Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Crotchfire: True Stories Of The Redhead, Tragic Memoir Two

That pretty white BMW nestled itself so perfectly in my driveway. You knew I had a soft spot for that car, it was special for many reasons. That hot summer day outside the office, in the back seat, that was explosive, soaking wet love we made. It was only the second time we had been in each others presence, and we weren't the least bit ashamed. I used to love when you would take off those wedges so you could change gears smoothly. I remember how you left it parked sideways in the driveway the day I met him. It was parked sideways because I hastened your exit from the car with the placement of my hand. He shook that same hand with apprehension the very next day. The day you informed me you chose to marry him the BMW was absent. At the end of the pier sat a Ferrari and a Prius belonging to your father. The Bavarian car was at my shop having a VANOS solenoid replaced. A few days later I was drying the feather-white paint after I had washed it. You stood over me as I dried the wheels. Not a word was spoken but we both knew what had occurred. Continuing to try was futile. I was better off keeping my quiet position in your life. I knew life was better whilst making love to you than not having you at all. It hurt to know love took a backseat to social standing. On your wedding day I saw it sitting alone outside your house. The white BMW 550i M-Sport.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Crotchfire: True Stories Of The Redhead, Tragic Memoir One

I've oft referenced The Redhead, a woman of much higher caste than myself, who used said social standing to crush my soul. I was trapped within a web of deceit so often used by the wealthy. The impression I gleaned was that I was her lover, but really I was a slave compensated in lies and copulation. Over the years I took the time to write down short memoirs of our time together, good and bad. Let me end this preface with this: We may be free to choose, but we are limited in actions by the choices society makes for us.

I always loved your powerful ginger hair. It seemed to have always framed your face so well. It's no secret I adore ginger hair, but yours always seemed to excite me so much more. The wind brushed it ever so perfectly as we sat on the pier. My mind flashes to the way you so coyly fingered your champagne flute as we watched the water serenely push across the lake. Your face was tinged with such a bright red from embarrassment when our adult merriment made you force that champagne flute through it's own arse. It didn't last long though. Those words:

"Ethan, I am going to marry Peter."

"Fuck you."

"I'm so sorry."

"Fuck you."

And as I cautiously pulled myself from her embrace:

"I have to!"

"Don't touch me you lying whore."

I had never been so filled with rage in my life. My borrowed Ferrari seemed so distant sitting at the far end of the pier. What I truly remember is the patter of gravel as it whipped the paint off the rear flanks. It was my last escape from my heartache. The lake estate's drive was windy, darting through thick enclaves of deciduous trees. I knew no matter how much she pretended, she felt no remorse for making the easy decision. When I finally found the road, I broke into tears, I was upset with myself for allowing naïveté to get the best of me. I truly believed she would choose me over the world she was born into. Oh, was I ever wrong.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Porsche Stories Vol. 5: The Finale

A light crackle from the exhaust let off as my GT3 glided to a halt at the valet. The well lit entrance to our new headquarters placed an aurora-like glow around my green paint. There shouldn’t have been a nervous bone in my body but all I could feel was chills. It was more crowded in the conference hall than I ever expected. I could see a crowd standing around not too far from the bar, and right in the midst of it was Jack Baruth replaying a story of shenanigans in his Audi S5, he spotted me and stopped in the middle of his sentence.

“Illiana! I haven’t seen you around, how is everything?”

“Well. I’ve been working hard as you can see.”

“Oh you’re the one responsible for this event!”

“Yep. They couldn’t find anybody better to make this place a venue instead of an office.”

“I’m definitely having fun, by the way I want you to meet someone. Paul…”

In that instant the random black suit standing near us turned to display the face of the man I left in front of that green house. I tried not to let my face drop, but I think my face settled somewhere between afraid and humiliated. 

“Hey dude, meet Illiana. She’s like a test-driving publicist or some shit like that, never quite figured it out.”

“Nice to see you again.”

“You guys know each other?”

I didn't really know how to answer that question without saying we fucked a couple of times. I took a look at my Lady Datejust and came up with a quick answer.

“Yes, but I have to go put my Pilotis on, I need to get ready for the show downstairs.”

I could see it all over Jack’s face that he already knew the chemistry. I quickly moved to the elevator making sure to keep my eyes forward. I could feel the sting of the cold stare on the back of my neck. My cold indifference caught up to me and I had nowhere to really run. I hoped he would forget what I looked like, it had been long enough. But I’ll focus on the task at hand first.

I couldn’t say I was disappointed with her, I would walk away from me too. I feel like I may have embarrassed her in front of Jack but that was the last thing on my mind. I was more focused on her shape as she made her way to the elevator. I was focused on her, mesmerised even, by the way those curves sat under that dress. Just as I could begin to think about the way that shape felt, Jack walked up to me with another drink.

“You good man?”

“I’m great actually.”

“So what happened there?”

“Long story, I need to go though, I see Seinfeld over there and he owes me some parts for this 917 I’m building”

Me and my drink made our way across the floor to the entrance to the track on the grounds downstairs, I walked past Seinfeld and went outside to see the new 991’s on display ready for their big debut. I sipped my drink as I stared at the rear-engined stallions bathed in the lights from inside the building. All I could think about is why she didn’t even acknowledge me that day when outside the house. I sat on the grass and tipped my drink into my mouth, trying to make sense out of love.

I walked into my dark office looking out over the courtyard and the party below and stripped off my dress and all the thoughts ripping through my head. I watched myself as I walked over to the window, I could see where his infatuation laid well below my eyes. I want to apologise to him, but I’m not exactly sure how one apologises for what I did. I looked down in the courtyard and saw someone sitting in the grass. It’s him. He’s obviously sad. It’s my fault and right now I don't have anywhere near the words for him. 

I backed away from the window trying to resist the urge to cry. I figured he would be here with someone if he showed up. I’ve never been in this position before, nothing to gain, but so much to lose. Fuck that, I need to be downstairs getting ready, they’re going to be herding everybody down there in ten minutes. I pulled on my Nomex suit and grabbed my helmet, and made my way out the door. As I walk through the threshold, still pulling up my zipper, Mark was standing there, obviously drunk. 

“Hey you.”

“What do you need, Mark?”


“I don’t have time for this shit.”
He grabbed my arms and pushed me back into my office. I didn’t really have the energy to fight him, my mind was elsewhere. He began to kiss my neck and I asked:

“So you’re going to do this to me again? Just take what you want from me and I’ll stay quiet and keep my job.”

He started to unzip his pants and continued to bulldoze me towards the desk. I reached up and smacked him across his face, the same face that has dangled over mine one too many times. 

“Mark, you’re going to have to find a new girl to use. Cause I’m not the one anymore.”

“Oh, really? You weren’t so adverse to it when I was making you who you are-”

“Fuck you, you didn’t make me. I worked for everything I have, you just made me not believe I could do this on my own.”

“If you’re that stupid, I’ll let you believe that.”

He wobbled out of my office, pants still undone, back downstairs to find someone’s secretary to fuck. I zipped my suit up and grabbed my helmet once again and made my way down to the entrance hall. If anything came of tonight it may be me finding some sense of self-worth.

I was grabbing a drink from the bar when the announcement came through from the DJ booth to head out to the entry hall to take in the night’s real entertainment. I heard the Turbo first, the sound of induction, air being squeezed to oblivion perked up my ears. The GT3 filled my ears next with the raspy burble that only a flat-6 could produce. The cars pulled outside and the crowd followed close behind out to the test track where the cars were set to run. Jack walked up to me with some quip about Road & Track giving him first dibs on the GT3. But I wasn't paying any attention, I was focused on the spectacle of engineering that brought us all together here. 

I could see her face twirling around in the sea of rounded shapes and haunches, all the the DNA that created the two great cars exiting in front of us. I really didn’t see them go around the track, my mind ran to the sound our two cars made in the trees leading back to the lake house. A mechanical symphony juxtaposed with the sounds provided by nature, the wind rushing from the water, and lingering in the leaves. Those sounds all collided with the rhythms only love could provide, a pale, round face sipping Malbec intently focused on the soul of another. 

The cars stopped and were quickly shooed back into the building once again. The wall of people rushed back into the entrance hall behind the svelte Porsches, and I went along with it. Everything in my being told me to stay away from the car, to never let her see me again, to never hurt my soul the way she did before. So I went back to the bar, grabbed a gin and pineapple, and watched the room avoiding eye contact with anybody. I saw her walk across the crowd, and instantly I made a direct line to her making her entrance onto the elevator. I dont know what came over me until she turned around on the elevator and saw me standing there. 


She just stared directly in my eyes, completely silent.

“You’re pretty good at being silent, huh?”

“Only for you, it seems”


“I love you.”

I walked across the elevator and stood right in front of her and she said it again:

“I love you.”

I grabbed her and kissed her soft lips once more. The feeling was still there. The sizzle combined with the flavour of Malbec. The lights illuminating the windows of the house. The love. It was all there. Those two Porsches, one green, one brown, placeholders for two in love for two days.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Bunk Coast Motorsports Weekend Minute 1

Today I'm gonna just drop some tidbits of how the week went around here. 

I guess I'll start with the repo. Oh yeah, you may not know about this one. We had another buyback occur this week from some stupid nigga that bought a CLS500 and didn't make his first payment. So on Saturday he had the nerve to call asking about where his license plate was because his 30-day tag expired. So in an effort to save repo costs (we didn't have a GPS on the car) I told him to come in and we'd get him his registration knocked out. He pulled in, walked inside, and we blocked his car in. We presented him with the paperwork, and he gave up the keys. I'll elaborate this one further in my next piece. 

We sold 4 E60 5-Series this weekend. Some average rich white guy bought the pristine 2008 550i M-Sport we had. Him and his big-titted wife traded in a Volvo XC60 that I most certainly will use this week. I sold a 2006 550i to this chick from New Jersey with all her bad ass kids and grandchildren. It was a black over tan car with nav that had 112k miles and a brand new transmission, a safe car to buy. Next up was the 2008 535i with the aftermarket M-Sport bumper and authentic M-Sport wheels. I sold the guy a JB4 package with me installing it and setting it up for an extra bit of cash. Last but not least, the 2007 530i. It was a no-brainer car with 50k miles on it and chrome sport package wheels. That was another easy one to complete with wheels travelling down the road in a hour. 

Now it's Sunday, so I'm going to head to church then get mimosas, see y'all again next week. 

Friday, July 4, 2014

Bunk Coast Motorsports Deal 2: The Buyback

This one started before I even spent my money to be here, but I'll give you what I've got of the beginning. 

I'm going to use the customer's real name in this one, because he has to be the single biggest fucking idiot on the damn planet. This stupid ass nigga is the absolute vertex of smart dumb mawfuckas. We'll get to that part though, let's start with the car. 

At one time it was a very straight and easily retailable 2008 S550. Heated and cooled seats, power sunshades, keyless go, all the good optional shit. A beautiful black on black unit ripe for every usual type of drug dealer that walks in the lot. 

But for once we sold a car to someone with a good credit score and a strong legitimate income source. This guy is Aaron, the owner of a few local tatoo shops and all around smart guy. Too smart actually, but again we'll get to that later. Westlake gave him a loan for the car with only $3k down, a very limited amount of stipulations, and gave him 45 days for the first payment. But Russ felt uneasy for some reason and actually came in during AM hours to install a GPS unit in the car. I don't even think he could've imagined how fucked up this would end up being. 

But back to Aaron and his dumbass self. This retarded-intelligent nigga was on top of the world. Or so the world thought. Really, this dude was a half ass drug dealer/scammer with a one-way ticket to prison. He was facing strong federal gun charges and a laundry list of other offenses. With all of this going on he forgot to make his first payment on the car. 

The news came from our banker at Westlake when he was two days late. Trey gave him a call to inform him that if he didn't make the payment during that ten day grace period he'd be in first-payment default. Long story short, his car would be swiftly ordered for repossession. Now you may be wondering why Trey would give a single shit about him defaulting on this loan after it already funded. If a prime credit customer first-payment defaults on a loan at Westlake, the dealership agrees to buy back the car for the loaned amount minus interest. Which meant we would have to buy the car back for some exorbitant amount of money. Fuck that. 

Trey called Aaron after he went 7 days late and offered to make his first payment for him. He declined and said he'd make the payment. Three days later, it was over. Westlake never recieved payment and fuckface Aaron was nowhere to be found. We ducked Westlake for a couple weeks until they started calling from weird numbers. So we bought the car back and proceded to clean up the mess we created. Here's where shit got interesting. 

Since we owned the car again, we had to repo it. We sent our favourite repo man the GPS information and he got started. After two weeks of reconnaissance and waiting for a new key they decided to pounce. He put all of us on a group iMessage as he went after the car. The first message was a picture of him behind the car in traffic. Thirty minutes later he said the car had already stopped three times and Aaron got out with something in his hands. They couldn't grab it because he left his homeboys in the car. Thirty minutes later he texts us to let us know this nigga had damaged the car cosmetically all along the passenger side. I kept up with the cars GPS monitor for another hour and he continued his stops all over town, ten in total. The last ping from the GPS put him at Southpark Mall. Five minutes later the repo guy texts that he has snatched the car from the valet lot at Southpark. Five minutes after that he texts that the car ran out of gas a block away from the mall. 

After a frantic gas run, the repo man calls us about an hour later to let us know the car is safe and sound at the impound lot. NC law requires lienholders to impound a car for ten days at a third party location to allow for recovery of personal property from the vehicle so we couldn't see the car for a while. But, for Aaron to recover his property from the repossession agents he'd have to cough up $50 and the original key. He never showed up. 

But while the car was resting at the repo lot, we get a call from State Farm. They were wondering why they sent a check for body repairs to Aaron for a car that doesn't legally belong to him anymore. Some digging found that he was preparing to commit insurance fraud to collect the money he dropped on the down payment for the car. He had a shop write an estimate for repairs he'd never have done in exchange for a few hundred bucks. State Farm cancelled the check and began litigation against Aaron. But here's the bright side: through some complications in NC law, we would get the check for the damage to the vehicle. Simply because they were insuring the vehicle still when the damage occurred even though we had already taken back ownership of the car legally. 

But finally after a couple of weeks Russ rolls the beat up S550 into the showroom. The entire right side had been damaged, down to a flat tire. So to get the car back to frontline ready we bagged all his shit before we sent it to the body shop. We found all sorts of great shit in the car, from a Masonic ring to his federal indictments. He still has yet to come claim his shit of course. 

Last I heard of Aaron, he got evicted from one of his tattoo shops and is awaiting trail. The car just hit the body shop this week, and the floorplan company can't wait to make us pay a curtailment on it. Moral of the story: niggas don't appreciate shit, don't give them shit. 

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Bunk Coast Motorsports Deal 1


First of all, I'm an idiot. I woke up two weeks ago and agreed to partner in a used car dealership. Now this wasn't exactly a horrid idea, everything was already there, but some management changes were in order. The place was started by my Greek friend who we'll call Russ for now. Russ is a Greek wannabe playboy that shares a terrible haircut with Dario Franchitti. Russ is a great guy, but lazy and refuses to come to work before 4 pm. Obviously, that wasn't great for business and he found himself in tremendous debt. Through a series of events not worth explaining here, my guy, we'll call him Trey, partnered in. Trey couldn't put all the money up himself so him and a couple other gentlemen not worth mentioning right now paid up. One of those gentlemen is me. 

We sell cars. Mostly drug dealer fodder like our 2007 S550 4-Matic. Why Trey was so proud to get that piece of shit on our floorplan I'll never know. It came off the truck with four bald ass tires, a radio that works intermittently, 99k miles, and new paint that looks like it was applied in a barn in upstate New York. We have a word around here for bad cars: bunk. I don't think there is a better word for this S550. Despite this, everyday at least one dude pulls up in some sort of LX platform car with cheap rims and asks how much we need down like we have a Buy-Here-Pay-Here sign above the front door. 
"What y'all want like fo' racks down on that joint?"
"It depends on what the bank wants and your credit..."
"My girl got good credit and she make like 3 stacks a month."
"So you aren't buying it?"
"Nah see imma pay for it but I ain't got no credit, plus I don't get no pay check man."

But, one Sunday as we were packing up to go home I notice a mid-2000's E500 pull in. Out pops a short black man around 60 years old. I come and greet him and ask would he like to see the S-Class closer, he says he doesn't have the time but he'll return tomorrow. I grab his phone number, and he leaves. Usually in this business when you let someone leave they never come back.

