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Flossy Flint: 1924

Flossy Flint: 1924

San Francisco, 1924. "Flint roadster at golf course" is the latest entrant in the Shorpy Concours of Superannuated Conveyances. See you at the 19th Hole! 6½ x 8½ glass negative, originally from the Wyland Stanley collection. View full size.


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The Golfer's Scowl

I still see similar expressions in golf course parking lots depending how the game has gone that day.

Not just superannuated

Downright obsolete. To wit: continental-mount spares, rumble seats, 32 x 6.20 tires, demountable rims, running boards, radiator motometers, vent wings, opening windshields, steering wheel-mounted manual spark advances, plus fours, wooden shafted (& wooden headed) golf clubs. I'm sure I missed a few.

By the way, I think that the sour expression may be in response to the poor cellular service at the club.

No, it's a reflection.

Upon further review I see that it's not a scratch but a reflection of the running board edge. I'll bet that's the Olympic Club course and we're looking east across what would later become Henry Doelger's postwar Westlake housing development. Tterrace, what say you?

[Looks like a match. -tterrace]

Boot Scraper?

Or a kick-plate: the foot-long perforated metal strip under the passenger door.


The golf course is nowhere near Flint, MI, I'd say. After losing control of General Motors for the second time, Billy Durant started a third conglomerate, and the Flint was meant to compete with GM's Buick, both coincidentally manufactured in that Michigan city.

The Flint was only sold for four or five years, but apparently at least one made it to California, if I read the topography correctly.

[Or the caption, for that matter. -tterrace]

Evelyn Wood warned me there'd be days like this!

New Car. New scratch.

At the bottom of the rear quarter panel and door, there appears to be be a long horizontal scratch, with further damage to the door itself. Maybe that's why this golfer is ticked off!

[That's a reflection. - Dave]

What every well dressed golfer wore in the twenties


Golf Course

Anyone venture a guess as to where he is?

The name is Blond.

James Blond.

Dead Ringer

for Walter Huston.


That sure is a fine looking car. I would drive one any day.

Would it kill you to smile?

You'd think our duffer was taken by surprise -- ambushed by paparazzi, or caught by the disability insurer's private eye. Yet it's hard to imagine he didn't pack up his mashie niblick and drive his fine Flint to the course for no other reason than to appear in a photo. Lighten up, Vinegar Puss.

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