My friend Bob Newkirk called me last week and asked if I wanted to help judge the annual Fallbrook Car Show. "But Bob, I protested, I'm a dipshit who doesn't know a dipstick from my ....." Ne'er you mind, he reassured me, you'll be fine. I went to the judges meeting last night, over thirty classes of cars, stock and modified, and the show is completely booked and full of some very nice automobiles. They are going to pair me up with a competent judge, not sure which class of car.
I had a recurring nightmare last night that I would be asked to tell the difference between an original 289 and a 350. I would be disrobed publicly as a pretender. However, once upon a time my father and I restored Bentley's and Rolls Royce's. I showed his 1954 Rolls Royce Sedan Cad'eville Silver Wraith at the Concourse D'elegance at Pebble Beach in the mid seventies. Met Clint Eastwood - he looked old even back then. At that level they were like the saddlebred people I encountered, rich people amusing themselves by throwing their money around as pretentiously as possible on infinitesimal nuance. Honestly, not much about the car thing sticked. I did blow the engine in my dad's Aston Martin db-5 convertible once, one of twenty of the things ever ever built, racing vettes on Palomar Airport road.
I have judged many art shows and films in my life and I imagine my critical observation powers should come to the fore for this. Have taken car photos for a long time. But I think back to umpiring little league games and hordes of angry parents questioning my calls and get a sick feeling in my stomach.
If you locals aren't doing anything Sunday, come down to Potter Jr. High and catch the car show. I will be the guy wearing the mask with the glasses and the big nose. Wait, I already have them. Damn.
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