I came back fresh Monday, before I could get a good chance to sit down and make a phone call, the old man hops out of an mid-2000’s Dodge Ram with the name of his “cleaning business” on the side of it. I didn’t even get a chance to look up and he was in the showroom drooling on the 2008 CL550 we had in the showroom next to our 997 Turbo. I quickly approached him with a kind face.
“I was just preparing to call you, how are are you man?”
“I’m good man, you ain’t tell me you had this in here!”
“What, the CL? Yeah its been in here cause we already sold it to someone.”
“Shit, I want this one. What y’all want for it?”
“I think we’re at 40 on it.”
“Lemme get this one, I got cash.”

I immediately ran to Russ and explained the situation. Here is a good opportunity for me to tell you how we allowed a 2008 CL550 sit in our shrowroom for over three months. Russ had a friend of his come through that was interested in buying the CL but refused to finance it. So he put a $10k down payment in cash on it and set up a payment plan with Russ for four payments of $7k monthly on the same date each month. Long story short, he was supposed to be making his final payment on June 27th and had already missed all his payments. 

Without thinking, Russ told this new customer he’d allow him to buy it even though it had been on hold for somebody else that has $10k invested in it. So we sit down with the guy and he says he will buy cash, only if we don’t report it to the IRS. Russ immediately thinks the guy is a cop and has a prison flashback instantly and asks him if he’s wearing a wire. Since we wouldn’t play ball his way, he went to his truck and brought back some motivation. He sat back down in the office and opened a Gucci messenger bag with at least $150k in C notes, and placed two large stacks on the table.

“Thats forty thousand, now will y’all stop playing.”
Russ, scared out of his mind, retorts.
“Not unless we sign that slip for the IRS man”
“I ain’t about to do that man, I’m trying to keep them out of this.”
Then I jumped in with my less criminal two cents.
“Why don’t you put less than $10k down, then finance the rest? You’ll pay it off early anyway. Better yet, you have any cars you can trade?”
“Yeah, I got a Mercedes.”
“What that E500 you had the other day?” 
“No, I got another Mercedes it's like a 01' or 02' It's just been sitting."
"Good, we'll take like 9500 and give you something for that and financing won't be a problem. Come back tomorrow with the trade and we'll start getting you set up."

The next morning he came in (with another bag of cash) and started the finance paperwork. We got everything into the computer and the deal was done. He pulls out $10k in $20 bills, whips some cash off the top and says "thats $9500." He told me his trade-in would be delivered later that day. I didn't believe him at first, but sure enough at 3:00 a guy walks in the showroom and hands me a Mercedes key and quickly leaves in another car. I walk outside and there sat a 2002 CL500 on 22" wheels. 

My first reaction was laughter. My next reaction was me questioning the existence of the vehicle and myself as a sentient being. Then I got in the car. Nav, an upgraded Bose stereo, and all the electrics work. Then the kicker: it has 218k miles. TWO-ONE-EIGHT THOUSAND. Then I drove it around the block. For some reason it charmed me. It was the single stupidest vehicle ever and I loved it.

So we call our loving bank, Westlake Financial, and talk to our guy. He asked us about the down payment, like we didn't text him a picture of $9500 in $20 bills.
"We need proof of down payment."
"Well can't we send you a deposit receipt from the bank?"
"No that won't work."
"He doesn't have checks?"
"No the fucking guy walked in here with $150k I think not."
"How about you write a check from you guy's account for the down payment and send that with the deal?"
"So you want us to put his dirty ass money in the bank, and write a check out for the same amount? Do you not realise what you just asked us to do?"
For some reason the dumbass never caught the fact that he just asked us to launder money to complete a deal for a guy who just ended a 18 year stint in federal prison in 2010. 

But that's not even the good part. A couple days later he pulls on the lot in an orange 2013 Corvette Grand Sport and signs his registration paperwork in the office with Trey. They have a heartfelt conversation about spending years in prison (Trey had three years in prison) and how different life got outside. As they wrap up he tells Trey he bought another S550 in cash off the street nearby. He walked out the office and thanked us for the deal. 
"My girl gonna come by and pick up the car later."
"Good shit man, thanks for everything."

I haven't seen him since. But what started as a bad Sunday turned into a $40k deal about a week later, and a one car off our damn floorplan. I call that a win. 

Monday, April 28, 2014

Porsche Stories Vol. 4 Part 2

I stepped across the floor from my bathroom to my bed. I was exhausted and had to be in Atlanta in the morning to meet with Mark. He wouldn't tell me what we were preparing for so I didn't even think to worry. I slipped off into sleep finally, the darkness turned into a dream. 
I could see Mark's face, his eyes focused on mine, moving back and forth slowly. It was dark, and an unsettling feeling washed all over me. Mark was clenching his face, and I just laid there trying to imagine it wasn't happening. This was my ticket to a career. This isn't a dream, this is a nightmare that I've rewinded so many times before. I was drunk, but I was conscious. I don't remember if I said no. He started to close his eyes and all I could do is not imagine my stepfather's face. 

I finally emerged from that sordid dream, I was so happy to be awake. I picked up my phone, it was 4:30. I got dressed and walked outside. I had two hours before my plane began boarding for Atlanta. I looked down the curb at my Macan Diesel and thought about the congested airport. Then my GT3 crossed my mind with the thought of tearing down I-85 before dawn. I went back to the garage and slipped behind the wheel. The whiny and raspy notes mixed together and rapped my ears as they reverberated off the buildings. 

As I sped down 277 I saw the taillights of what I knew was another 997. At this time of the morning two Porsches travelling the same path was rare. I sped up to get closer to the bugeyed car ahead, then I noticed it was brown. I pulled alongside and looked over, it was definitely him. In that same instant the brown Targa bolted away across three lanes towards 77 north. I sped up to be sure it was him but he broke off the freeway faster than I could turn. 

I wonder how he is, it's been quite a while since I left the lake house. As I barrelled down I-85 I spent the entire time thinking how I could've been less indifferent when he said he loved me. No matter how much I think over it now, I know I can't change it. I wonder if he noticed who I was, he had to with how fast he sped away. I wonder if he's livid at how I behaved.

