Diana Dors' 1959 Cadillac

 I always wanted to be a starlet….with apologies to Goodfellas.

I secretly idolized the blonde bombshells of the fifties, preferring Mamie Van Doren and Jayne Mansfield to the mainstream fascination with Ms. Monroe.

Then there was home grown Diana Dors. Like Jayne she had a thing for Cadillacs, a rarer trait in conservative Britain. Her most famous was her first, a 1955 series 62 baby blue convertible that she took with her to France. On the streets of London it caused a sensation, pastel and chrome, people ran after it having never seen something so cool.

I heard rumours she had a 1959 Cadillac like moi. One hire firm claimed to have a pink 59 Eldorado convertible that belonged to her. Seemed too good a story to be true, I had never seen any candid or publicity photos showing her with her over the top automotive counterpart. Last year I found a photo of her with just part of the rear fin visible, clearly a 59 but it could have been taken when she lived the States. Finally last night proof an official fan site. A 1959 series 62 convertible (not Eldorado), you can tell by the single row of teeth in the rear grill and Cadillac V and crest on the trunk lid it is not the very similar Eldorado model. The best part is the licence plate DD 200 !

It is a black and white picture…would it be too much to assume it was painted pink?

Extra:

Amazingly her house, Orchard Manor still stands much as it was in 1984 when she sadly died of cancer. Jayne’s pink palace was torn down. I hope Diana’s home survives and is not redeveloped. It is totally Hollywood and should be preserved as a historic site. http://www.dianadors.co.uk/orchard_manor_41.html

watch her bio pic here:

Hugs,

April

A Miraculous Journey

Reading The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane with my 10 year old.

The book is about the adventures of a china rabbit. But it is really about love.

I don’t think I have ever come across such a beautiful written story, which is all the more beautiful and a joy to read aloud.

Oh yes I cried and cried, once safely in my own room. I had trouble a few times carrying on reading, claiming I had some dust in my eye or perhaps I am getting a cold.  But such is the story that we gladly exceed story time by a few chapters.

At one point Edward is rescued and befriend by a tramp and his dog. The tramp whose name is Bull explains that he and his dog are lost. He did not mean lost in a geographic sense. That struck such a chord; I have felt so lost myself throughout my life but perhaps never more so than now.

Wishing you all happy endings….

photo Virgil and I

 Later that night, Jack came and sat next to Bull and asked if he could borrow the rabbit. Bull handed Edward over, and Jack sat with Edward upon his knee. He whispered in Edward’s ear.
“Helen,” Jack said, “and Jack Junior and Taffy — she’s the baby. Those are my kids’ names. They are all in North Carolina. You ever been to North Carolina? It’s a pretty state. That’s where they are. Helen. Jack Junior. Taffy. You remember their names, okay, Malone?”
After this, wherever Bull and Lucy and Edward went, some tramp would take Edward aside and whisper the names of his children in Edward’s ear. Betty. Ted. Nancy. William. Jimmy. Eileen. Skipper. Faith.
Edward knew what it was like to say over and over again the names of those you had left behind. He knew what it was like to miss someone. And so he listened. And in his listening, his heart opened wide and then wider still.
The rabbit stayed lost with Lucy and Bull for a long time. Almost seven years passed, and in that time, Edward became an excellent tramp: happy to be on the road, restless when he was still. The sound of the wheels on the train tracks became a music that soothed him. He could have ridden the rails forever. But one night, in a railroad yard in Memphis, as Bull and Lucy slept in an empty freight car and Edward kept watch, trouble arrived.

Takes One to Know One

No not a transsexual but someone who has suffered with depression.

I was at boarding school in England when Ant Mania was at its height, though being a proto rockabilly rebel I had no time for music that though interesting lacked ideological purity.

I recently came across Adam Ant’s new album and particularly like the cut Cool Zombie. Hooked I went back and listened to the songs that were a soundtrack to my last years in the UK. 

I also came across the documentary, “The Madness of Prince Charming”, despite the overly cute title it is a harrowing account of his depression, breakdowns and hospitalization.

The documentary struck a cord, like soldiers comparing notes on the same battle. I admire his fortitude to carry on.

And Oh Boy was he handsome back in the day!

Drafted

My good friend Genni is opening a British style pub in Oakville, Ontario. Named the Bouncing Bomb after the famous Dam busters raid the pub has a definite RAF theme with copious memorabilia and even a vintage air raid siren (no that is not a reference to me).

The pub is conveniently attached to the Trafalgar Brewery, a very successful producer of craft beers. The beer is supposed to be excellent but I wouldn’t know as I never acquired a taste for it, preferring Diet Pepsi.

