It’s Labor Day so apart from the Funnies (below), I’m giving my brain a rest. Enjoy all these beauties from the 1930s…
1938 Alfa Romeo 8C 2900B Spider
Kay Francis
1939 Aston Martin Lagonda V12 Rapide
Sylvia Sidney
1938 SS-100 Roadster
Maureen O’Sullivan
1938 Mercedes 540K Cabrio A
Frances Dee
1936 MG SA Tourer
Mary Brian
See y’all tomorrow.
But before we do that, let’s have a chuckle or two, starting with a DNC summary:
And speaking of the former “Border Czarina”:
Well, I’d hire her.
And an oldie, but still one of my favorites for “Mother Of The Year”:
And to end on one more political vote:
Also, with everywhere (except Texas) about to drift into Fall, some reminders of the past summer:
And in the rear-view mirror, as you head off to find that dozer:
I think I first saw Dolores Del Rio in the Astaire/Rogers pic Flying Down To Rio, but even though she only had a small part, I was captivated — and I have no idea why it’s taken me so long to feature her on these pages.
Pretty as a young starlet, she blossomed into an astonishing beauty, and remained so until her death in 1983. Follow the link above to get her full story — it’s quite a ride.
See last Saturday’s post for the background, if this is the first time you’re seeing this series.
My choices for the Euro section is a little different this time, because in addition to wanting to flee the modern electro-digital foolishness, I’m also tending towards smaller cars that are fun to drive, but not necessarily high-performance cars. So you won’t see the Dino 246 (my perennial favorite) or similar in today’s selection. Here they are:
1956 Porsche 356C
1971 Lancia Fulvia 1600 HF
1964 Alfa Romeo Giulia Spider
And here’s my go-to choice, one that, unlike the Alfa, will always start reliably:
1964 Mercedes 230 SL
I am quite curious to know that if I ever did populate my garage with the above four beauties, which one would become my favorite over time.
And next week — have the smelling-salts handy — I’m going to list my modern choices.
Longtime Readers will remember that many years ago, I attended Boomershoot with the Son&Heir, and took the 2-day training course delivered by Gene Econ and two kids from the unit he was training, Adam Plumendore and Walter Gaya. As a result of that meeting, we (I plus my Readers) kind of “adopted” Adam and Walt, and when they told me they needed some gear (scopes and rangefinders) for their upcoming deployment, we raised the money and bought them the gear. (As I recall, it took about three days to raise the $25,000-odd, because as I’ve said before, I have the best Readers on the Internet,)
Anyway, the kids went off to Iraq. Two months later we heard that Adam had been killed by an IED, and Walt had been badly wounded in a different engagement.
I told you all that so I could tell you this. Walt and Adam’s CO at the time was Col. Erik Kurilla, a man of incredible bravery and outstanding leadership. He himself was wounded in Iraq (shot three times in the legs when ambushed by some assholes in, I think Mosul).
It will therefore come as no surprise to anyone when I tell you that Colonel Erik Kurilla is now General (4-star) Erik Kurilla. You can learn all about him here. It makes for some interesting reading. Just the other units he’s since commanded makes me quite awestruck, but I bet he left them better than how he found them. He’s that kind of man.
I had a chance to chat with him once, some time after Adam was killed, and when by way of introduction I told him how I’d met Adam and Walt, and about the gear we’d contributed, his immediate response was “Oh, I know all about you, Kim, and your group, and how you helped us.”
He was not then, and I doubt very much whether he would ever be one of those remote, office-bound types who doesn’t take care of his men. With men like him in the Army, there may still be some hope for our future.
I feel extraordinarily privileged to have known him, even as slight as that acquaintance may have been.
The State (i.e. governments large and small) can always find ways to stifle individuality, especially when that individuality manifests itself in young people. Here’s a recent example:
Bored and looking for something to do this summer, Danny Doherty hatched a plan to raise money for his brother’s hockey team by selling homemade ice cream.
But a few days after setting up a stand and serving up vanilla, shaved chocolate and fluffernutter to about 20 people, Danny’s family received a letter from the Norwood Board of Health ordering it shut down. Town officials had received a complaint and said that the 12-year-old’s scheme violated the Massachusetts Food Code, a state regulation.
No surprises there, this being Massachusetts. (My only question: who complained? Some goody-goody, or someone fronting for the local ice cream shop? Either way, they need a swift slap.)
Back in the late 1980s/early 1990s, I lived in in one of the Chicagoland suburbs — Palatine, a modest middle-class neighborhood of the kind that’s so Norman Rockwell it’s almost a caricature. And while my house itself was small, it sat on just over a quarter-acre, which meant a large lawn in the backyard. Said lawn took well over two hour to cut and edge, and in the short but warm, fecund Chicago summers, the grass grew quickly, meaning it had to be cut at least weekly; actually, I would cut it about five times a month. And it was a hot, sweaty business: Chicago’s summers can be sticky, especially when contrasted with its icy winters.
At that point I was working from home (long before it became the cool thing to do) because the company was based near Fort Lauderdale. And I really couldn’t afford to spend the time doing the lawn. Anyway, one afternoon I was just about to go out and cut the thing when the doorbell rang. When I opened it, there were two boys standing there, aged about ten.
“Cut your lawn for ten bucks?”
Hell, yes.
Whereupon these two little buggers (each had their own, okay, most likely Dad’s lawnmower) cut the lawn — good grief, they ran behind the mowers, and the grass was cut to almost professional standard in just about fifteen minutes. They didn’t do edging (“Our Dads won’t let us because they say it’s dangerous”) but that was really just a half-hour job, and easily done after 5 o’clock.
“See you again next week, boys?”
They actually sounded surprised. “You want us to come back?”
Hell, yes. And over the next couple years, I never cut my own lawn again. And nor did a lot of my neighbors, once I told them about these kids at the next block party. These boys made an absolute fortune, and worked their tails off.
And if the local council gauleiters had ever tried to stop these kids from earning some money from good, honest hard work, I do believe that the neighborhood dads would have burned down their offices. They didn’t interfere, of course, either because they never learned about these budding entrepreneurs or because they just ignored them (as they should).
Now I’m not suggesting that whenever Gummint does what they did to young Danny Doherty above, the neighborhood dads should torch their offices or tar and feather the bastards. That would be incitement, and I’m never going to do that no sirree not me not ever.
But I sure as hell wouldn’t try to stop those irate folks if they did. I would offer to hold their coats, however, just as a good neighbor should.