Hours later, as I barrelled onto I-285, I wasn't worried about him, I was worried about this meeting with Mark; the last time he called like this I got sent to assist the marketing team in Russia. I pulled into the car park and grabbed a hole right at the end of the reserved spaces. I locked my lightweight doors and walked into Suite 1000: the Porsche Cars North America office.

I walked into the cold lobby of the office to see the entire office crowded around two cars. As I got closer I realised what had everybody so excited, the new 991 Turbo S and the GT3. I saw Mark boasting about how he was going to buy one now that he's divorced and was smart enough to get a prenuptial agreement. I approached him quickly so I could get out of here as soon as possible. 

"What did you call me down here for?"

"Well, good morning."

"If this was because you were lonely, I'm going straight back to Charlotte."

"No. Actually, I need your help with something. You know our new headquarters is almost done, I need you to help plan and host the opening party."


"There is going to be a HPDE situation going on downstairs at the test track, and you and Richard Speicher are going to go show off for the journalists in these."

"Now I'm excited."

"Right now I need you to get invites out to this list of people Gary Fong sent me. Add whoever you like to see there that aren't Fong-friendly too. He doesn't have control over this."

"I'll get right on it."

I could feel his eyes pinching my ass when I walked away. I quickly started going over the list and thought of people to add. Hmmm... Blake Z. Rong from Autoweek, I'll make sure to add Derek Kreindler from TTAC. Hmmm... "Jerry Seinfeld: Owner" have to make sure he doesn't try to turn this into something entertaining. Hmmm, they have Jack Baruth listed as a writer for Road & Track here. Oh, there's Wayne Carini and... Wait, Paul Hargrove? Oh no. They have him listed as an owner. I guess the building is big enough for me to avoid him and his brown Targa. I should drag someone there with me, I can't be in the same volume of air as him alone. I don't have the words for him yet. 

Monday, April 21, 2014

Ramblings of a Rich Mad Man.

This is for y'all. A day in the life of a guy. A guy who doesn't know who he is, but knows what he has. Just read it. 

You ever just wake up and just feel the pussy you had the night before? Like you feel every small rib and wave inside? Oh, you haven't? I guess it's only me. I wake up looking for the ingredients of the perfect mimosa: Moët Imperial and Simply Orange. You can't go into deep reflection over the sex you had the night before while parched and sober. You know you were on the north side of drunk the night before. You couldn't have possibly been thirsty in what has to be the wettest pussy locked in your increasingly short memory. Forget all of that, I have to go work now. Which means I'll walk into my office where my idiot employees will either have gotten an early start in day drinking or fucking on the copier. What do you expect for a company run by a guy that took the surface streets to work purely so he can smoke a cigar. This is also the same guy who knocked back three of those mimosas before he realised he was already fucking two hours late. Don't get me wrong this place is profitable, it's just the corporate culture I created falls more on the side of cheap porn than cheap polos and khakis. Look at Helen. Fucking slut. I'm surprised she hasn't made kids with one of these doofuses yet. I haven't fucked though. But whatever, I'm gonna go lay down on my couch in my office and contemplate why I can't stop drinking. Fuck. That was a good nap, is it time for me to slip out for lunch yet? Wait, there's a call from the shop, guess I'll use that as an excuse to leave. My dick is hard. A***s has been looking for a bonus for spring break. I'll make her earn it on the way over there. This stupid fucking BMW makes it hard to get my dick sucked while driving. Center console is too high. No worries, we can just go to my office at the shop and fuck on the one way mirror overlooking the shop floor. Look at that shit, look at all those Porsches on the lifts. Look at my shit in the corner. Fuck, I gotta concentrate, this has to be worth the cash I'm giving her. All those pictures of her at Zumba on Facebook are really showing right now in this firm ass I'm smacking. I bet this bitch has never seen a Porsche before. Fuck. Her voice is annoying though, let me press her face on the glass so she'll shut the fuck up. Look at that Carrera GT, this is some wealthy shit right here. Oh damn, I hit the point of no return, might as well let it go. I better get her some Plan B later. Yeah that's a good idea. Phew. Wow, that's just filthy I'm not even gonna look back over at that. While she goes to the bathroom to clean up I'm gonna go take care of what I came over for in the first place. I left the car I wanted serviced in the cage. As I unlocked the cage I stared at my beautiful 997 Targa 4S and all it's brownness. I pulled it out and threw the key at my guy and told him to park it near the gate when it's done. A***s is coming down the stairs, maybe we should get going. But where? I don't want to go back to the office. She looks like she could catch another nut. Plus, it's dark and it's still 75 fucking degrees outside so I can put the top down. If I go back home I'm gonna drink a whole bottle of Champagne and some liqour and all the beer I'll find before I pass out. How about I try to go to her place, that sounds easier. I mean my cum is still running out of her right now, I should at least hang out with her. Wonder where we'll go?

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Porsche Stories Vol. 4 Part 1

The tires squealed as my brown Targa came off the ramp to the 4th floor of the parking garage. It was Monday morning, I knew for sure because of the way I laid on the glass of the revolving door, as it spun me back to reality. I walked back into that off white haze of fluorescent lighting that is my office. It was 8 AM, and already phones were on fire, with people lounging, relaxed, in ergonomic chairs staring at an LCD screen running their mouths. I quickly retreated to my office, which was nothing more than three artificial walls and a large pane of glass with a door in it. As soon as I sat down I look up to see my annoying colleague, Mick McKelfresh, floating through the door.
"What, Mick?"

"Who was the chick you left with man?"


"At the Hilton bar."

