When we used to travel with the kids back in the early 2000s, I was always keen on exposing them to history and its various artefacts. One time the Son&Heir commented on the age of a church in, I think, Salzburg, noting that the date of its build was something like 1124 AD; whereupon I pointed out that this was one of the benefits of knowing a foreign language, in that the church had been rebuilt (or else renovated) in 1124 AD, but its original completion date was some time earlier, around 980 AD. He was duly impressed by its age, less so by my familiarity with German (that came later).
Another example is when we took them to Dachau, where they saw at first hand evidence of the disgusting atrocities inflicted on the prisoners by the Nazis, and after we’d finished walking around, we told the kids this: “We brought you here so that when sometime in the future people might say this never happened, you will know the truth of it.”
Touching history.
But that’s not what I really wanted to talk about today. There’s another kind of “touching history” which is a lot more common, and that involves rubbing up against fame.
In its most innocent form, this includes modern customs like taking photos of oneself with someone famous (“selfies”), getting the autograph of some “celebrity”, or holding out one’s hand to the celebrity as they pass by for a “high five” or “fist bump”. When I see this nonsense taking place, it reminds me of nothing so much as the New Testament story of people saying to Jesus, “Only let me touch your garment and I shall be healed” — as though simply being in the presence of a person of greater distinction will somehow boost the stature or wellbeing of the supplicant.
What really annoys me is when the request is refused and the exchange turns nasty, like the “celebrity” is somehow “too good” to grant so small a wish. Well, yes; except that said request is often just the latest of many thousands that the hapless celebrity has had thrown at them, and, well, enough is enough.
I encountered such an occasion once, back when I was somewhat more well-known than I am today. In my travels I met up with a Reader for a cup of coffee in his home town, which was all very pleasant. Afterwards, he told me he had a gun to show me — and of course I never turn down that kind of opportunity. As it happened, it was an M1 Garand, and from its serial number I guessed its date of manufacture at about 1942 or ’43. (Lucky guess: 1943, as the owner told me proudly.) But that wasn’t its value. Its value lay in its appearance; not to put to fine a point on it, the rifle looked as though it had just left the factory the day before, and it hadn’t been reconditioned, either. It was in absolute pristine condition, and I confess to having to wipe a small stream of drool from my mouth.
Then the guy pulled out a Sharpie and asked me to autograph its stock.
Look; it’s not like I was Carlos Hathcock or Jeff Cooper, or even (especially) the WWII vet to whom it had first been issued. I was, and am, just an ordinary guy who writes a blog about guns, and in no way did I feel that my signature should desecrate that extraordinary rifle. It’s not like my autograph would enhance its value, after all — in fact, it would more than likely halve its collector appeal.
So I refused to sign the rifle; and I will never forget the look of disappointment — followed by actual anger — on the guy’s face, and our meeting ended on a sour note.
There’s another kind of touching history, of course, and this is the expensive kind. Modern history is replete with examples of things becoming extraordinarily valuable simply because of an item’s provenance. You’ve all seen them: Paul Newman’s wristwatch (Breitling? Rolex? I forget), Steve McQueen’s E-type Jag, and the latest example, this Fender Telecaster once owned by glam rocker Marc Bolan and thereafter by Mike Oldfied, who played it on Tubular Bells. Now let’s be honest; a 1960 Telecaster has a great deal of intrinsic value all by itself — it’s probably worth at least five or six grand, simply because of its rarity, and they were somewhat better made than those manufactured after the CBS sellout of the 1970s (less so today, though). But somehow, its value has been transformed by its provenance and it’s now worth close to $40 grand?
Let’s not even talk about the Ferrari 250 LM which, having won the 24-Hour Le Mans race back in 1960 or whenever, recently sold for over $60 million at auction. I mean, really?
It’s not like you’re going to drive that thing around on the street, anyway; your insurance company will have a collective heart attack just upon hearing about it, and there would be mass suicides if it was totaled on L.A.’s 405 or Dallas’s Central Expressway by some unlicensed Mexican driving a gardener’s truck. (And, as Ex-Drummer Knob puts it, all those old Ferraris are total pigs to drive, regardless of how pretty they look, and he knows what he’s talking about*.)
I know, I know; a lot of “collector appeal” is driven by ego, and if you can afford to indulge yourself, be my guest. I know too that a lot of “collectibles” are regarded simply as investments, and once again, if you’re prepared to put up with the risk, be my guest too.
But I can’t help feeling that a lot of “provenance” value is driven by possessiveness — that childish attitude of “I have it, and you don’t”. And as Russell Crowe’s character in A Good Year asked his boss (the owner of an original Van Gogh, who kept it locked away in a vault because of its incredible value): “How often do you look at it?”
It’s little better than showing off your selfie with Lewis Hamilton to your buddies: “I stood next to him, and you didn’t.”
That’s some pretty pointless validation of yourself there, isn’t it?
*Knob compares it to shagging Sophia Loren today, versus back in 1960. Same basic chassis, but a lot more attractive back then.
And imagine your disappointment in being somehow able to go back in time to shag the Sophia 1960 model, and discovering that she’s actually less adventurous in bed than your ex-wife?
A lot of silliness flying around out there these days.
I’ll prolly keep my 1917 model 12 12 ga autograph free.
