Merry Christmas, Happy New Year

 The Blog is taking off for the Holidays.  May yours be warm and happy.

    In the meantime there's a ton of goodies here. Scroll down for the wacky wonderful Coneheads at Silverstone. Or the flip side of that madness to the days of dope and meditation in The Volvo Years.

         if you missed the all-time-record-breaking-hit- monster blog, The Real Allard Story:give it a click.  No, I lied; last week's  tribute to the women who are as"sweet as honey and smile at you like you're made of money," attracted even more hits. And If you missed the 1979 Polish Grand Prix now's your chance.

Or, click on bob judd on the top of this page or slip down the right hand column to click on such gems as  my favorite, How You Look at the Sky.   Or The Kythera Chronicles to shake hands with Barbarossa.

Or just cruise through the links on the lower right hand side of this page, maybe come upon some unexpected little gem like  an excerpt from The Candle,  In Praise of the Belleville Midgets,  The Midgets of Belleville. Part II,  Truth in Grass: a Kansas adventure, The Story of the Larned Eagle Optic, Hollywood Calls, You Pick up the Phone, Hollywood Calls, you pick up the phone part 2 maybe my favorite My Short Happy War in Afghanistan or no, wait, wait, Fangio and the Maserati 250 F for the priceless video of Fangio in a polo shirt and helmet, absolutely relaxed driving a Maserati 250F around a beat up old race track with no run off, no barriers, no safety nothing.  My lunch with Rob Walkeris a good one even though it leaves out the Betty Grable stories. 

       You wouldn't want to miss My Short Happy War in Afghanistan

 

             Then there's Erno Goldfingers house-and-mine, which throws in Ian Flemming, no extra charge. Riding around Laguna Seca with Jackie Stewart was picked up by Jalopnik.com.

              Or Uncle John's Prayer.

               Or Clarence Judd Head-Butts a Truck.  Truck dies. That's a good one. 

             And, of course, the one that started it all, Truck Story.

               Then Virgin calls, and Forrest goes to Hollywood to star with an Electric car. And Forrest does a shoot in bed with Virgin. That one is a lot of fun. 

                Although, you might want to take a look at Pheromone Dreams to see what they are doing in bed in front of a film crew. While you're there it's just a short hop to Nurse Pelvis. 

            Or take a dip in the world's largest concrete freshwater free municipal swimming pool.

           And for a fine rainy afternoon divertimento, click on my dance with a prima ballerina.

 

              For a tasty bite with bon mots check out my friend, Gerry Freeman's foodie blog as  Hungry Gerald.heads for London and Paris.

             Or go visit Elif Batumen, San Francisco's brightest and funniest writer, a fine lady to curl up with for a good read.  Here's Elif's homepage.

             Enjoy, Have a ball.  See you Monday, January 3.

Coneheads at Silverstone

Road & Track ran my photo of Coneheads having lunch in the paddock at the British Grand Prix with the Red Arrows cavorting overhead. But, worried that it might be offensive, R&T did not run my caption. We now right that wrong.

"I didn't realize they made crash helmets for Coneheads"

Five Minutes of Fame

         I enjoyed fame.  Loved it.  It was only five minutes, OK, maybe five days, but it was a great high, even though it was a only a little fame.  

There were posters for my new book, Silverstone all over London and I'd been interviewed on TV and radio. Now the BigTime, International Bestselling Author was flying to New York from London's Heathrow Airport.   In a hectic, I’m-gonna-miss-my-plane-rush, I skidded to a stop.  The Heathrow Airport bookstore had a big display of Silverstone, with Formula One, Indy, wow, and Phoenix. All my books were up there with the top best sellers.  I snapped a couple of pics and ran for my plane.  

 By the time I landed, fame was over.

          Never mind.  The good parts of the books still feel good.  Here’s a short scene from Silverstone (aka Spin). A couple of real superstars who suffer from way too much fame, Forrest and Virgin have been doing a PR shoot at La Tour D'Argent,in Paris. Forrest bolts for his hotel, exhausted, grieving for his friend.  Virgin follows him into the taxi.

      The paparazzi ducked under the barriers and she had to push her way through the photographers holding their cameras high, lights popping.  And it was one of those shots, the one of her pushing through the crowd to get to me that the PR folks sold to the British Papers.  That was the shot that Panaguian said was pure genius.  She caught my arm and whispered in my ear.  "You are a real prick," she said.

    I told the driver the Crillon. Virgin rolled down the window. 

inside the Crillon

     "Don't get the wrong idea," she said, leaning out the window and waving to the crowd, the camera lights flashing like fireworks.  "I am not running after you like some little puppy."  She rolled the window up and sat back.  "I flashed on going to the show at Catafalque.  Where some stinko little snapshooter is going to catch me and this Coquille in a shot together and I am going to look like dead parrot next to her."

    "You look fine," I said.  In the semi darkness of the back of the taxi she looked fresh, beautiful, all eyes and mouth.

Virgin Lookalike

    "So how do you think I am going to look next to a 19 year old kid?  Sometimes these days I get so tired," she said rubbing her eyes. 

    Virgin sat back in the taxi seat, sulking as we crossed the river.  "You ever use any of that stuff?"  she said, looking out the window at a tourist boat, lit with candles gliding under the bridge.

    "What stuff?"

    "That Formula One stuff, dummy.  The stuff we're supposed to be pushing."

    "It's a trick," I said.  "I think they make it out of floorwax."

    "I got a bottle,"  she said, turning her head at the last minute.  "You want to see if it works?"

         

Forrest Has a Shoot With Virgin.

