Red Shoe Diary

Oh I used to be disgusted
and now I try to be amused.
But since their wings have got rusted,
you know, the angels wanna wear my red shoes.
But when they told me 'bout their side of the bargain,
that's when I knew that I could not refuse.
And I won't get any older, now the angels wanna wear my red shoes...

- Elvis Costello

I can't say I'm too broken up about the imminent departure of the Nazi hobbit, the world's best-known old gentleman in eyelet lace and scarlet pumps since the heyday of Milton Berle.  I do find it interesting that he's heading down the trail blazed by Queen Beatrix rather than showing the lifelong stamina that has characterized his predecessors since the late thirteenth century.  It's probably too much to hope that we'll get something better on the day the white smoke flutters out of that Italian chimney, but let's try.

In the meantime, of all the richness of inappropriate choices, at least today's surprise announcement gives me a reason to remind the world of my single favorite photo of @Pontifex, ever.

A(nother) Call from the Vatican

A few months ago, you may remember, I was startled to notice that in among the usual suspects from all over checking in at the Cafe, there was one visitor from an unexpected source, one at the very heart of Christendom.

Well, it's happened again, yesterday evening:
And to come from such a place of ...colorful... repute as The Lisp! I'm sorry, but I can't quite believe that this surfing of these Blogs-that-dare-not-speak-their-name (actually, we shout them from rooftops) is just a coincidence.

No, I'm really starting to fear that we outré bloggers may have an admirer. I think I'll pass. I don't know about you, but while I don't have a thing against an older man, I really must draw the line at the santa cap. Not to mention the whole unalloyed evil thing, too.

A Call from the Vatican

So I'm using the downtime of sick leave to putter around, as one does, and since I'm currently too dizzy, fevered, and generally gross-feeling to do any actual puttering, I'm doing so digitally - noting, among other things, some things about the visitors to this little corner of the 'Tubes.

Over the past year or so, I'm happy to say, the Café has had drop-ins from dozens of countries, expected and less (hello, Croatia! Bon jour, Senegal!). Yesterday, though, I noted the first that I've seen from That Rather Different Nation State, the Vatican.

I can only hope that my Gentleman Caller (given the place's demographic, I think the gender's a safe bet) is more along the lines of Father Pecs-n-Abs here, or perhaps the kind of cleric that turns up on Fabulon...

Just as much as I hope that it wasn't a moment's attention from the miniscule principality's miniscule principal, that elderly, gilt-tiara'ed, lace-encrusted, Prada-shod Teutonic Orc himself.

Just in case our Mystery Guest returns, I suppose I should mention that, whatever else I may be, I am not Roman Catholic. But I do look pretty spiffy in the right surplice, if I say so myself...

A Homily from the Homely

Well, somebody's just full of the milk of human kindness at Christmas!

I'd love to hear a cogent explanation of just why I should care to hear philosophizing about gender theory from an elderly gentleman whose idea of daywear is gold taffeta with an eyelet underskirt, set off by scarlet pumps and a stole.

Extra! Extra!

I don't know about you, but when I read a headline like this:

Sarkozy's 'third leg'
embarrasses France

My fertile imagination takes me places that lead only to disappointment on finding out that the story is just about a botched Photoshop job and an actual leg:

But at least we get a glimpse of one of Europe's most stylish, alluring, frock-wearing Prada fans. Oh, and Mme. Sarkozy, too.

Unfortunate Fashions

Seen vacationing here in northern Italy, Pope B16 looks relaxed and at ease.

Unfortunately, he also looks like a contestant awaiting her turn on the catwalk for the wedding gown portion of a Gertrude Stein Lookalike Pageant. Well, they have one for Hemingway - why not a little equal time for a far greater writer?

For the Man Who Has Everything...

I suppose it's just my dirty mind, but doesn't Pope Ratz look perhaps just a little too interested in the prezzie he's being given by the very dashing President of the Congo? The mind reels...