A year ago today, I bought a little trinket.
Dark and gorgeous, she's a little British, a little devilish, and a whole lotta cat.
When I use the paddle shifters and that engine purrs, she is every bit her namesake: Her name is Eartha.
Which leads me to a recent passing that cannot go unmentioned. My dear Eartha Kitt. Every time that engine growls for all the years I own that car, I will think of you, and purr, and laugh. Of all the women who catch the eyes and imaginations of the gays, Eartha was MY diva. I secretly harbored fantasies of meeting her, or even of driving her around in my very own Eartha.
Like Macbeth said: She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word.
Here she is as I will remember her:
And one more for the road: