Latest Posts

Bucket List Entry #1: Mille Miglia

Bucket List

I have alluded to my Bucket List before — those things I’d like to do before I kick the bucket — and I was going to put up the entire list, but that’s too much to digest in one gulp, I think. So rather than that, I’ll do one item at a time. Here’s the first.

From Wikipedia:

The Mille Miglia (Thousand Miles) was an open-road endurance race which took place in Italy twenty-four times from 1927 to 1957 (thirteen before the war, eleven from 1947).
Like the older Targa Florio and later the Carrera Panamericana, the MM made Gran Turismo (Grand Touring) sports cars like Alfa Romeo, BMW, Ferrari, Maserati, Mercedes Benz and Porsche famous. The race brought out an estimated five million spectators.
From 1953 until 1957, the Mille Miglia was also a round of the World Sports Car Championship.
Since 1977, the “Mille Miglia” has been reborn as a regulated race for classic and vintage cars. Participation is limited to cars, produced no later than 1957, which had attended (or were registered) to the original race. The route (Brescia-Rome round trip) is similar to that of the original race, maintaining the point of departure / arrival in Viale Venezia in Brescia.

And here’s the course:

Remember that the course uses only public roads, and in the old days, it was one of the most dangerous races in the world… for spectators. (That’s why the actual race was suspended, by the way. Cars were getting so fast that they were becoming uncontrollable, and because people are stupid, they weren’t backing off from the cars whizzing past; they were trying to get closer to the track — with the inevitable results.) Nowadays, it’s more like a moving Concours D’Elegance, more’s the pity.

Now let me be perfectly clear: I don’t want anything to do with the race. What I do want to do is drive the circuit, but in a gentlemanly, leisurely fashion, with a companion in a small but quick car which can navigate some of the tiny, ultra-narrow village streets through which the course runs when it’s not barreling through the northern Italian countryside.

I also don’t care what vintage car I use, as long as it’s a convertible. It could be an actual Stirling Moss-type Mercedes 300 Gullwing in powder blue:

Lovely, except that the color is really gay. How gay?

Or the car could be modern, so that we don’t spend  a week or two marooned in some tiny dago village while the car’s getting fixed, with nothing to do but drink and… okay, let’s leave that part in abeyance for the moment, until we get to the discussion of Kim’s Partner.

So, a more modern conveyance, there’s the Fiat 124 Spider Lusso:

…which fits the bill best in terms of beauty and the ability to make it through some really narrow streets:

But enough about cars. Let’s talk about my companion. There are two options, male and female. Leaving aside the obvious attractions of a comely wench for the trip:

…I think I’d rather make the trip with a buddy than with a broad. Why? Let me count the reasons:

There aren’t many public restrooms along the Mille Miglia. This means I’d have to stop at several intervals along the way — i.e every time we saw a public WC — so that Milady would not be caught short in the middle of the countryside. Also, I’d probably want to stop often because romantic countryside plus miniskirt in the passenger seat… well, you get my drift, ’nuff said. Finally, most women are not capable of consuming large quantities of Italian plonk en route — something which cannot be said about any of my rowdy friends.

I’ll let you know if this part of my dream comes true.

 

Hell Week

Housekeeping

Folks, please forgive me if posting is a little light this week. The realtor called last Monday (that would be Feb 27 ) to tell me that in order to sell the house and get top dollar, I have to be fully moved out by Mar 14 — that is, leave a house with walls ‘n floors only so that the rehab crew can come in to make the necessary repairs and paint the place so she can list it on Apr 1.

When she said that, I told her I thought it was a pretty elaborate April Fool’s Day trick, whereupon she just repeated, “March 14,” and hung up.

The first of (I think) three 30-yard dumpsters arrives at nine this morning, and I’ve hired a team of young men with strong backs and lots of energy to clear out fourteen years of crap, detritus and junk (yeah, I know it sounds like a German legal firm) in the space of a week.

To add to it, Daughter moves out and into her apartment on Wed 8, so there’ll be her movers moving stuff around my set of movers. Let’s hope this doesn’t turn into some kind of mover-imbroglio like a West Side Story dance routine, because then I’ll just have to throw up.

As for me… well, I’m not actually going to be doing anything other than sitting on a garden chair with a gin & tonic in hand, barking orders and whipping the workers when they start getting tired. I mean, I have to turn this:

into that:

Uh huh.

Anyway, there should be a post or two each day nevertheless — even if I have to recycle that damn old Pussification thing just to keep the Red Meat Readers in full voice.