I had lent a hand here and there painting and cleaning to get the pub up and running. I cannot overstate the huge task Genni took on single-handed to remodel the old bar.

Sunday she catered the brewery’s annual dinner, I was drafted to serve along with three other brave souls but spent most of the time as a plungeur, shades of  Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London (talk about rising to one’s level of competence). I don’t think I sat down till midnight. The dinner was a great success and the food and service received numerous compliments.

The push to get everything ready for the banquet really sped up the renovation schedule and the pub will unofficially open tomorrow with an official grand opening at the end of the month.

I will be making a return appearance tomorrow but this time I will behind the bar, really why hide the pub’s greatest asset in the kitchen LOL! My freelance writing and editing dance card has begun to fill up this month but some additional income is most welcome.  

Can't think of anyone better than George Formby to supply the musical selection for this post:

         well just one more:

Faggot & Freak / Law & Order

If you might recall dear constant reader, I have had some problems with one of my neighbors. I have worked hard to give him a wide berth and to avoid enraging him with my mere presence.

Last weekend he unleashed a string of disgusting sexual terms and mimed sexual acts while my youngest daughter and I were playing outside. He repeatedly mimed pulling down his pants and invited me to give him a blowjob. I was called a faggot and a freak in front of my child.

The next morning he accosted me in my driveway, me two inches from my face he berated me spewing the worst homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic (he is an equal opportunity bigot) spittle flecked rant one should ever have the misfortune to witness.

He bragged of having a police record for beating up “faggots” back in the day, I assume he is in his sixties. He also claims to have videos and photos of me doing “things. I believe this is called stalking.

Most amusingly he seems to have a fascination with the number of times I check the oil in my cars, a more solitary and quiet activity I cant imagine.   It is terrifying how quickly a situation with the potential for violence can escalate. I was scared to go out to my car to even go to the grocery store for fear of another incident. I do not fear him physically but nor did I wish to be seen as the “bad guy” for defending myself against an “old” man.

Yesterday morning I phoned the police, fearing that property damage and violence would be next on his agenda.

Despite some mix up with schedules a police officer did take a statement from me in the evening then cautioned my neighbor.  I will see if the visit from the police will have cooled his ardor but I am not confident. The officer discussed me laying charges and mentioned hate crime legislation. However, some sort of physical attack seems to be necessary before they would charge him with such an offense. I was not pleased with the officer mentioning I should remember he comes from a different generation. I didn’t realize that age was an excuse for violent bigotry.  

On the whole I try to avoid politics in this blog but I envy the more robust civil liberties of my neighbors to the south and their 2^nd. amendment. Even such self-defense products as mace and pepper spray are sadly illegal here.  In Canada it is safe to say that the accused has more rights than the victim.

I have been advised to call 911 if he sets foot on my property again.

 

Edge of Reality

 

 Not just an Elvis song. I am still recovering from the worst flu ever! Seriously folks I have never been so sick.

A week in bed has left me near stir crazy, insomnia, claustrophobia (my biggest fear). I wake up in the middle of the night feeling buried alive and on the edge of panic and insanity.

These feelings have come to follow me into daylight hours. I imagine this is what it is like to come close to experiencing a nervous breakdown.

I think the sickness left me too much time in my own head and all my worries and concerns have overwhelmed me producing feelings of being trapped. It has got to point where I fear going to sleep and stay up as late as possible to guarantee I will be unconscious as soon as my head hits the pillow. Even then I have to calm myself by breathing deeply and slowly while thinking happy thoughts.

Perhaps it is the bitter cold and bleak winter landscape is adding to my desperation.

 

I hope as I get better and do my best to address each issue, primary a lack of a “real” job I will be able to enjoy sleep again.

Sick as a Parrot

I have been feeling poorly for a week, which I had put down to burning the candle at both ends and worry about my CAMH meeting.

Yesterday I was laid low by the full force of whatever flu bug is rampaging across the continent. I spent most of the day in bed experiencing weired dreams (yes cars were involved....I was lost in Miami driving a white and blue 1977 Lincoln Town Coupe frantically looking for the airport) and a pounding skull that felt as if I had been beaten repeatedly with an aluminum baseball bat.

Today I am off to the office but am unsure if I will do any good. I conducted an interview this morning with the expert on Ford modular engines for a car magazine. For my British readers he worked on engine packages for Marcos, Jensen and the late lamented V8 powered MG SV and ZT.

Not me nor my car

Here are two mixes that if I hadn't shared them earlier with Cass I would have thought I imagined them in a fever dream: