Antonio Kawage — papa elfer
that fan…that goddamn fan sucking gobs of air.
that mechanical thrashing that has me huggin’ dividers on the highway, window wide open, just to hear the old girl whine and bellow out her song in staccato…1-6-2-4-3-5. when you’re in that motherfucker, pegged in third, 5000 revs…awww shiiiitttt!!!
then adrenaline tanks run dry, I back off the gas, you know, to give ‘em time to refill. but as she’s slowin’ down on compression, her deep howl turns me on even MORE begging me to give ‘er the whip again.
sometimes when she sleeps, I sneak up next to her. I lay on my side, elbow on concrete, head cradled in my palm and I just staaaarrrre at those beautiful flanks tracing her swollen curves from back to front to back again. it’s like looking at my woman’s nakedeness in bed slithered in and out of the sheets…how can a man resist such evil temptations of flesh or metal?
I’m a 911 degenerate.
I blame that shit on my woman…it’s mad love, baby, mad love.
14 years ago, I saw these two familiar round lights underlined by rectangular driving lights slowly approach my dock at like two in the morning. behind them, caught up in the swirl of dust, is this delicious whine. I knew that whine; only one car makes that sound, a liquid-cooled four piston Porsche.
it got closer. the lights turned away giving me a clear shot of the driver. what shit! it was that hot mama I’d been hot for! I never knew.
that luscious 944S of hers in Diamond Blue Metallic, same shade as ’88 3,2 Carreras 250,000th 911 Jubilee, turned me onto HausfrauenPorsches quicker than she could domesticate me out of that sailboat.
I owe my flüssig passion to that little wedge and that sweet thang behind the wheel.
look, I was caressing 911 jugs before I could walk…the gods packed my soul with Porsche kryptonite like Mickey D’s french fries in a cup. but I was being a dickhead thinking that theywere the only Porsches that mattered.
then my woman suggested I cut the elitist bullshit and threw me the keys to the ‘fo’fo. I was noodled outta that 911 pond like a catfish.
I had to spread the word. problem was that senses can’t speak, they beg for translation. there wasn’t any poesy or prose out there doing that. you see, Porsches have a way to coax emotions out of dark forests like shy little creatures. the question isn’t choosing which one to pick up, it’s describing it when you do.
the other beef, a BIG one, was that magazines kept that channel locked on air-coolers. the water-cooled channel was scrambled porn and I was squintin’ between the zig-zags trying to catch a peek of pinky.
that’s when I said, “fuck this shit. if no one’s dipping the plume for these old girls, then I will…and I’ll dish it out how I like it; lots of cayenne, shitloads of freshly crushed coarse white pepper, and a shot of Moonshine.” The Porsche Club of America asked for a bowl; but to hold the hot stuff. made to order suits me fine…the other flavors can hold their own.
the writing coming outta most of the Porsche rags was worse than drinking stale beer with a punched out cigarette in it. where was the SOUL? I mean, goddamn, Porsches are rock and roll rendered in metal, rubber, and oil. but you wouldn’t know it from the type your eyes gobbled up ‘cause they’re written by crusty broke-dicks who haven’t been sucked off since the Reagan administration. come on…gimme something gooooood that I can smile and relate to. shout it out to me, baby!
so I bought a ’79 928 and started writing about it. then a 968 Cabriolet; more words began to flow. suddenly, the water-cooled cats from the 928 litter box came out to sniff my goods, then the 944 and 924 strays came along followed by the feral 968ers. I had a party on my hands and these cats were spraying their love juice all over the place. the outsiders, the one percenters…these guys were involuntary outlaws looking for a voice — I stepped up.
POW!!! flüssig drew breath.
the pinstripe black flannel has my woman’s scent…so does the seatbelt. driving that S is like being in her embrace.
you remember what it was like the first time you kissed a honey then felt her little hands creep further and further down then slowly unzip you? the heart beat a little harder, faster; the uncertainty you felt before was replaced with thrill, a little bit of fear, and that intoxicating feeling of imagining what’s gonna happen next. well, that’s what it’s like EVERY time I drive that S.
she reads me and knows when to back off just a little keeping that cork on tight even though I’m ready to pop. a very different flavor than the air-cooled bitch with the hot pussy always ready to go and fuck you in half.
sometimes, I just need a little sensuality, some timid moves always on the verge of hesitation, and a few whispered words in my ear. the sweet girl from the suburbs, passed up because she didn’t know how to thrill a fella…so they thought.
it’s like finding a strange bean and planting it; no clue what it or its Papa will become, but it’ll be interesting to watch it develop.
where it’s going? no clue…but I like it that way.
I wake up, scratch the grapes, and decide the day’s plan. how ‘bout a black and white picture book, or scratch out a Zine, maybe rough out a Porsche film noir, or just fondle one of the old girls or myself a lil’ bit, then light a robusto and hit the typer?
putting out a magazine every month is like folkloric Hasidic sex. better to take that cyclops’d sheet and put the hole over her in different spots, you know — surprise her a bit.
I don’t give a shit about accomplishments, leaving behind some goddamned legacy, or to be followed around by ass sniffing ego strokers like some Porsche-loving celebrity du jour. raising awareness on Porsche’s other white meat pitches the tent between the pockets. and it’s about time Porschistas unfamiliar with the breed get to know ‘em better. judging by the overwhelming responses so far, the ember’s in the kindling and the wind’s blowing.
keep checking that mailbox.