"Wait, you were there Friday?"

"Yeah, me, Jerry, and Hawkins were watching the Heat game."

"When'd you see me then?"

"We saw you leaving with that chick- gotta say she was fuckin sexy- but yeah we saw you leave, and didn't think we should bother you."


"So, did you-"

"Dude, go do some work."

"I'm just saying if you did-"

"This is exactly why I tell you to stay away from me at the bar."

"Come on man-"

"Mick, get back out there with your team and push that fucking deal through for Gaines&Associates."

"It's done, I'll get the papers on your desk from underwriting."

I'll never forget the day I took Mick to Hendrick Porsche to help him buy his own Porsche. I should’ve known better than to take that clown with me anywhere, but that helpfulness of mine wouldn’t let me stay away. Plus, there were Porsches involved.
"You sure your wife won't mind you trading in your 535?"

"She'll get over it."

"Also, I'm letting you know now, with the budget you have you're not even close to buying a Targa like mine-"

"What am I looking at?"

"A Boxster S"

"Not even a used 911?"

"Maybe, if you're talking one that's 5 years old. Or one that's nearly stripped out. Both aren't sacrifices you're gonna make."

I pointed him towards a silver Boxster S parked neatly in the space in front of the showroom. It sparkled with it's body coloured wheels and red leather interior. 
"That's you right there."

"That's definitely cool enough to get some pussy with."

"Yeah, if your wife doesn't cut your dick off for buying it."

Two hours later, he was taking it home with a full tank of gas and glazed tires. Two months later his wife divorced him and took their house, his boat, the two Lexus RX350's, and most of his savings. He crashed at my place for a week until he found an apartment near the office. He packed that little silver Boxster full of whatever he could get out of the house, minus his dignity, of course. 

"Hey here's the stuff from underwriting, I think you'll be pleased."

"Oh this is good news. Hey, how's that Boxster been running since that software update?"

"Damn good man. Thanks for the heads up."

Weeks went by, I staggered into the office the same way every Monday, had the same strained conversations with my low six-figure income co-workers, threw my keys at the valet at the bar on Friday. But it all seemed so misguided. Iliana wasn’t anywhere. I left the bar on one of those empty Fridays, with a pretty lightskinned woman, short with wide hips. Her name was Jan, well Janet, but she liked to shorten it. I stayed with her longer than usual too.
She pulled into my driveway in a green Panamera, it reminded me of Jamie pulling up in her green Mustang covertible after watching Ron die. The mangled Cayenne hid in the backyard as I bled from my shoulder onto my couch. She walked through the door and her purse dropped the moment she saw me sitting there. 

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

I sipped then looked up at her. 

"Ron died-"


"I'm out. It's all over. I won."

"You're bleeding into the couch. I don't think that's winning."

"Oh yeah. I need to go clean that up. Can you do something for me, please?"


"There's a SUV in the backyard under a tarp can you put it in the garage?"

"Yeah. I'll go get that right now."

As she walked out the door I stumbled behind her to ask one more question:

"Hey, do you think you can get this bullet out?"

I stood there in the door daydreaming. Suddenly, Janet was standing there with a smile, bags from the grocery in her hands. She pulled her frame through the door and stuffed the groceries in my arms. 
"Here you go, you better not be talking up your cooking game."

"Well damn, can I get a hello?"

"Not until you feed me."

"I'll feed you alright..."

As I began to cook my shitty take on veal parmigiana, Jan sat across the counter staring with starry eyes. I began to wonder where Iliana was. I was pretty sure she wasn't too worried about me the way she left the lake house. But then, I looked over at Jan and forgot about it all. That weekend was a fantasy come alive, but it wouldn't happen again.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Why Doug DeMuro is wrong. Like usual.

You may have recently read a piece at Jalopnik by Doug DeMuro about why his Ferrari 360 is a better choice than a new 911. His math hinged on high depreciation for the Porsche, mostly because he used a new 991 as an example. The problem with that is the fact that there are low mileage used 997.2 cars available. A well optioned 911 Turbo is in the high $70k to low $80k range. Cheaper than his 360 and probably going to hold it's value pretty well. Also it's better to drive, faster, gets better gas mileage, is more comfortable, has a better level of equipment. So why would he write such a piece? My opinion is that he simply needed the attention. Also, I owned a 360 Spider once upon a time, and I know I would take a stripped out, base 911 Carrera over a 360 any day of the week. In conclusion, buy a Porsche. 

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Porsche Stories Vol. 3 Part 2

