1939 Plymouth

Aprapo of nothing, I just wanted to say I like 1939 Plymouths (See above, via). The chrome every third bar grill is sweet. (eg) Boy, do I have the fill a garage full of half-completed and over-ambitious projects jonesing bad. Apparently the only prescription is more cow-bell.

Also on the list:

1. 1980 Porsche 911. Has the reliable 3.0L, but still DIY-able, mit galvanized body. No turbos, no convertables, no Targas, no fender flairs, and no whale tails. Barf.

2. 1963-1965 Buick Riviera. What a cool, cool, and under-appreciated design. The boomers can keep their Yenko's and Shelbys and Matching Numbers Cudas.

3. A DeLorean. This makes no sense, but neither does love. That's the power of love. The wiring is a typical made in the UK gremlin-fest, but I only have eyes for that shape. With a tasteful 1.5" drop.

4. 1960-1963 Cadillac Convertible. Oh Those Fins, but taken one Dr. Spock/Freudian step back down from 1959. And that has made all the difference.

I could go on (the ubiquitous Hot Rod Volvo, Jim Rockford's Pontiac (screw those restomod Bandits) et cetera), but this raises a question: At what point is excess immoral?

Over lunch last week I had an argument about whether or not being a billionaire makes one immoral - My Swiss-neutral point was that if being a billionaire automatically makes you immoral, then so did the wealth that everyone at the table already possessed. Which wasn't the agreeable thing to say, but casting the accusing finger is classic, I'm well off, but the line between rich and middle-class starts comfortably ahead of my tax-bracket. Well, no, it doesn't, and pretending it does is a cop-out. This argument will convince no one who doesn't already believe it.