Can you imagine, life without Alain Delon?
(I tried to come up with a suitable double entendre to accompany this photo, but apparently, there is only so much Babelfish can handle before blowing a fuse.)
I can't even imagine expressing myself properly without the French. Hardly a week goes by that I don't trot out an avant garde here or agent provocateur there. Fashion without prêt-à-porter, a meal minus a la mode, or, God forbid, life itself without laissez-faire? Perish the thought.
Perhaps my most favorite French word of all, however, is louche, which means something along the lines of having questionable taste or morality. Americans use it mainly in a sartorial context, i.e., "Those see-through silk hip hugger pants by Alexander McQueen are tres louche."
It is also the first word that comes to my mind when trying to describe Miami. A place that is at once First World and Third, high and low, discrete and obvious, elegant and piss-in-the-gutter vulgar. In other words, just my kind of town.
Still, I simply must ask. In a place so fired up sunny and golden skin glowy, why on earth does the car of choice among the upper crust seem to be this?
I'm sorry, I know I'm going to offend more than my usual share of folks when I say this, but has there ever been put into production a more butt ass ugly car than the Porsche? It totally makes sense that this is what the Germans came up with when tasked with developing their very first sports car. Because it looks exactly, as Lewis Grizzard once so succinctly put it, like a fat lady wearing a tutu.
Driving a Porsche in Miami to flash your wealth makes about as much sense as preventing sunburn by wearing a Michelin Tire Man outfit. If I've learned anything in life it's that, first and foremost, one must learn to choose the right tool for the right job.
Which means if I were wheeling around Miami in all my louche glory? I'd do it in this:
You know who the Germans stole this from? That's right: the French.