The two Porsches made their way down a wooded gravel road. You could see the sun bounce off the lake between the trees. They parked in front of a small house with wood siding painted in a pastel green. Beside it back in the trees there was a large steel building painted the same hue. You could hear the boats ripping off in the distance. I stumbled out the car and stood firmly in front of her.
"Well here it is."
"People must love seeing this place, it's beautiful."
"I've never brought anyone here."
I motioned for her to follow me to the building, I fished for my keys and stuck one in the hole next to a 30' wide aluminium roll up door. As I twisted the key, the door opened to reveal my only secret. Her eyes widened as she slowly saw the sheet metal appear. There they were in all their glory: My Porsches. There were all types, my dad's Targa, an RS America sitting on a lift, a sampling of different 944's and 924's, a 993 GT2, a 997 Turbo S, a 912, all sorts of 356, and more under one roof. This was my soul poured out in a collection. I stood in the middle of the room and watched her flail herself from car to car expressing joy and admiration. I was motionless, just standing there like I had done once before.
"I should kill you for even suggesting that you're gonna walk away from us."
I stood there and stared as he continued to yell. In both of my hands were duffel bags filled to the brim with $100 bills. I stood there, in that warehouse, contemplating how soon every gun in the building was going to be pointed at me. He finally shut up, and I threw the bags onto the table. In that same moment I heard two shots ring off from a AK-47 and a spray of blood and bone fragments formed out of the hole where his right temple once was.
"You okay?"
"Oh. Yeah. I'm good."
"These are beautiful."
"So are you."
We walked over to the front door of the house, balancing each footstep in the deep gravel. The light broke through the trees and warmed my face as we walked up to the front door. I punched the door code into the lock, and the door opened to a hallway leading straight back to a wall of windows. As I shut the warmth from outside behind us, I could see her eyes wander around my lightly furnished home. The walls were eggshell, bright with the light reflecting off the water. Out the window was a wide view of the nouveau rushing by on boats. You looked up to the railings of the loft that made up my bedroom and bathroom.
"A friend of mine bought this house for me to use back when I was in high school."
"When he passed away a few years ago, he left me this house. I lived here until I finally finished school."
He stood next to me as we stared out onto the lake. As he went on about why it took him six years to finish a five year masters program, I remembered how the water moved at the Amelia Island Concours where I first met Richard Speicher, a factory test driver. He was a Swiss-born driver with many tales of the road. Mark introduced us, but made the mistake of leaving me alone too long. It didn't take five minutes for Richard to put me the harness of a preproduction 911 GT2 RS, and thunder us around the island. He could see the lack fear and the look of intent focus on my face. We had to yell over the noise slightly.
"Do you want to drive?"
I slipped behind the driver's seat in the parking lot of a church, and felt out the clutch. Before long I was barrelling around the roads at a ridiculous pace.
"You have too much speed for this corner. Please brake."
I kept my mouth shut and focused on braking even later, each tire dancing on the line on the line of grip as the car made it's way around the corner flat and smooth. Richard was impressed, so much in fact, he asked Mark to let me come with the test team to the Nürburgring. As I thought about that day, he came back to the window with a glass of Malbec.
"Let's go outside."
I walked behind her following her figure back and forth with my eyes, the bottle in hand. We sat in the garden overlooking my docks and the rest of the lake. The boat lifts holding my Thistle Class sailboat and my flat bottomed runabout blocked the view below the horizon. As we quickly finished the bottle, we launched stories at each other with smiles and drunken laughs. I feared this was lead us to where I was a few years ago, my voice tearing through the hallways of my house.
"You ungrateful bitch! I wasn't there for you!?!"
"While I spend all my fucking time getting shot at, you sit in my house and complain all day about how hard your life is! Then when I come home and try to spend all the time I can with you you complain because I can't stay long enough?"
"I don't love you."
"Oh. You don't fucking love me."
"So just last week when you told me you couldn't live without me, that was a lie? That's how much of a shitty person you are?"
"I. I don't know."
"Well I'll help you remember, get the fuck out!"
"I nee-"
"You don't need shit. You leave that fucking Mustang here too. You said you loved that too. Can't let you fuck that up."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't ever come back here."
Jamie walked out the door, and I fell back onto the couch. I reached for the remaining bit of Dewar's left in the bottle to pour that last drink. Iliana grabbed my hand. I had over poured the wine as it spilled into the grass below us. Those plump lips smirked as she let out a light chuckle. I put the bottle down and looked into her eyes and moved in to kiss her. Our lips met and I enjoyed the sweet taste of her lips. She nearly fell out of her chair when we pulled away.
"I think we should go back up to the house"
We stumbled our way up the stairs to my bed, ripping what we could off of each other. We kissed and I threw her down on her back in my bed. I just stood there and stared at her, her breasts spread on her chest.
"Let me just look at you. Let me look at every fine curve on your body. It's all so beautiful, I don't know how I can touch all of it."
I straddled her body, and slowly kissed my way from her neck, to her breasts, down her stomach, all the way to my true destination. As I found my way home her moans grew louder and louder and became the exhaust tone of a Porsche Cayenne S as it crashed through the door of a the warehouse. I made it out alive with the money, but Rick had been shot in his right leg and I was bleeding from my left shoulder. I could feel the pain as I manhandled the big Teutonic SUV through the industrial park. As soon as I began to feel calm, the back glass shattered. As I swerved side to side I saw a black Panamera in my side mirror. I slammed the brakes and took the next right turn, I barely edged the burly Cayenne through the space. I heard a crash behind me as the Panamera went wide and folded into the side of an warehouse ramp. As soon as I looked forward a large SUV lunged out from between two buildings and crashed into the side of the Cayenne.
I stumbled out of the driver's door, I could hear sirens coming from off in the distance above the ringing in my ears. I grabbed my gun and carefully made my way around the car. The driver of the other car wasn't breathing. I peered into the back seat of the Cayenne to see a badly bruised Rick lifeless in the back seat. I pulled his body out of the badly bent driver’s side rear door and managed to pull him onto the ground. The sirens kept growing louder, in a fog I crawled back into the Cayenne, and managed to get it to move. I don’t remember the drive home, all I can remember is walking through the door into my brightly lit home that evening.
The warm sunlight pouring in woke me up, I looked at her there sleeping, her skin softened by the light. It only took a few minutes for the reflection of the water to wake her from her sleep. Them came the yawn and stretch, less awkward than the morning before.
“Would you like something to eat? I don’t really have much here, but yeah.”
“No, I think it’s about time I went home.”
I walked her outside to the bright green Porsche in front of the house, watching her make soft steps in the gravel with her shoes in her hand. She pulled opened the door and prepared to leave.
“You need any help getting out of here?”
“I think I remember how to get out of here.Thanks.”
“Well, I’ll see you sometime later.”
“I love you.”
She got in the car, her eyes continued to lock with mine. The whirr of the exhaust began to pour off the trees, and I stared at the rear wing of the Porsche disappear into the woods. I walked back through the open front door into the light pouring in from the windows.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

