It’s be a looooong time since I’ve written. I’ve had a somewhat eventful summer since finishing school (and even that was delayed, damn York strike), but it’s not like I haven’t had time to waste away hours on the computer. I don’t know why, when summer comes around I get extremely lazy and incapable of writing. Not that I don’t have ideas, but they just don’t get translated into text.

One theory is that I’m busy during the school year…and as we all know, the busier you are, the more shit you find to occupy yourself with. Like watching all five seasons of Entourage (the greatest show ever) from start to finish during the hellish essay week — three papers, to be exact. But now that I’ve got a solid two months of chill times, where’s the motivation to do anything? Oh, I can always write tomorrow; the week after; next month. Good thing I’m studying to become a lawyer, which will ensure that future seasons of Entourage have high viewership.

Anyway, this particular incident in which I’ll describe provoked me enough to write about it. Last week (yep, even then it took a full week to type up), I was in Richmond Hill for dinner, whereupon I noticed a gorgeous canary yellow sports car from New York and was tempted to take a peek inside; how disappointed I was!

Can you identify this stick shift? (Click on the pic to reveal the answer)

If you guessed a Porsche Cayman S, give yourself a pat on the back and a tissue to wipe away the tears of sorrow. Turns out this New York driver is lazy, and arguably a total n00b, as s/he opted for an automatic transmission.

Economic analysts say that Porsche is one of the few automakers to have successfully weathered the storm of recession. I loudly beg to differ. When you have one of the purest performance brands dishing out slushboxes in their products, originally meant only for the best of racing enthusiasts, so that faceless soccer moms and idiot yuppies can also indulge, you know something is very wrong.

Just like standard GPS features, automatic trannies in Porsches are another step closer to driving oblivion. Shame.