In an earlier post, I mentioned that, on Martin Luther King Day, we'd be going to the North American International Auto Show. (Nothing honors Dr. King's legacy more than slobbering over new cars, eh?). As it turns out, that trip was delayed until Saturday the 21st. Half of the adventure was just getting to Cobo Center in Detroit. We had trouble with our van's windshield washer that required us to pull over and fix it. Then, as we were approaching Detroit via the Lodge Freeway, we were diverted off the freeway because of a car accident. So all told, it probably took us an additional hour-and-a-half to get to Cobo Center. The auto show itself was insane--incredibly crowded. It was fun to see all of the different cars from practically every auto manufacturer, foreign and domestic, you can imagine; but I dared not take my eyes off either one of my kids for more than a few seconds in the fear they'd be lost in the sea of people.
It's interesting how having kids will rekindle latent interests in certain subjects. As a child, I loved cars. I memorized the look of every car I saw way back in the early 1970s, and could easily tell the difference between different makes of Chevrolet, Buick, Pontiac, Dodge, Plymouth, Chrysler, and you name it. (I was more interested in domestic makes than foreign automobiles, since one didn't see that many foreign cars back in the early '70s). I remember clearly my parents and grandparents cars like some people might remember pet dogs or cats from their childhood. My maternal grandma has a sparkly gold 1965 Pontiac Bonneville and my paternal grandparents had a white 1968 Dodge Polara; my grandpa also tooled around in a beautiful white 1964 Ford Thunderbird with black interior. I was heartbroken when he sold that car.
My two sons are now both car freaks. Together we watch episodes of the wonderful British automotive television program Top Gear. My youngest son is mainly obsessed with Italian performance cars such as Lamborghini and Pagani. My eldest son is a little more into domestic muscle cars like the Dodge Challenger and Charger. I have really enjoyed being a part of their wide-eyed fascination with the automotive world, and it has re-opened a personal interest that I thought had long ago had permanently ended (or at least placed on the backburner).
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Finally finished Keith Richards' autobiography, Life. It's hard to summarize the entire book, but some of Keith's observations were interesting and or fascinating. Brian Jones comes across as a whining, needy, attention-seeking hypochondriac. (The book has a long, fascinating--for Stones nuts like myself--passage about Keith, Brian, and Anita Pallenberg's trip to Morocco in 1967, and how Keith and Anita fell in love and left Morocco together in the dead of night, leaving Brian behind). I also had no idea that Anita turned into a paranoid junky by the late '70s, but has thankfully cleaned up since. Keith's relationship with Mick Jagger is much more complicated. I suppose it would have to be when you consider that the two guys have known each other, and have been inextricably linked, for almost their entire lives. Mick is portrayed as a social-climber, a bit emotionally guarded, and often jealous of Keith's other friendships (particularly the close bond that existed between Keith and Gram Parsons in the early '70s). At the same time, Keith marvels at Mick's talent, and is dismayed that Mick has often doubted his own abilities. This came as a surprise to me, as I never would have taken Mick Jagger as someone with an ounce of self-doubt. Overall, Life was a wonderful read, and a must for any Stones fan.
(If you are a Rolling Stones obsessive like myself, and are more interested in the creative process than the tabloid, personal, tell-all details, Keith does write at length about the creation of Beggars' Banquet and Exile on Main St. Lots of interesting tidbits about Exile's creation at Nellcote in the south of France).
I've got to say that Keith Richards has been, since I was about 19 years old, a hero of mine. With his kohl-eyed rock 'n' roll pirate persona, he's the guy I'd love to be but could never be because if I transformed into Keith Richards, I'd probably be dead within 24 hours. There's no way I could live that life--well, maybe I could live Keith's current life, but if I was Keith pre-1978, I'd be dead in a day. So it's probably better that I live vicariously through Keith by listening to his music and miming slashing open chord air guitar in the safety of my living room.
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