That’s right. Not a 911. A Boxster. I don’t care what year.
“But bro! It’s a total chick car!” you say with your baseball cap turned backwards. I’m sure a lot of women like it, but if you think it’s “just” a chick car, you don’t really like cars.
“But bro! It’s a car, for . . . you know. Those kind of dudes.” Gay guys? Again, I’m sure they like them too. A lot of my gay friends are into cars and sports and raising kids and they’re also worried about taxes (and in California, the drought) and other things aside from being gay. But if you say something like that – aside from being, if not homophobic, a parrot perpetuating a very acute stereotype – you don’t get it. And if more gay people have Boxsters, it just reinforces a very positive stereotype: they have taste.
Because we live in a culture that immerses us in lies. We are bombarded every day with messages and images about things that will make us feel better, make us look better, make us better. And almost all of it is bullshit. It makes us jaded. It makes us untrusting. And worse, it makes us blind to the things that are special. There are products – just like people – that are more than the sum of their parts. That are magic. And the Boxster is one of those things.
And I speak from experience. Here are my last four cars:
The 530i was comfortable, but dull. The 911 had character, and I appreciated its history, but it never excited me like the air-cooled ones did (in my case, the 1988 911 Cabriolet, driving by my best friend’s dad. He’d pick us up from school, blasting AC/DC through 3.5″ Blaupunkt speakers, smoking a stog, and telling us to wear rubbers. Keep in mind, I was twelve). And the M5’s mighty 507hp V10 is like bringing a nuclear bomb to a gun fight: too much. Never appreciated, never used. A hypothetical to brag about to your friends.
The meager 217hp Boxster was by far the best one. It was magnificent. You could use the engine. It vibrated against your shoulder blades as you ran it through the rev range. It wasn’t a rocket, but it never tired, always willing as you rowed through the gears. It had telepathic steering. It made you feel like an Indy car driver. I sold it for the 530i when my wife and I got a dog. And I miss it every day. And because of that loss, I hate the dog.
I’m kidding, Oliver.
You can buy a Boxster right now for 8 grand.