My long–time roommate (and friend) Garth will be realizing his life–long dream this week by purchasing a 1998 Toyota Celica SX–R.
I’m tempted to say that this doesn’t bother me… but that would be lying. It’s only been my dream car since forever, and now he’s beating me to the punch; the luscious and sensual shaping, the recessed headlights, the modest (read: non–ridiculous) use of a back spoiler, it all combines to make one very attractive piece of machine. Sure, it’s not a muscle car, it’s barely a sports car, and I know that your Subaru WR–X turbo could whoop its ass in a drag race… but you know what? Your WR–X is ugly.
Admittedly, my affections for this particular model (the newest model Celicas are damned ugly) are purely aesthetic, and I’m openly preferring style over substance, but it’s just a car. I’m not really a car guy, so I’m entitled to make flaky choices as to my ‘favorite car of all time’.
I suppose the only way to one–up Garth now is to go and buy a Supra… that shit is sexy.