Some people gripe about how the 911 has stayed true to form for the better part of half a century. Personally, I'm very okay with that slow evolution. Let's go further: I think it's wonderful. In a world of passing fads, this kind of organic change is something to be celebrated.
Beyond that, I love how 911s remain so unappropriated. It's not even that no one else tries to copy the shape; no one really tries to copy the details of the shape, either. That beautifully smooth ellipse of a rear window has persisted from Ferdinand Alexander Porsche's prototype through to the present day, and no other car in the world has it. It's a fingerprint. At a time when wannabe-Hofmeister kinks are showing up like dandelions, it's a small but perfect act of design individuality.
The world needs more individuality, more variety in different phases. It needs both radical change and steady progressions. More importantly, it needs differentiation; even if it's not always categorizable, we need to know that differences exist and can be appreciated and respected.
And this is why ThirdPedalGirl: her idea of a Mom car is a black-on-black deathwagon. gives us this harrowing tale of socially-inadequate product differentiation as Lincoln continues to face a stylistically uncertain future:
"You have the outside perimeter of the headlamp and grille. That's what makes a Lincoln."
"Nice Fusion, Fred!" Bob Crandell shouted across the small strip of lawn between two suburban driveways. The strip was about seven feet wide, but contained two different species of grass precision-mown to two very distinct and different heights. Bob ducked into his Lexus and pulled the door shut with satisfying thunk.
Fred's shoulders slumped. He'd worked so hard at Encabulator Industries, and finally, after fifteen years of sucking up to his manager, Nancy Crandell, he'd been promoted to head of a different department. Finally, he had an office with a window. And a raise. Three months ago, he'd walked into the brand spanking new Lincoln dealership and he'd traded in his 2002 base model Taurus on a beautiful, shiny red MKZ. He'd ticked every option, rewarding himself for fifteen years of being stepped on and beaten down and belittled daily by Bob's wife.
Yesterday afternoon, he'd taken a half-day off of work to take delivery on the first brand-new car he'd ever owned. He'd stood there, dumfounded, on the baking-hot, sparkling freshly paved asphalt drive of the Lincoln dealership, his eyes dazzled by the gorgeous angel-in-flight grille and with a mysterious fizz growing at the base of his penis, for several minutes before he finally pulled himself together, got in the car, and drove the long way home. He'd felt invincible. Sexy. Potent. Finally, he was a Boss Man, with leather seating and navigation!
And yet, this morning, with three words, Bob Crandell had destroyed him.
Fred turned and walked back into the house.
Two days later, police broke down the door. Statistics show that men usually choose a gun, and women, pills.
Fred chose pills.
And that, dear readers, is why you should never re-badge an ordinary car into a psuedo-luxury one with shallow and minor cosmetic changes. People die.
Photo Credit: FotoSleuth