As is generally the case, Miss Kitt gives us a little home truth.
This is apparently, as indicated at the beginning, from her short-lived last appearance on Broadway, an otherwise obscure curiosity called Mimi le Duck. I know nothing about it except that it was distinctly unsuccessful and rather mysterious in how it had seduced the great star into a supporting role. Perhaps this song had something to do with it; it's not good, exactly, but who else could sing it even vaguely plausibly?
I'm mostly sanguine about life's changes, great and small, and perhaps it's a just little post-trip letdown, but this past week has been a bit of a slog. This is shaping up to be an unlovely summer, heavy and damp, and one's mood slumps with the barometer. Oh, there's nothing wrong, really, and on the whole I know that. Still...
I suppose it doesn't help that the Mister has a bad cold, or that the dogs are both a little colicky. I've been having to deal with our Internet provider, Faceless Hideosity, Inc., which God knows improves no one's mood, and the atmosphere continues to be bickerish over at Golden Handcuffs.
Still, not all is utterly appalling. This past week brought us the birthday of both Miss Barbara Pym, about whom the chance to think is always welcome, and Miss Bobbie Gentry, whom the Washington Post believes they have found living in apparently happy retirement. I hope she's more content, at this point, than poor Miss Kitt's character appears to have been...
Maybe all we all need is a little chance to waltz on terrazzo (although my memory is that Valentino recommended tile for the tango...).
One of the great privileges of my life has been to see Miss Kitt perform on stage on four separate occasions. She was a woman of great talent, great humor, great intelligence, great strength and great principle. How fortunate I am to have seen this outstanding artist at work.
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