A New Project

For the last three years I have been writing and arranging songs from my soul. I've written well over 100 songs, but I'm taking a selection of these songs and putting them together into an album for others to hear. This first album is titled The Girls Vol. 1, because it's a group of songs written about the various women who have danced or stabbed their way into my life. So here is the official artwork and the track listing for the album. I'm still recording most of the tracks so the finished product is expected later this year, but I needed to announce it so I'd actually release it. So here are the songs of The Girls Vol. 1

1. Chance Conversation
2. Figures
3. Dark Pine Parlour
4. Volvo Wagon (Things We Do In Park)
5. Queens Road Girls
6. Southpark Swing
7. Tests
8. Real I
9. Cold Stares
10. Beauty/Death
11. Real II
A special thanks to my boy Julius aka @FunnyJulius on twitter and his team at for creating my album cover. 

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Porsche Stories Vol. 3 Part 1

"You must not be from here."

"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've been waiting for at least an hour. "


"Okay I've been here three minutes, you ready to eat?"

As we walked back to our table in what has to be one of the darkest rooms in the city, I couldn't help but think of that first night in Miami. But those blue eyes eroded that image when I sat and looked into them. She was clouding my thoughts. I couldn't remember the drugs, shoot outs, or even the cars. To her I wasn't a crook, or a shitty mid level executive. 

"So, you were asking about my job, I know you said you worked for Wells Fargo-"

"Yeah, I'm the Regional Vice President of Wholsale Operations. It's really an unimportant job."


Feeling as though I might have been unusually cynical, I decided to shift the focus on her again. In the back of her mind though she was already dreading having to answer. She didn't feared I would ask how she got there. I could see disdain on her face, no cue as to where it came from. Maybe I bored her? No this was sadness. She was hiding something in her face. 

"Did I say something?"

"What? No."

"You seem off."

"No, I'm fine. Maybe I'm a bit hungover. We went through a fair bit of beer last night. What's good here?"

"They have a quiche they only do on weekends, it's so fucking good. It's big enough for three people too."

"Hmmm let's have it!"

As our horrifically ironic waitress shifted her way back to the kitchen with our order, I went back to those eyes. I don't know if it was her personality or those eyes that were distracting me so. I began to ask had anybody else told her how beautiful they were. 

His lips turned into those of Mark Allison, standing too close to me at a booth at SEMA 2007. He went on about how beautiful I was, how my eyes stood separate from my face. I was embarrassed to talk to anyone as I stood there with my shirt tied above my navel. He handed me his card, he was Senior VP of Marketing or Advertising, I can't really remember now. I made the choice to call him when I got back to my cheap off-the-strip hotel room. He picked me up out front in a grey 997 Carrera S Cab. I couldn't wipe his smug smirk and off-the-rack Brooks Brothers from my memory ever. As he ran on about how pretty I was in the car, he laid his hand upon mine, and I flinched. The hipster waitress who smelled like Whole Foods was taking our plates. She apologised if she startled me.
"Wow I must be talking too much if you didn't see her walk up."

"No. I was just thinking about something  weird."


"Nothing important. Just me being silly."

"Okay, I have a question though."

"I may contain an answer."

"How did you come about that car?"

"The GT3-"

"Yeah. The GT3."

"We have first dibs on press fleet cars after magazines get done trashing them. I was looking for a fast car, and that one sort of popped up and I bought it without even thinking."

"Wow, you're a lucky girl."

"I guess."

The mininiscule smirk she usually carried on her face came back. Her lips were plump in a Latinate way. I began to notice her voice, it rolled between her lips in a deep sultry tone. She lacked any accent I could think of. The more I listened to her words the more I realised how perfect she was. I wasn't in love, but I was smitten at the least. She continued on explaining why she bought the car. 

I can see the passion and excitement all in his eyes as I speak. I don't know if it's the car or me, but he definitely is diving deep through me. He's so comfortable though, he doesn't care what I'm telling him, he's just absorbing it and accepting. It was like talking to Mark about my childhood. He seemed comfortable too, but he also couldn't keep his eyes off my chest. 

"So where'd you go to school?"


"Southern Cal girl, hmmm."

"No. University of South Carolina. Same school basically, except all the girls aren't blond."

"Ha. That's a good one, I'll use that sometime. I went to Stanford."


"Yeah the late 70's were wild there-"

"That's funny, my stepdad graduated from there in the early 70's."

Oh my stepdad, where do I start with him? Mom married him when I was 3. He was a shitty architect who drank constantly. Don't even get me started on the fact he was a twisted pervert and paedophile. My mother wasn't much better, she just didn't want to work so she stuck around. When she would go away to shop or binge on antidepressants, he would walk away from his drafting table to harass me. Mark seemed more obsessed with himself than children for sure. I hoped that date ended as soon as possible. 

"Ready to go?"

"Oh. Yeah, let's get out of here."

I walked with her outside, my eyes stuck to her shape as it wiggled with her steps. I could let this be the end of our time together, or I could explore a bit more and see what surprises she had for me.
"I want to show you something special."
"Like what?"

"Well if you can keep up with me, you'll find out."


"Just follow me, I think you'll really enjoy this, plus I'm not ready to quit looking at you."

The alto wail of the flat six engines rattled off every thrift shop and hipster bar around. The harmony played by the two exhausts, lifted into a mechanical symphony as we slipped on to I-277. She was following me into the unknown, and I was leading her deeper into parts I previously erased from my memory. This is no road trip. This is me eroding my comfort zone for reasons I can't quite understand. I clicked the PDK down into 4th gear to pass an old Volvo, the lime green car in my mirror never shrank.