving. But as we drove, just drove, the IX thrilled us through a symbiotic relationship built on speed, agility, and intoxicating levels of fun. Perfectly heel-toed downshifts were collected like points in a video game as increasingly challenging corners were conquered with wide-eyed enthusiasm. Meanwhile, sling-shot blasts off the line past a competing Porsche Caymen S never failed to elicit uncontrollable laughter, joyous self-affirmation, and more than a hint of judgment for others. And the most magical part of it all was that the vast majority of these adventures happened on the way to work, the grocery store, or the post office. Despite the IX’s ability to crank out mind-blowing track test numbers, its greatest and most important trick was its ability to resurrect what most drivers considered dead time by injecting pure adrenaline into the mundane.

So let us now raise our shots of sake, and bid a tearful farewell to the Evolution IX. (This one is worth crying for, no matter how big your biceps are.) In this time of ever-increasing automotive compromise, nothing, not even a car that built its legacy upon being extreme, is safe from the hegemonic monster of mainstream mediocrity. What’s next? A Lotus minivan? A Porsche SUV? Oh wait… Seriously, we need to stop and think about this: Porsche, the maker of the 911 that most of us dreamed about as kids, killed that very car and built a Porschesaurus.

Nothing is safe. And now, the Evolution we know and love is dead. Mitsubishi has abandoned its dominant position in a segment it practically created in hopes of scrounging a few scraps off the ever fattening BMW 3 Series’ table. For shame… But as is common in life, greatness often shines for but a moment, and when that moment passes, we must learn to be grateful that greatness can exist at all in a world where the blind lead the blind to car dealerships and impossible mortgages. Alas, let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die an anesthetized death of Tauruses and Camrys.

Evolution & The 2nd Law of Thermodynamics: An Ongoing Conundrum, Part 2

At the end of the last article, I stated that I would explain why auto enthusiasts mourn the death of cars like the pre-1999 Porsche 911:

and the soon to be deceased Mitsubishi Evolution IX:

But oddly, perhaps the most effective way to convey the greatness of these cars is to focus on the oxymoronic nature of their successors. The 996 brought a newfound sense of civility and evenness to the driving experience of a 911 while still improving performance numbers. Mitsubishi has incorporated a similar “best of both worlds” approach to the design of their new Evolution X. With the 996 and the Evo X, Porsche and Mitsubishi respectively managed astounding feats of engineering, and for their accomplishments in this respect, they should only be applauded. However, the fundamental error within these cars lies not in their abilities to perform, but in the corruption of their characters. Neither a 911 or an Evo should ever have to be described as “civil” or “comfortable,” and to utter such words as a complement should be tantamount to a groin-shot at the esteemed legacy of these dedicated machines. Furthermore, any discussion at all of ride quality in respect to these two cars should immediately call into question the groins of the conversationalists involved. (Seriously, just go buy a Buick and get it over with.) The mission of these cars is not to cushion your coccyx, lull you into a feeling of comfort and control, or isolate you from the cold world outside your climate controlled cockpit. These cars should not draw you in with their interior layouts and amenities, but should make you forget their interiors entirely. The mission of these cars is simple: to excite you by providing an intimately transparent and tactile connection between man, machine, and motorway. I am clearly not talking about the excitement of going to a new spa and finding L’Occitane products in the shower. I am talking about the raw, eye-opening excitement of a child riding a rollercoaster for the first time having just made the height requirement. If at least a touch of fear is not involved in the experience, something is very wrong. The true measure of an enthusiast’s car is not in its ability to pump out performance numbers, but in its eagerness to draw every ounce of your attention to the road ahead (and all those chumps who are just asking to be passed). By this standard, the 996 and the Evolution X represent ironic steps backward for Porsche and Mitsubishi.

[In Part III, the final segment of this article, I shall pay my respects to the venerable Evolution IX.]

Evolution & The 2nd Law of Thermodynamics: An Ongoing Conundrum, Part 1

2008 sees the arrival of the eagerly awaited and much applauded
Mitsubishi Evolution X:

The “Ten” is a complete redesign. Dimensions have increased. The new interior could only be described as luxurious compared to the one it replaces. Gone is the old iron-block 4G63 that has powered all Evos since 1992. In its place sits the new aluminum-block 4B11: a lighter, more capable engine working out a broader torque band through a double helping of MIVEC magic. The end result is smoother and more refined acceleration. In addition, a dizzying array of electronically controlled acronyms (S-AWC, ACD, AYC, ASC) pulls off the modern miracle of improved ride quality and improved handling. The roomier, quieter, more comfortable Evo X out-laps its frantic, bare-bones predecessor without even breaking a sweat. Well done, Mitsu, you have sufficiently ruined the only redeeming vehicle in your lineup.

Perhaps in a tragic twist of fate, 2008 also marks the 10 year anniversary of the Porsche 911’s death...

In 1963, the iconic rear-engine rear-wheel-drive sports car from Zuffenhausen was born, and for the next 34 years, it was tirelessly tweaked toward perfection. In 1998, the 911’s evolution came to an abrupt halt with model 993, as Porsche had finalized the decision to effectively sacrifice 34 years of inspired work to a porcelain god. The “new 911” (code named 996) that arrived in 1999 was redesigned from scratch. It arrived larger, more luxurious, and more powerful than the 993. The all new engine was now water-cooled, sporting double overhead camshafts, and variable valve timing. The modern underpinnings of the 996 allowed it to grace the road with a composure and civility that redefined Porsche, broadening the carmaker’s appeal to a wider audience who could suddenly purchase the title of “automotive enthusiast” without having to pay the ass-tax of driving a true enthusiast’s car. And in that moment of inevitable entropy, one of the most significant cars in automotive history met its irreversible end. While Porsche celebrated the “rebirth” of the 911, automotive enthusiasts worldwide prepared themselves for a funeral. As the grammatically challenged editor of Autozine struggles to state, “Since April 1998, our old friend 911 was dead. Although Zuffenhausen is still selling a car called Nine-Eleven today, all of us know the real 911 no longer lives in the world…I hope you will enjoy this special and always remember the real 911.” Shhh…It’s okay, Mr. Wan, I too learned English as my second language. I get you, I get you.

In these last days of being able to purchase a new Evolution IX,

let us not forget the deceased but ever beloved Porsche 911, which to this day still stands as a testament to the fact that “new and improved” is not always better, and to the truth that “appealing to a wider audience” almost always means an exchange of purity for profit, resulting in a wasteful dilution of something rare and special. In 1998, people buying new 993’s were branded as foolish for not waiting for the 996 arriving the very next year. But time, as it often does, reveals true wisdom not in days, but in years. Nearly a decade later, a comparison of resale value mirrors the clarity of greatness that was the Porsche 911 and the greed-driven myopia that envisioned its successor. Forget Edmunds “True Market Value” pricing on this one. Go straight to Autotrader.com and do a comparison for yourself. In the Los Angeles area, a search for ‘99 Porsche Carreras brings up roughly one hundred vehicles for sale whereas the same search for ’98’s rings up less than ten. Prices for a well kept ’99 range from $30-$35k. Prices for a well kept ’98? $40k-$60k. Oh the sweet justice of time...“Ti-i-ime…Why you punish me?” (A tribute not only to an old band obsessed with owls and life-threatening sushi, but also to you, Mr. Wan. Achtung, baby. We’ll get through this together, my German friend.)

[In Part II, I will discuss exactly why automotive enthusiasts mourn the loss of the 911 and will eventually mourn the loss of the Evolution IX.]

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