The Awful Truth

In light of today's shocking revelations over on JoeMyGod, I feel a need to come clean with all - both - my faithful readers. Muscato, darlings, is in fact not the spitting image of a slightly over-the-hill Kay Francis in something like 1946.

I know this will come as a shock. But there it is: it's only an avatar, one acting as a placeholder, as it were, for a forty-something Gentleman of Artistic Tastes, a stout party with a taste for chanteuses of days gone by, unfashionable artists of the mid-nineteenth century, and amusing anecdotes about obscure celebrities. oh, and Gabors.

Just to prove that I am not, in fact, a disturbed woman living in British Columbia, herewith as close as we're ever going to get to self-revelation around here. Yes, a childhood snap of Yours Truly, seen at the very last moment that my poor put-upon father had any hope for my future:

Hopes, I should add, that were dashed once and forever just a few minutes later when I traded the helmet for the hat my grandmother had come over in, along with her very fetching pale mink stole draped over the shoulderpads.