by David Coleman
The day is indelibly inked in Gary Emory's mind. He was a novice parts
gofer at Chick Iverson's Porsche dealership in Newport Beach, with an
assignment to pick up an order from the distributor in Culver City.
As he awaited delivery of his parts, he noticed to his horror that
authorized personnel were dumping brand new 356 seats, motors and
transmissions into trash bins behind the distributor's facility. What
he saw that day "used to drive me crazy because I'm an enthusiast."
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by David Coleman in 1994
If there are two
poles that define the continuum of Porsche pursuit, one would be labeled
Concours and the other Consume.
On the one hand,
you have the concours police , vigorously patrolling the Porsche kingdom in
Targa cruisers marked "To Preserve and Polish." This force, invested
with sacred edicts from the factory, determines transgressions against
originality and metes out appropriate punishment in the form of Black Forest
demerits. To these purist custodians, simply driving a Porsche is an
unpardonable sin.
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