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Picture this: it's an early New England summer in the 1990s. My uncle is at the wheel of a black-on-black Porsche 928. He's in a tuxedo and I'm riding shotgun in a blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, the official uniform of anyone under 16 from my neck of the woods. (This likely included penny loafers, too.) Aerosmith's 1989 comeback album, Pump, is blasting out the Alpine and we're rocking up Route 1 past the Hilltop Steakhouse at extra-legal speeds. Already a budding gearhead, this is the experience that makes it official: I'm a Porsche guy. It's juvenile.

It's dumb. It'll probably play a part in my eventual bankruptcy.

Fast forward to the present day, and I have a Porsche of my own. Of course according to the cool kids, it's the wrong one. Because it's a fried egg headlight 996-series 911. Thing is, the cool kids can go kick rocks. The 996 was the first 911 that I felt like a contemporary with. And in the case of mine, it's an early enough build to have a cable throttle, no traction control, an open rear diff and even a carryover 993 steering wheel. And it's awesome. And I love it. And with its FD exhausts it rocks and rolls like a little Teutonic hot rod.

It's juvenile. It's dumb. It'll probably play a part in my eventual bankruptcy. And yet behind the wheel I'm in control. I'm unbothered. I might even be a little nostalgic. That's why I love my 911. Because when VarioCam kicks in (yo), I know my Porsche has what it takes. (That's an Aerosmith reference.)