JMGarciaIII

I'm trying to get back to blogging regularly, a process which, incidentally, you have the high privilege of witnessing. As is usual for me whenever I have to pick myself up and dust myself off – some days I feel as if I have a black belt therein – I go for the edibles and the potables. Today is no exception. This was prompted by a brief exchange I had on Twitter (you should hang out on Twitter with us, it's nice) in which I gloated, without the merest chemical trace of shame or compunction on the matter of my KILLER gazpacho. Ovah heah (by which I mean the northern hemisphere) gazpacho season is upon us yet again, and as your go-to Iberic, it is incumbent upon me to set everyone straight on the procedural gazpacho process. When you stagger into a tapas bar in, say, Sevilla, you will spy with your little eye a glass pitcher. Said pitcher it would seem to the casual and inattentive observer – not you, natch, but the casual and inattentive observer – to contain some sor

If you are a semi-sentient reader, you will know that at the very top of the automotive desirability pyramid reside giga-dollar collectible, classic cars. With a few notable exceptions -- another post for another day, perhaps -- at that rareified air reside vintage Ferraris. You could drop, without much effort, not just millions on one, but tens of millions. Even today, that's real money. No getting out the door with one of these for under $200K. But what if you're not "there" yet? What if your sense of style is coincident with the æsthetic properties of a Ferrari d'epoca like a latter day Steve McQueen, but your budget is, um, not? Don't stress. I got this. Kindly note one of those covet-worthy classic Ferraris. In this case the 330GTS, a quintessential open-air race-bred sports machine. Italian engineering and design and craftspersonship and (it must be said) quirks and idiosyncrasies. It is beautiful, it is glorious to drive, it is rare, it is elegan

If you cast your mind back, you'll recall I was commissioned by the formidable Paul Brett to write a feature film. Because I am wired wrong, I jumped into it headfirst and, working hand-in-hand with the director (who unearthed the story) had a draft that impressed the EP, the producer, the director and (most importantly) me...7 months ahead of schedule. SEVEN. The only catch is that I delivered it last week. As in...JUST before the entire planet SHUT THE %$#& DOWN . Allegedly pre-production would start in a couple of months, but it gets complicated since the part of India where this would shoot has one month out of the year where it is not a) eleventy zillion degrees, b) raining sideways bullets, or c) both. Grr.