I never understood the celebrity appeal. I mean, people who just love seeing celebrities and then doing stupid shit in public, like barging over and asking for selfies, autographs, etc. I would assume if I saw Clint Eastwood at a restaurant that he just wanted a nice meal and not to be disturbed. And I would understand the resentment of constantly having people act like asses around me if I were in that position. Furthermore they are actors – they are nothing like the characters they play, so why the fascination? I would assume most are fairly boring and/or miserable to be around.
A few years back several hollyweird actors auctioned off their car collections – I think Bruce Willis and someone else. 60’s muscle cars, 4WD trucks, stuff like that. People were opining that the celebrity ownership bonus would certainly drive up the price at auction. My thoughts were, who cares whose ass last touched the driver’s seat. If I’m bidding on it, I wanna know the condition of the car, the specs, etc. I’m not interested in buying the John Voight car ala George Castanza.
That said, if it was the actual race car that won the LeMons, then that actually has provenance. And yeah, you ain’t driving that anytime anywhere. You have men with velvet gloves carefully push it into an enclosed carrier truck, place padding around it, and then gingerly drive it to your climate controlled garage for it to sit out on display only. It’s a rich man’s world and we’re lucky to own an antique Honda of zero provenance.
The McQueen Jag is an XKSS a very rare car to start with. The fact that McQueen drove and raced it only adds to the Provenance, but it would still be a valuable car no matter who owned it.
https://www.petersen.org/vehicle-spotlights/1956-jaguar-xkss
Same with Newmans watch, a Rolex Daytona for a class win at the 24 hrs.
But yes, remember Actors are just good looking people who can recite things that somebody else wrote and do things that someone else tells them to do.
I’m not a minivan guy. But if I did have a minivan – I’d want to try to find a 1995 Dodge Caravan. I wonder if many of the older ones got crumbled like used potato chip bags during cash for clunkers since you don’t see many older square shaped dodge minivans around.
The new dodges are trash. Honda and Toyota own the milf mobile market now and they are all cookie cutter and look
The same.
IMHO, you’ve nailed it in one.
Speaking of a less adventurous, funny story:
One of the places I worked, there was a super hot Asian chick. I think the only ones she didn’t screw were me and my boss. A good thing for me, since I was married anyhow. I found this out talking to a coworker. He’d hit the holy grail. So I asked him how it was…
“Meh. She just lay there. Didn’t make a sound.”
Bummer.
And did he?
I hate the term “Asian” because it’s so imprecise. What was she: Japanese? Chinese? Thai? Indian? Korean? Etc?
Other than Jennifer Tilly, (who according to the internet’s is half Chinese) I personally never found most Asian women to be attractive.
There are some guys who have a huge Asian fetish. I don’t get it. YMMV
At any rate, I don’t play many videos games this day and day, and not sure many people on this website have played the game, but in 2003 there was a video game named “Postal 2”. Hilarious game that sort of predicated the future. In the game there are whacky liberals running around wanting video games banned, Islamic terrorists running around and drug addicts and many other derelicts running rampant
One of the places you can go is an Asian restaurant called the “COCK ASIAN” Restaurant. The kitchen was dirty as hell and the workers try to beat you and kill you if you enter the kitchen in the place.
Anyways. Whenever I hear the term Asian, I think of that game.
As Kim says, what kind of Asian?
Chi Com (Chinese communist as Rush Limbaugh used to say)
-Japanese
– Korea
Or some other?
I have mixed feelings about this.
I’m not awestruck by celebrity qua celbrity, but there are certain talented people with niche celebrity whom I admire. I was fortunate enough to hang out with Jason Ricci, Charlie Musselwhite, and Pether “Madcat” Ruth at various harmonica conventioins and shows. In those environments, sort of a long-form setting, we could have actual conversations and interactions, and I gained appreciation for their human-ness.
In a great ttwist of fate, Charlie Musselwhite took a photo of ME playing harmonica.
Older sports cars that had big horse power are quite difficult to drive. A 1975 Porsche 911 turbo is a handful with it’s 255 HP but a 75 912 that has 90 HP is a wonderful car to drive. The 911 Turbo had very tall first and second gears that made the shift point 4,000-4,500 rpm for normal driving and the second gear could be pushed up to 90mph. The 912 had a 3,000 rpm shift point with much lower gearing and it’s top speed was about 100 mph.
I’d rather have capability than speed.
Give me a Toyota or Honda AWD or 4WD vehicle any day of the week over a sports car.
I’d really like an FJ cruiser or a Landcruiser made before 2023.
The new Turbo 4 cylinder land cruiser hybrid is a fucking travesty.
IIRC the 250LM won the ’65 Le Mans w/Masten Gregory and Jochen Rindt behind the wheel. Now, I don’t know what driving their car would have been like, but around 1970, I was privileged enough to drive a 250LM that was owned by a West Coast attorney on public roads in L.A. and Orange Co’s one fine week-end. It was noisy, but not fussy, though the RHD took a few minutes to get used to. It was a good day on the road.
Correction: 1980, not 1970.
Good points, but I would add one. I do not give a crap about celebrities, which on the few occasions I have been around them has mostly been fine. On a couple occasions I have had dealing with a famous person who was clearly annoyed that I didn’t care.