Why I Don't Own a Modern Car (and Why You Shouldn't Either)

In this episode of Automotive Icons, James Reeves dives deep into his "no modern cars" philosophy. While 2000 might feel like yesterday, it’s officially 25 years ago—and James argues that cars from the late '90s and early 2000s are actually the "sweet spot" for daily drivers.

From his beloved Toyota Crown Royal Saloon G to the "trough" of car valuation, James breaks down why opting for soul and simplicity over touchscreens and warranties is a winning move for your wallet and your sanity.

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Transcript:

Hey everyone, I’m James Reeves. You’re listening to the Automotive Icons podcast. Today we’re talking about the fact that I don’t own a modern car. The newest car I own is from the year 2000, believe it or not—which also makes me feel extremely old to say out loud, because in my mind 2000 still feels modern. But it’s not. It’s 25 years old.

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So—why don’t I own a modern car?

Not to be edgy. Not to be nostalgic like that weird couple you know who goes to Disney every summer even though they’re in their mid-40s. The simple truth is that out of every car I own—and I’m not going to tell you how many the newest one is a 2000 Toyota Crown. It’s my daily driver, and I talk about it constantly because I love it. And I genuinely think it’s more than an adequate substitute for a new car as daily transportation.

And I want to be clear: I’m talking about true daily-driver duty. Not weekend toys. Not antiques. Anyone can tell you how great their 1968 Corvette is when they drive it on a sunny afternoon in spring or fall. That’s not a one-car household. I’m talking about whether a car from the 1990s and early 2000s can replace a modern daily driver—what you give up when you do it, and what you gain that people don’t really talk about.

We’re not talking about “old cars,” but we’re not talking about new cars either. There’s a moving target in the middle.

Here’s my rough definition: if a shop tells you, “We don’t work on these anymore,” that’s an old car. If it’s pre-OBD—pre-onboard diagnostics—that’s an old car. No ABS? Probably an old car. Pre-modern A/C refrigerant systems? Old car. Carbureted? Definitely old car.

What I am talking about is the sweet spot: cars that are old enough to be relatively simple, but new enough to function as real, reliable daily transportation.

The daily-driver standard

If the question is, “Could you use this as your daily driver and your only car?” I want the answer to be yes.

For me, that means: it needs good air conditioning (I live in the South), it needs to cruise on the interstate at 75–85 mph without sounding like it’s about to explode, and it can’t stink. No weird smells, no exhaust in the cabin, no fuel smell. It needs to be comfortable for a couple of hours. Reasonable fuel economy for the power it makes.

And yes—you could say a lot of that about a 2005 Civic, and I’m not knocking Civics. But that’s not the point of this episode. I’m talking about a car with soul. A lot of us feel like new cars are kind of soulless. I want something that gives me real-world usability, but also feels interesting and cool.

One of the biggest cutoff points is transmission gearing. I would never daily drive my ’69 Mustang. Why? Gearing kills it. A lot of classics were designed for a world where 50–55 mph was normal. Two-speed and three-speed automatics. High RPM on the highway. Heat. Noise. Miserable fuel burn. Air conditioning that ranges from weak to nonexistent.

I once drove my Mustang from Pensacola to New Orleans on I-10. Never again.

Now, you can absolutely daily some ’80s cars depending on the model—my 944 does fine on the highway. Five-speed manual. Good A/C. But you run into the serviceability gap: you take an ’80s car to a general shop and they’ll often tell you, “Take it to a specialist,” or “We don’t work on these.” With late ’90s and early 2000s cars, that problem mostly goes away. I can take my Crown to my neighborhood shop and say, “Fluids and filters,” and they’re like, “No problem.”

Rust protection is also a factor. And regional reality matters. In the South, you need A/C. In the North, road salt eats old cars alive. It’s why you rarely see truly clean classics from places like Michigan.

And yes—I did daily drive a 1966 Mustang with 120,000 miles and no A/C when I was 16. It was my only car. But I was 16, and I tolerated it. It was miserable.

The big fear: parts availability

The biggest criticism I hear about daily driving a ’90s/2000s car is parts availability. And I think this fear is overrated.

Ask yourself: if you have a 2015 or newer car, how often—outside of an accident—have you thought, “Man, I really need parts for this car”? Hopefully never. If you’ve already needed major parts just from wear and tear, you might need a different car.

My Crown is a 2000. It’s coming up on 26 years old. It has needed filters and fluids. That’s it.

And even if you do need something, durability matters more than parts availability. Plus, there’s often parts commonality. My Crown has a JZ-family engine, closely related to engines used in a bunch of Lexuses and Toyotas from that era. That’s a smart place to be.

Also, there are ways to hedge. Even if the Crown itself is rare in the U.S., there are huge numbers in Japan. It may take more legwork, but it’s not like parts don’t exist.

What I’m tired of in modern cars

Here’s my punch list.

I’m tired of software. Firmware. Touchscreens. Menu diving.

Ironically, my Crown has a touchscreen—but it’s not the nerve center of the car. It still has physical buttons for the essentials. If the screen died tomorrow, I could still run the car like a normal human being.

Modern dashboards have become “infinite real estate,” which means infinite complexity. Older cars had limited space for switches and knobs, so everything had to make sense. You don’t need a tutorial video to turn on the radio.

You also get comparable real-world performance. If I blindfolded you and drove you around in my Crown, you wouldn’t say, “Wow, I’m in an old car.” It’s quiet enough. Comfortable. Stable. It feels normal—almost like a limousine.

Do that in my Mustang, and you’d know instantly. Loud. Smelly. Feels ancient.

Then there’s emissions-driven complexity that exists just to check a box. Exhaust gas recirculation systems that bake gunk into engines. Start/stop systems that drive me insane. Nanny alerts—like the EU speed warning chimes that require you to disable them every single time you start the car. And ironically, those systems can be more dangerous because people are constantly poking at screens to turn them off.

A good example of the “sweet spot” is my 1999 Mercedes G320. Fuel injection, modern enough that a dealership can still deal with it, but not so complicated that you need a computer science degree—or a $500 key.

The “trough” and why this matters financially

I talk a lot about the “trough.” Most cars hit peak uncoolness 10–15 years after release, when they’ve lost 40–50% of their value and nobody wants them.

When I graduated high school in 2001, if you had a Fox-body Mustang you were a dork. Now people are paying real money—serious money—for clean ones. That 30-year cycle is real. Cars age into coolness.

So if you buy something from the late ’90s or early 2000s right now, you may be buying at the point where it’s starting to become interesting again—not just falling off a depreciation cliff.

But I’ll reel this back: these cars aren’t perfect. There are modern conveniences I miss. Blind spot monitoring. Smart cruise control. Parking sensors and backup cameras. Quiet cabins. Better sound systems. Multi-gear automatics cruising at 1,900 rpm at 80 mph.

If those are must-haves for you, buy modern. I’m not arguing with you. A lot of what I do is probably a bad idea. I’m just telling you what I like.

Reliability vs. predictability

Here’s a thought experiment: take a late-90s/early-2000s BMW 3 Series—say an E46—and teleport it here brand new. Now compare it to a 2025 BMW.

In theory, the older one might be more reliable simply because there are fewer systems to fail. But in practice, time still wins. Rubber ages. Fluids age. Seals dry. Even low-mileage old cars need maintenance.

What older cars do offer is predictability. The lemons are mostly gone. The common failure points are known. You can budget for them. You can mentally prepare.

With modern cars, you’re often a beta tester. Recalls. Surprise failures. Hidden design flaws. The uncertainty is higher.

Older cars fail honestly. New cars can rug-pull you.

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The money part: purchase price and psychological overhead

Here’s the clearest example: my Toyota Crown.

I bought it through my buddy Aaron at Bulldog Auto in Japan. I paid about $5,300 delivered. Then duties, taxes, fees, and an initial baseline service—fluids and filters. Call it $8,000 all-in.

There is not a $40,000 new car on earth that I would rather have than my $8,000 Crown. I’ll pocket the other $32,000 and do something else with it—invest it, take a trip, save it, whatever.

New cars depreciate the moment you drive them off the lot. And then you end up trapped in the anxiety loop: warranty runs out, you worry about repairs, you trade it in, you finance again, you repeat.

I’m just done with that.

Who this is for (and who it isn’t)

This isn’t for everyone.

It requires confidence—because a late-’90s/early-2000s daily isn’t going to read as “cool” to everybody. You have to be the kind of person who can own it, explain it, and enjoy it.

It’s also not for people who need warranties, or who are afraid to open the hood. You don’t have to be a mechanic, but you should be comfortable engaging with your car a little bit—knowing what it needs and having at least a basic idea of what might be wrong if something happens.

If you’re listening to this, nodding your head, thinking, “Yeah, I get it”—then you’re probably the audience.

Educate yourself. Learn the basics. You’re already listening to a car podcast. Pick up a beginner’s book, watch a few videos, understand your platform. It’s not as scary as people make it.

You’re a cool guy. You’re listening to the Automotive Icons podcast with James Reeves. It’s my honor to be here.

Merry Christmas, everyone—and Happy New Year. Take care.

[Music]

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