How I Mostly Stopped Coveting the Porsche 911

The 911SC Targa (boo) in Guards Red.

The 911SC Targa (boo, Targa) in Guards Red.

Since I was a kid, I have wanted a Porsche 911. I became aware of them during the mid eighties when I was ten and the great 911SC was enjoying popularity. My parents had split up a few years before. My mom moved from our Alabama home to the big city of Atlanta, where the streets were more or less choked with 911s.

Her calls from the great metropolis were greatly anticipated, but her ability to report on spotted cars was lacking.

“I saw a 911 today!” she’d say.

“Really? Cool! What was it?” Cabriolet? Turbo? Possibly a revolting slant nose?

Slant nose, you are an abomination.

Slant nose, you are an abomination.

“It was white!”

White? White?! Come on, mom! What level trim was it? Did it have a sunroof (boo) or no (yay)? And what factory white are we talking here? Grand Prix white? Titan White? Chitton White? Alpine White? Bah.

Mom tried, but she just wasn’t an enthusiast. I was a ten year old enthusiast, and part of being an enthusiast is knowing which trim levels of your favorite car are acceptable and which are not. If you’re thinking right now that you can’t wait to email me and let me know you’re also an enthusiast and you’ve purchased a 911 Cabriolet, let me let you know that you should take that car and drive it into a lake.

Why so acrimonious? Because 911s are expensive. But hating on certain models and the people far more successful than I who can afford to purchase those models is free.

The dreaded whale shit interior.

The dreaded whale shit interior.

In that spirit, let me learn you something. You see, the only acceptable 911 is a coupe. Air cooled. Preferably sunroof free from the factory. Preferably naturally aspirated. In German racing silver. Black interior. You can add some of those Rennline metal floors that Magnus puts in his cars, but don’t be coming around with your whale shit colored interior 996.

I knew when I was ten years old that I would someday have the money to purchase a 911. And I knew that I would. When I finally got my first real job in the late 90’s, I looked at my finances, looked at the available 911s for sale, and said “Shit.” They were still out of reach. Even if I scraped together enough cash for a 911SC from the mid eighties, the running costs would sink me.

But I was dying to own one. So, I investigated compromises. Eventually I settled on the poor man’s Porsche, the predecessor to the Boxter, the 914. I had a 1973 2.0L, which was the engine to have barring the 914 with a 6 cylinder engine out of a 911. Those were hard to come by and three times the price.

I got my car for just under $5000 with the Fuchs alloys as pictured, the sail panels still intact as pictured, and the factory fuel injection still working. Lots of people converted these cars to Weber carburetors, but mine was still FI.


Technically, the 914 is a dual marque car, a joint effort between VW and Porsche. It only had about 90 horsepower, but it had the same VDO gauges of a 911. It was a really fun car. But soon I lost my job, so I sold it.

Since then I haven’t had the disposable money to even think about buying a car for fun. I’ve been living the life of an artist, which is to say, if I may employ financial jargon, broke. Things have gotten a bit better recently, and I once again began daydreaming about finally buying that 911 I’ve always wanted.

Unfortunately for me, those thoughts resurfaced at the same time as the 911’s 50th anniversary. The price of used 911’s has skyrocketed. And for what? It’s not like they’re rare. Here’s the Smoking Tire’s Matt Farah and some other dudes on the 911 bubble.


Farah makes a point. And a small piece of me as a child and a budding car enthusiast maybe feels a twinge as it gasps its last. But that’s okay. Because there’s plenty of fun to be had in the car I do have. It’s not a 911, but Sweetie and I can drive it, work on it, and compete in it. And it cost less two years ago than the 914 I bought cost ten years ago.

Auf widersehen, Herr 911. Konichiwa, Miata-san.

The Hodgson Racing #69 Miata

The Hodgson Racing #69 Miata

If I ever do manage to make a bunch of money, I’ll probably still buy a 911, but it won’t be as I imagined it. That’s a little sad. But that’s also growing up. And I like being a writer, so I’m likely to remain fairly broke. Thankfully, hating on people wealthier than me is still free. Screw you, 911 owners who made better choices than I did and realized their dreams! Jerks!

Bob and Emily’s Best Man Speech

PHOTO: San Smith

PHOTO: San Smith

I had the immense pleasure this weekend of serving as Robert Donlan’s best man at his wedding to Emily Dolezal. We had excellent crisp fall weather and lots of good friends. It was great fun, and I even got to give a speech, one of my favorite things.

Here’s the text of said speech, (PDF version at this link).

Hello, good evening. I am your best man, Jim Hodgson. My function in this weekend’s festivities is to add a bit of levity and give you all a close bystander’s insight into the relationship that has strengthened and begun anew today. I’m speaking, of course, about my relationship with an open bar.

When Bob announced to me that Emily would be moving in with him in his old condo in Virginia-Highland, I knew it was love. I knew that, not because Emily would be moving all the way into town from a foreign land known as Kennesaw, but because Bob’s old condo was only 100sqft.

That condo was so small, there’s no way two people could live there without love and a deep respect for one another. Just to shoehorn themselves inside for the night, Emily and Bob each had to wear one of the dogs on their heads like a hat.

Bob has a few strange habits. For one thing, he loves his computer. He watches professional video gaming, a pastime so boring that the competitors chug energy drinks even though they never move. If you’re having trouble sleeping later, just call Bob up and ask him about something called DOTA2. He’ll start talking and you’ll be out like a light.

Actually, on second thought, maybe don’t call him tonight.

As you may know, Bob and our friends and I spend a lot of time riding bikes. We’ve ridden thousands of miles in every kind of weather. We rode on the hottest day in Georgia history. 106 degrees. We’ve ridden in snow, at altitude, through deserts, and even in the streets of Atlanta, where cyclists are about as welcome as political jokes in a best man speech, or a woman’s opinion in the Republican Party.

[Aw, come on, GOPers, I’m a straight white male. You love me!]

I have seen Bob when he’s absolutely exhausted. When every ounce of energy is gone and his blood sugar is so low he can barely move. I can tell you, no matter how rough things get, the man does not complain. I believe this will help him be an excellent husband.

Once, Bob and I rode mountain bikes 30 miles up over the Wasatch Range near Park City, Utah. It snowed that weekend, and neither of us had enough warm gear. Many hours later, we emerged from the woods. We were shivering so hard a passing motorcyclist tossed a couple of bucks at us because he thought it was a dance number.

But as we descended through the foothills and I exited hypothermia, it became apparent I had screwed up. We were meant to take a right hand turn up on that ridge, sending us back down into Park City to join our friends Marc, Chris, Paul, and Jason. I saw the turn, and I thought, is that… naah! Hours later, when we got down the mountain, it became clear that we were not in Park City, but on the far side of the range in Salt Lake.

“Bob,” I said. “I think I screwed up. We were supposed to turn up there on the ridge.” Bob, exhausted, just smiled. “Huh,” he said. “Well, let’s get some pizza.”

So, Emily. If you should see that he’s reaching his breaking point. If he appears cold, tired, near the absolute limit of endurance, just chuck some pizza at him. He’ll be fine.

But, in truth, I shouldn’t presume to tell Emily a single thing about Robert Donlan. She already knows him pretty well. Over dinner one night, I mentioned to her that I’d known she and Bob were going to eventually be married as soon as she’d moved into Virginia-Highland. She gave me a look.

“Aw come on,” she said. “I knew I had him when he moved his computer up to Kennesaw.”

The Martian’s Deleted Log Entry: Sol 113

urlI recently read “The Martian,” Andy Weir’s novel about an astronaut trying to survive and ultimately leave the red planet.

It’s a good book that doesn’t insult the reader by glossing over technical details. But it also doesn’t get so technical that it’s boring. I recommend checking it out, here on Amazon.

I also Facebook messaged Mr. Weir about his book when I found out he’d originally been a self pubber. With a self published novel release of my novel “Dangerous Dan” looming in my near future, I wanted to ask him a few technical questions about “The Martian.” He very kindly obliged.

I also noticed on his FB page that he’s a fan of “Ready Player One,” by Earnest Cline. I also liked “Ready Player One,” but I didn’t love it. See a conversation on Twitter about it here. To summarize, I thought it suffered a bit under the weight of its references.

But Weir loved it. So much so that he wrote a piece of fan fiction for Cline and “Ready Player One,” which you can find here.

I’m continuing the chain of complementary fiction writing by writing a day in the life of Weir’s “Martian” character Mark Watney, in which he makes a racy and unprecidented request of JPL. Oh yeah. I’m talkin’ bout porn.

So, if you’ve read “The Martian,” (copyright 2011, 2014 Andy Weir) check out some fan fic.

This is “The Martian’s Deleted Log Entry Sol 113” (PDF format).

Rise of the Bastards

PHOTO: Sarah G

PHOTO: Sarah G

Gather around, fellow adopted persons! We join to raise our collective profile. Too long has adoption been depicted as something people discover to their horror when rifling through their parents’ documents. Perhaps they find out when their first background check is performed. Whatever the case, being adopted is nothing of which to be ashamed. Nay! It is to be celebrated, like excellent eyesight or the ability to whistle loudly.

Consider this: most people plop wetly into the world and their care is assumed by their biological instigators, whereas we adopted persons, in many cases, must audition for parenting. I myself was alive for nearly four months before my parents took custody of me. I can’t remember much about how I spent that time. I assume “contsructively.”

Biological parents often fall pregnant by mistake, whereas adoptive parents gain children through thoughtful, concerted effort. There is quite a gulf between drunkenly forgetting certain measures and going through a months- or years-long application process. The days of finding a baby on the doorstep in a wicker basket and raising it as one’s own are long gone, due in part to the lack of baby sized baskets, but also due, I think, to the growing appreciation for adoption.

I propose, as our chief goal, the reclaiming of the word “bastard.” As you can see, I have had it bedazzled upon both my blazer and my briefcase. Thank you, Miss Beauregard, for the bedazzling. I didn’t think she’d be able to affix those things to my grandfather’s leather briefcase, but I was wrong. It is the only thing I have of his. But no matter. It is better now, and the word “bastard” must be reclaimed, as I say.

I recommend that we all pepper our speech with “bastard” as much as possible, using it interchangeably with many other common words. We will do this much in the way that Miss Beauregard tells me the French cartoon Smurfs used the word “smurf.” That was a bit of levity, there, I think.

Here are some example phrases with new bastards:

  • Surprise: “What the bastard?”
  • Query: “Which one of you beautiful bastards saved my wife from the weasels?”
  • Vow: “By the Great Bastard in the Sky, I will have your eyes as martini olives, John McGinty!”

You can see how easily this bastard slides into the vernacular. The word “bastard,” I mean, not that revolting shitneck McGinty. (I really do hate him.)

To sum this bastard up, I believe we are of a mind: adopted persons can and will join to gain wider acclaim. We will claw our word from the mouths of those of known provenance by using it in times of joy, in times of wonder, in times when we look into our black hearts and only one burning name stares back.

And if we wish to bedazzle that bastard onto a harris tweed coat or a leather family heirloom, we have only to look to Miss Beauregard.

Humans Still Need Apply

Gwilym_DaviesThere is a very well done video sailing around the Internet today called “Humans Need Not Apply.” It is a short editorialized documentary about the role computers will play in the coming years. That role being a voracious consumer of human jobs.

No job is safe, according to the video, not even creative work. Computers exist that will learn to do whatever you do, and companies will replace you with them, thus saving themselves millions, putting all of us out of work, and bringing about the fall of modern society.

Here’s the video:


Some jobs are in jeopardy of being assumed by robots. No question. But all of them? Fall of modern civilization? No.

Technology Is Not Community

Baristas are mentioned a number of times in the video as people whose jobs are, as the video puts it, “over.” Automated coffee machines will take their jobs because “most people don’t care. They just want a good cup of coffee.” But this argument exists in a world where the only reason a person goes into a coffee shop is to get a cup of coffee.

I go to my local coffee shop for lots of reasons. Coffee is one of them, but I also go because I like it there. I like the people who work there. I’m not just buying coffee, I’m buying the lifestyle of a person who drinks fine coffee in the company of others who do the same. I have used coffee machines in Europe, and while they make a pretty decent cup, they are not, nor will they ever be, the same thing. There are still patisseries on the streets of France.

Espresso machines are already a pushbutton affair, for the most part. They’re automated as far as they can be without removing the barista herself. Why? Because she’s necessary. Without her there’s no experience.

Power Isn’t Sexy If You Can’t Sleep With It

Have you ever felt that management sometimes seems to hire more people simply so that management can say it oversees more people? Have you ever known anyone to put on their resume how many direct/indirect reports they manage? Absolutely and of course. Why? Because overseeing people is powerful and power is desirable. Do people also put down how many computers are under their control? Sometimes. But who gets a corner office: the admin of 1000 computers or the manager of 1000 people?

Power is sexy, but it’s a lot less sexy when the power you have is over something you can’t, except perhaps in some parts of Japan, fornicate with.

Simply put, let’s all calm down. Robots might be coming, but Skynet isn’t around the corner.