As part of the Parfum Chantal campaign, Evers finds himself in a giant Chinese bed with a megastar.  The following is an excerpt from Silverstone (aka Spin in the US))                     

        She was wearing a satin robe with a sash and 1940's movie-star silver shoes. Her red cupid mouth spread wide in a grin when she saw me.  She pirouetted once, stopped with her back to me and let the robe fall, looking over her shoulder to be sure I was watching. 

         Of course I was watching.  I was watching the Ginger Rogers spike heel shoes and the long slim ankles the backs of her calves, the blue vein pumping in the back of her knee, the lavender satin nighty.  She pursed her lips in a little camp kiss, turned around again, kicked off her shoes, pulled back the sheet and snuggled in alongside.
         Up close you could see the outlines of her real mouth, the large pores around her nose and the lines and dark circles showing through the make-up under her eyes.  She closed those big grey eyes and switched off, a trick she had, I was later to learn, of tuning out the world and grabbing a few seconds rest. 
    Instantly a hairdresser and her assistant were bending over her, pulling and smoothing her hair with their hands and combs, finishing off with a few deft puffs of hairspray.  

     "OK," Scatuzzi said from behind his Hassleblad on a tripod, "bend over Virgin, why don't you Forrest, and see let's how it looks; the Prince wakes Sleeping Beauty with a kiss."
    Virgin said, her eyes closed, "Hi."
    "You come here often?" I said.
    She gave me a professional little smile.  "You still pissed off?" she said, her eyes still closed.
    I bent over and kissed her lightly. 
    Scatuzzi said, "hold it there a sec. Forrest.  Let me get another spot reading.  Willard, can you move that reflector up a notch.  I need more fill on Virgin's mouth."
    Opening her eyes, looking up at me, the bogus lover six inches away, Virgin said, "when was the last time you were in bed with a stranger?"
    "OK,"  Scatuzzi said.  "Another little smacker, Forrest."
    "It's hard to remember," I said, kissing her lightly.  "A long time ago.  Before we knew sex could kill you."
    "I was just thinking everybody I've ever been to bed with was a stranger."
    Scatuzzi called out, "Wipe the lipstick off Forrest would you please, Larry?  Can we get a little more of that fill on Forrest?  And move that second Dienst.  I'm getting a bedpost shadow across his eyes.  Don't move Forrest."

    "Including me," I said.
    "Well, now that you mention it, we've known each other two days and we've had our first fight and our first kiss.  In this business that qualifies as old friends."  She put her hand behind my neck and pulled me down to her.
    "Great," Scatuzzi called out.  "Just pretend we're not here."

    It must have been like this in Hollywood years ago when they shot silent movies.  The actors talking shopping lists, gossip, and acting passionate while a man in riding pants cranked the camera. Except we weren't talking movie star gossip.  Conversation with Virgin was like passing hand grenades back and forth.  You never knew if she had pulled the pin. 
    "You're a nice kisser," she said.

    "Is that a complaint or a compliment?"
    "I'm talking to you.  Talking to you is a compliment."
    "Lucky me."
    "Yeah, lucky you."  Pause.  "Okay, it was a compliment.  Call me Janice."
    "Janice is a lot easier to say with a straight face than Virgin.  Is that your real name?"
    "Janice Corlowski.  Is that real enough?"  She was leaning over me now, one of those famous breasts threatening to break loose out of the silver satin, the other famous breast crowding in, trying to get a peek. 
    "Virgin," Scatuzzi called out.  "We're seeing a little too much of Forrest in the camera.  Can you shift up a bit, sweetheart?  Give me just a touch more chin?  Thank you that's perfect.  Harold, I'm picking up a little moisture on Virgin's chin."   
    There was another conversation going on under the covers.  Out of sight.  Unspoken.  Straight face.  When we rolled into another position Virgin's hand would brush against my cock.  Lightly.  Almost by accident.  Lingering for a beat.  The silk pajama bottoms they'd given me made her touch slippery, sexy.  And the fact that the cameraman, the three lighting guys and two electricians the makeup girl and the people from the Canadian advertising agency were watching us and had no idea what was going on made it even sexier.  We were facing each other and she had just held my cock for a moment, with her fingertips, under the sheets.  "Just checking," she whispered in my ear. 
    Emily Post does not offer guidance for these situations.  `Hey cut that out,' seemed like the wrong thing for a grown man to say.  I wasn't her little plaything.  And I wasn't angry, far from it.  But I wasn't relaxed either.  Several of the shots were no good because of the male model's attempt to hide his erection. 
    The great manipulator, as she was called in the record industry, took on a new meaning.  Naturally my cock loved the attention.  Cocks as you have no doubt noticed are dumber than dogs.  Show the little dangler the slightest bit of attention and its up there with its tongue hanging out, wagging its tail.  The old rising cock couldn't see that this normal, gentle and loving creative act between lovers had been turned inside out into a cheap publicity trick.  But you try saying that to a cock.
    Then, while Scatuzzi loomed over us on a step ladder, she grabbed my balls and squeezed.  Hard.  `Call me Janice,' she said. 
    This was real pain.  Maybe Virgin thought it was superstar courtship.  I thought of hitting her to break her grip.  I reached up with the hand tucked underneath me and pinched her nipple.  "Let go, Janice," I said.
    She let go.  `Next time,' she said, her lips just brushing my ear, `why don't you try kissing me like you mean it.'
    There wasn't a next time.  We did a few establishing shots; me getting into bed, Virgin in different underwear, our naked feet sticking out of the sheets.  But that was it for sacktime under the lights with a former superstar.  At the stroke of noon, Virgin was out of the bed, dressed, and on her way back to Montreal to catch a plane back to the coast.

      `See you in a couple of weeks, Foreplay,' she said smiling sweetly and waving to me for the benefit of the crew as she went out the door.  `Don't wait up.'