Husband Potential

Men & Women

This young man is going to go far. From his Plenty Of Fish (POF) profile (UK version):

I don’t use POF very often, I very rarely send the first message and I’m content being single.
I read many profiles, with women describing in detail their previous bad judgment when it comes to selecting a partner. Detailing how they quite simply want a man who is honest, that they can get along with and will remain faithful. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I urge you all to choose more wisely next time; if you don’t pick well, ask your family to judge them for you, a brother, dad for example.
You probably have bad taste in men because deep down, you enjoy complaining to your friends how badly your partner treats you; it probably gives you a sense of enormous well-being. I could take on a woman like that, but you’d probably get bored with me. So instead, I’ll keep clear and enjoy the spectacle of the entertaining female psyche!
I won’t take a partner for the sake of not being single, I’m looking for a keeper, I’m in no rush, if I don’t reply to you, I probably don’t envisage you being the mother of my future children, sorry! The following qualities are what I’m looking for:
– slim (no excuse ladies, at our age, we should be in our prime). I may budge if you’re really pretty and willing to let me whip you into shape by sharing my athletic lifestyle. Size 12+ is not for me, you may be average in the UK, but just because lots of women are overweight, doesn’t make it right. Too much greed & indulgence in this country
– without child, unless your partner has died, or at least well and truly out of the picture (I know many a good man that’s been a gap filler, only for daddy to get back on the scene)
– be Roman Catholic (I may budge on that, but our kids would be going to a Catholic school, end of discussion!) or at least hold similar values, such as kindness and family values
– Have some kind of interest in sports
– Have more interests than just shopping and watching TV
– Be able to hold a conversation about topics other than reality TV, soaps, clothes, make-up or other female apparel
– Not have any tattoos, or if you do, they must not be visible (on your face, arms or legs). In fact, all tattooed women can do one, disgusting!
I guess I’m going to be single for a long time ha! If you have read my profile all the way through, you probably need to find a hobby, anyone for tennis?

The typical chick in his target demographic will dismiss the above as “rude”, “egotistical”, “arrogant”, “judgmental”, “picky”, etc. which means that most of them will self-select (or unselect) themselves out of the market, as it were. Which, from his perspective, would be a good thing because he doesn’t have to waste his time on sluts, doxies, losers and slatterns.

There are two things to learn from this little piece of wisdom. The first is that there are some good young men out there — he is not the only one — who are available but who are not going to jump at just any woman who makes herself available. He’s being perfectly honest as to what he finds appealing in a potential mate, and what he considers disqualifications.

The second thing to learn is for young women. Look at his criteria, and most especially what he considers to be disqualifications, and don’t do those things — if someday you want to make yourself appealing to a decent, moral and honest young man, as opposed to your average dating-site asshole who at best is going to pump and dump you.

Here’s the thing: not one of his qualifications is unreasonable. Back when I was in my mid-twenties, about 80% of the women I encountered in my target market (19 – 25 years old) would have easily qualified under his criteria, most with added attributes (i.e. could cook, sew and in short be proficient in what used to be called the womanly arts). But times have changed [10,000-word rant deleted] and he may find the pickings slim.

I hope he finds someone worth his attention, and he probably will — especially as he’s prepared to wait for Miss Right.

Good luck, young fella. We’re all pulling for you.

BP Rising

Politics

…and I’m not talking about the share price of British Petroleum, either.

In this the latest of my forays into blogging, I’ve pretty much steered clear of commenting on current events because a.) we won and b.) I’ve enjoyed the sight of the Left running around with their collective hair on fire.

However, when stumbling across this bullshit via Insty, I have to ask the Left: do you really want to go where this will take you? Here’s what I’m alluding to.

Imagine a crowd of Trump supporters having a peaceful protest at the Saul Alinsky Park in, say, Seattle. Imagine too that for their protection against violent counter-protesters (see the link above for examples), a number of people like, say, me have surrounded the Trump supporters; people who are ready to combat violence with ultra-violence in self-defense.

Needless to say, when the first dozen or so “antifa” thugs (anti-fascist, very cute) get their bones broken and and heads cracked, they’re going to run like frightened rabbits…

…only to find their escape routes blocked by yet another group of Trump’s supporters with a similar attitude to the first, and yet more bones are broken and skulls cracked.

I mention this set of tactics because it was one of many that I learned while training for COINOPS (counter-insurgency operations) back in a real fascist country, South Africa, as part of my military service.

So I repeat the question: do you little snowflake antifascistas really want to go down this road? Because I promise you: we know a hell of a lot more about this stuff than you do. And the police aren’t going to protect your precious little asses forever; at some point, it’ll be Kent State redux, only with more casualties. A lot more casualties. Sure, you may get the propaganda victory… but you’ll be dead and won’t get to enjoy it.

To quote the Emperor Misha in another context: tick tock, assholes. Middle America is patient, but our patience isn’t endless.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever

Men & Women

I have a theory about men who are married to the same woman for a long time, and that theory is that she never changes (in his eyes) from the woman or girl he married.

I think the seed of this was planted when at age 20 or thereabouts, I met a man who’d married a beauty queen when he was 24 and she 19. At the time, they’d been married over fifty years, and I don’t know, but I’m certain that they’re both deceased by now.

He’d been a soldier in the British Army (he was a WWI veteran), was still a good-looking man and carried himself with that erect bearing that is unmistakably the look of a senior NCO — in his case, a sergeant-major. His wife had, as the saying goes, not aged well: she’d put on a lot of weight and her once-beautiful face was now moon-shaped. The only thing still beautiful was her hair, which was long, thick and grey, permanently worn in a plait down her back.

But he loved her; good grief, he loved her more than any man I’ve ever known to love a woman. One night, we were sitting in his living-room, both a little tipsy after dinner, when he suddenly said out of the blue, “You know what, boy? I know that _________ is old and overweight. But the only time I ever see that is when we go out and we’re with other people. When we’re at home all alone together, all I can see is the beauty queen I married back in 1922.”

I don’t think he’s alone in this, in fact, I think there are lots of men like him. The popular meme these days is that men divorce their wives as they get older, to “trade up” to a younger, more beautiful woman. That would certainly be true among the rich and famous set — because, let’s be honest, wealth and fame gives them the opportunity to do so, especially when those younger women throw themselves at their, ummm, feet.

But not every man is rich and famous, of course — let’s be honest and say that most men aren’t rich or famous — and among those men, and especially those men who have been married to the same woman for a long time, the very thought of “trading up” is not only ridiculous, but outrageous (i.e. likely to cause outrage). Men like my sergeant-major friend.

I’m going to illustrate the point by looking at a rich and famous man who hasn’t traded up, and has been married for sixteen years to his second wife (his first wife, to whom he’d also been married for about the same length of time, died of ovarian cancer). His name is Pierce Brosnan, and his wife’s name is Keeley. Here they are on their wedding day, in 2001 (they met in 1999):

Here they are today:

…and here they are at some red-carpet affair:

Whenever you see them together, they’re holding hands, or are walking arm-in-arm, or they’re kissing like damn teenagers.

Now I’m going to go out on a limb here, and suggest that Pierce Brosnan could have “traded up” on more than one occasion. In fact, I’m pretty sure that he could have had his pick from, oooh, about half a million women all over the world, had that been his intention. Yet he’s still married to Keeley, and he obviously still only sees the woman he married.

In case you’re wondering about the title of this post, the full sentence written by John Keats is:

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”

As for me… well, I’m one of those men.

Way Too Daring

Culture

This wonderful picture is called “The Swing” by Jean-Honoré Fragonard, was painted in 1767, and it’s the Home picture on my cell phone (yeah, I finally got a Smartphone after only ten years with a flip phone… shuddup your laughing already).

It’s painted in one of my favorite styles, Rococo, and to my mind it is one of those little gems — yet another print I’d like to see on my wall. Here’s why I love it.

Basically, the story is simple: a young girl asks an older man (husband?) to push her on a garden swing. Unbeknown to the old guy, she has a young man (lover?) who’s lying hidden behind a flower bush, and who gets to watch her at play. Obviously she knows he’s there, because she tosses her shoe into the air towards him.

Here’s the fun part: remember that in those days, women wore long dresses and full petticoats — but no underwear. So the motion of the swing is causing the girl’s dress to fly up in the air, giving our young voyeur a straight look up into Madame’s Garden of Delight — and the little minx knows it. In its day, this would have been quite a scandalous piece of art.

It’s one of those playful yet sly little works which make Rococo art so enjoyable.

Of course, such “frivolous” art disappeared under the stern gaze of the Enlightenment establishment, who wanted art to “send a message” about the “nobility of man” and suchlike nonsense. Ugh. From that came the Academy (a.k.a. Academic art), which produced easily the most boring art ever created by man. I refuse to put up a typical painting of the genre, because it would quite spoil the mood created by Fragonard.

Enjoy.