It may seem odd for someone whose mantra these days is “I hate cars,” but truth be told I spent a large part of my adolescence reading, re-reading, then re-reading again my brother’s collection of Road and Track and Car and Driver magazines from the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.  I was car- and motorbike-crazy, and would happily rattle off the 0-60 time of pretty much every car ever built, tell you exactly when Ferrari switched to fuel injection on the 308, and take quiet pride in the fact that our family’s school-bus yellow Volvo 144 had Weber carbs instead of the standard Strombergs.  Part of what made my car-mania so much fun was the belief that some day I might actually be able to own one of the cars I dreamed of:  the intriguing Porsche 911, maybe, or the giant-beating BMW 2002 tii, or the gorgeous Ferrari Dino.  Sure they were expensive, but with a decent job, an understanding domestic partner, and a little luck on the used-car market, I thought, it might just happen.

I don’t think that’s possible any more, even if I wanted a car (and had the understanding domestic partner).   Over the last twenty years as neoliberal policies have redistributed the world’s wealth, so too have they reordered the world’s cars.  Not only has automotive styling taken on a markedly fascist flavor (see pretty much any SUV), but also it seemed to me that the increasing concentration of wealth was driving the high end of the automobile market ever higher.  Witness the reinvention of luxury brands like Bentley or Aston Martin, land yachts like Rolls Royce or Maybach, or the indescribably stupid Bugatti Veyron.  It’s hard not to think of the sort of automotive art produced in another era of stark inequality, the 1920s and 30s, when brands like Bugatti, Bentley, Aston Martin, Rolls Royce, and Maybach had their original heydays.

A few nights ago I decided to put my theory to the test and see if the automotive world might give us proof of an increasing gap between the rich and the not-so-rich.  My idea was to compare the MSRP of a “everyman’s car” with a supercar circa mid-1960 and then do the same for today.  If the ratio stayed constant, I’d give up, admit that neoliberalism was a good thing, and devote the rest of my life to undermining unions and dismantling socialized medicine.

For 1965, I chose the Volkswagen Beetle (the original one, thank you very much), which apparently sold for $1769 or thereabouts (East Coast).  Its distant cousin, the just-introduced 911 sold for a whopping $5,990 and a ratio of 1:3.38.  Fast forward to 2012.  A base Volkswagen Golf (sorry, the Golf is more “everyman” than the New Beetle) goes for $17,995, while a base 911 goes for $79,000, for a ratio of 1:4.4.   [2012 prices from the Edmund's website, 1960s prices culled from various sources, and in fact the Porsche price is from 1965 while the Beetle price is from 1967]

I was actually surprised to see that the ratio hadn’t increased more.  That is until I remembered:  no one buys the base model.  Back in the 1960s, options were limited.  Or, more precisely, non-existent.  But it’s a different and luxury-hungry world today, and the MSRP of a base model doesn’t tell us much about what people are really spending.  So, I figured, let’s option both our 2012 cars to the hilt and see what happens.  A 2012 Golf with every available option will set you back 22,195.  The 911?  Well, a 911 GT3 RS 4.0 will apparently set you back a cool $185,000.  Suddenly the ratio is 1:8.33.

I know this automotive Gini coefficient is a little rough-and-ready, but I still think it’s indicative of something.  Had I been wealthy in the sixties, I would have had the choice of filling my garage with a brand-new top-of-the-range Porsche, or 3 Volkswagens.  In 2012, my choice is between a Porsche, or 8 Volkswagens.   Something has changed here, and it’s not just the size of rich people’s garages.