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... we oft visited Ed Jurist's wonderful Vintage Car Store in Nyack

Su8, have we talked about this before? Ed Jurist's magnificent emporium was just a few miles north of where I live and I visited it regularly in the 60s and 70s - who knows, our paths might even have crossed there at some point. In fact that's where I found my current '34 Eight sedan, on consignment from the original owner. Inside the showroom were the RR's made for some Maharaja, the Locos, and the like. The lowly Packards (at the time mine and a 35 Super Eight convertible) were in the outdoors lot.

Thankfully, there are some restorers who adhere fanatically to originality and still win Pebble best of show or best in class, even with unpolished cylinder heads or other incorrect embellishments.

Um, uh, relax sports fans. I never said all the Rabble gladiators were evil, vile people. Let's try remedial reading. I knew several of them. Only said that for many genuine car cuckoos, as Jean Shepherd used to call us and himself (ancient Morgan Plus-4), janitorial d'non-elegances like Monterey are for the birds, and have n o t h i n g to do with the original automotive concourses.

Owen, absolutely. In fact, older friends of mine, newlyweds at the time, had and still have a nice, straight, unmolested '38 Twelve victoria. They'd drive into Manhattan, park on the street without a care, take in a movie. This was circa 1960. About that time, they took it to a greater NYC CCCA meet and a couple pompous sorts minced over and dismissed their car as "too new" and an abomination with its big pontoon fenders instead of the 1933-34 clamshells.

The Vintage Car Store. After high school, six of us, three guys, three girls, would climb into our friend's '53 Plymouth Belvedere, drive into neighboring Yonkers for Carvel's Ice Cream, and why gravelly-voiced Tom Carvel insisted on voicing his own radio spots we'll never know. Coming back on the Sawmill River Parkway, I see Ed Jurist, bundled in tweeds that autumn afternoon, in the other direction, toward the city, barreling along in a big deep green Cricklewood Bentley 4 1/2-liter, surrounded by the usual egregious Motown tin of the day.
Some of watched the Avengers as much for Steed's Bentley as Emma Peel.

Ah, youth. Cue Mary Hopkins. Everybody out of the pool!

Cue Mary Hopkin.

Thank you, OZ.

BTW, a prominent gearhead out here started an annual "Anti-Football Rally" 25 years ago for anything pre-1954 in the spirit of the Mille Miglia but all manner of auld sporting and road cars showed and show up, including a recreation of Jean Trevoux's Carrera Panamericana '51 Packard, reasoning most vintage car buffs are too bright to sit inside gaping at concussion ball. So Stupor Bowl Sunday might be a good day to blow the cobwebs out of your alter ego for those of you living in a realm like this which has the nation's worse traffic after only LA.

Take it easy.

It's Mary Hopkin without the s.

"It's Mary Hopkin without the s"
- Fixed!

A tip of The Hat for my namesake Mal and the brief respite from the current cackle of today. Mary Hopkin indeed!

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Check out this unlike lift of a Packard to the 7th floor of an apartment building on the coast of Florida.

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someone has faith, looks shaky to me,

did it say why?

The owner wanted the car placed in their living room. I found the picture on Instagram (#packard).