The reasons to appreciate PZ Myers are many and varied, but today I focus on his having revealed to me the existence of the Tesla Roadster, an electric sports car that is actually in production and will be available for purchase by mortals next year.
Big whoop, you say?
Look, if I have made a secret of my profound failing for small, lithe, exhilarating, roofless automobiles, it was thoroughly unintentional. I love them. I love them. I love them. The instant I got ahold of my first butch German sports car I became smarter, rosier-cheeked, springier, and better-looking. That was several years back. I’m now on my third such roadster, and, well, you’ve seen pictures of me. You have to admit I’m off-the-charts gorgeous. It’s all because of the rejuvenating, neck-snapping horsepower, baby.
Yet there’s no denying that these cars are shockingly gas-guzzly. I often feel as though my relationship with my car parallels that of Dorian Gray with his portrait. OK, that metaphor isn’t quite right–I’m still popping Vicodins like they were Cheetos–but you get what I mean. In exchange for the thrill-ride I have to pony up crippling doses of shame, pacts with the devil, etc. “If only,” I have often mused, brushing a guilty tear from my eye, “Porsches came in electric.”
Could the Tesla be the answer? It does 0-60 in 4 seconds and emits no poisons and depends not a whit on foreign oil and, get this, has an iPod input jack! On the downside, it costs about a gazillion bucks, must be serviced in California or some other such godforsaken place, bears an unfortunate resemblance to the teen-male-fantasy Lotus Elise, has a top speed of only 130 mph, and may or may not make it from Austin to Dallas on a charge. And I wonder whether it would be cool and stealthy, or just sad and weird, not to hear the engine rumble like a DC-10.
But it has an iPod input jack!