Go the F*ck to Sleep (in Heavenly Peace)

I'm having trouble getting into the holiday spirit this year; somehow, this little gem sums up it all up nicely.

Fife and Dame

And now for something completely different...

So This Happened

Three staunch ladies, lunching at the Russian Tea Room. What one would have given to be a fly on the wall...

Miss and Madame

Perhaps it's just that I'm getting a little stir-crazy in this five-star gilded prison, but today I'm feeling literary.  Fortunately, there are not one but two significant moments of which to take note, and they have a certain unlikely symmetry.

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: She Went Wrong

Camp taste identifies with what it is enjoying.

- Susan Sontag, "Notes on Camp"

Miss Dorothy Lamour may well wonder where exactly she went wrong; I would argue that it was when she agreed to appear in Pajama Party in the first place.

Birthday Girl(s): The Thespic Spectrum

Miss Helen Hayes, First Lady of the American Theatre (seen here as HIM Maria Feodorovna, Dowager Empress of Russia) turns a spry 113 today.  That is not in itself remarkable.

File Under "Correspondents, Unlikely"

Consider my mind blown, courtesy of the endlessly fascinating Joan Crawford Best.

(Mrs.) Nixon in China

Forty-one years ago today, Pat Nixon looked at ducks, plucked and otherwise.  At times - and really China was not by a long shot the most surreal passage of her life - she must have wondered how and why things turned out exactly as they had.

I was struck by this picture not just because, well, it's Pat Nixon looking at some very wizened ducks, but because, despite her rather dire coiffure (side curls, Pat?  Really?), that is just about the most chic dress I've ever seen her in.  I wonder what Madame Mao made of it...

When Worlds Collide

Yesterday's birthday girl, Miss Marlene Dietrich, gives what is apparently the bemused glance of death to a really rather touchingly terrified young Miss Barbra Streisand, who has clearly only this very moment realized that being Kicky at a Chanel runway show might be classified by some - Miss Dietrich among them - as Trying Too Hard.

And Now, a Word from Our Sponsor...

Apparently, a winter fairy is melting a snowman.

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: When Worlds Collide

This marvel was filmed in 1966.  At that time, it's quite astonishing to realize, the period between the high point of the Andrews Sisters' career and that of the Supremes right about this appearance was something like half what it is between then and now.  Then, the simple thought of one doing the other's material was inherently hilarious - that was what made it camp, then.  Patty, Maxene, and Laverne are clearly coming off of some sort of Flapper Number and so must have seemed especially antediluvian next to the Ultra-Now Supremes, making the contrast all the more potentially ludicrous. 

From our perspective now, though, it's clear that both do just great with what they're given, and if anything the Supremes' column dresses, wigs, and carefully ladylike demeanor seems just as period as the Andrews' boas and pearls.  Therein, in fact, lies the camp from today's angle: the distance that both groups have from us, and the unexpected success they wring from the setup.  Not to mention the presence of Sammy Davis, Jr., always an en-camping, as it were, presence in almost any setting.

And, to top it all off, we get a truly classic Diane moment at 1:28.  Why no one has ever hauled off and just slapped that woman I will never know.

As always, this one's for St. Flo, here for once right in the middle.

Compare and Contrast

Tea Dance, Queen's Room, Queen Mary 2, June 2012

Tea Dance, The Boatslip, Provincetown, July 2012

Who says travel doesn't broaden the mind?  Here we have two very different incarnations of a venerable institution.  One features the Queen's Room Orchestra playing delicately pizzicato arrangements of "Blame it on the Bossa Nova" and "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square"; the other has DJ MaryAlice (a venerable institution herself, really) pumping out "Turn the Beat Around" and "I'm Every Woman" (I'm waiting for the house arrangement of "Call Me Maybe" - it feels inevitable). 

The clientele may be rather different (and the scones are better on the boat - actually, scones could really raise the tone at the Boatslip), but the intent, really, is more or less the same - to enjoy a fine afternoon with a touch of people watching, a turn or two on the dance floor, and perhaps a sympathique moment or two with an unexpected partner.  On the Queen Mary, of course, that partner is liable to be one of the paid Dance Hosts (and for the very patient older gentleman, that's a gig to explore), while on the deck in Ptown, it's probably a window dresser from Brooklyn, but the similarities are undeniable...

The Odds of March

Well, an odd couple, certainly.  Thirty years ago today, some long-forgotten event threw together (against a startlingly unflattering curtain) two quite unlike pop-culture figures.  It's strange to remember that Bob Dylan was really comparatively presentable, once upon a time; equally so, to think that Dinah Shore could have ever thought that coat was a good idea.

She gives the impression that she's decided that Dylan could help her get over the heartbreak of her jilting by Burt Reynolds.  He looks like he thinks - but isn't entirely sure - that he's just been goosed.

As is so often the case, one question comes inevitably to mind:  what do you suppose they talked about?

Mildred, Fierce

This is the reason that Youtube was invented.  It may be the reason the Internet was summoned up out of Al Gore's mighty brain.  Watch and worship.

[Lifted shamelessly from a new favorite destination, Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner, which I stumbled upon while trying to learn more about the enigmatic and violently talented Miss Sara Carlson, a new sensation over at the Redundant Variety Hour. ]

Kids in America

The past is another country:  one in which Bette Midler and David Bowie share a fondness for ruthlessly bleached poodle cuts; in which Michael Jackson's fashion choices almost make sense; in which Cher can be the least fussily turned out person in any group; and in which that other woman is international song sensation Kim Wilde.

Well, I suppose she still is, but honestly - did you recognize her?  Do you, as Miss Cara once implored, remember her name?

How do you suppose this distinctly eclectic evening turned out?  Based on Cher's expression, I'm not optimistic...

When Worlds Collide

So we're sitting home tonight, Mr. Muscato and I, watching that award-handing-out thingummy that y'all back there in civilization caught last night. Mostly what I'm thinking is, "Hmmm. Not all that interesting, the current crop of WAMPAS Baby Stars, are they?" Also, "What is George Clooney on and where can I get some?"

But they just did the criminally short bit assigned to this year's honorary award winners, and all I could do when presented with the spectacle of Lauren Bacall standing next to Roger Corman, the two of them being ovated by All Hollywood, was imagine what she was thinking: "What the f*** am I doing standing next to this hack, the Putz of Poverty Row? I've survived pictures from To Have and Have Not to Dogville - and he produced Attack of the Giant Leeches."

But he's thinking all "Yeah, whatever, Mrs. Bogie. At least I didn't make The Mirror Has Two Faces."

Radio Boom Boom (Sha La La La La)

Watch this first. I'll explain.

So, as the tumbleweeds rolling around might have clued you in, life has been hectic for the past couple of weeks. Something vaguely resembling a lull, however, may be in sight, and so last night the Mister and I celebrated by retreating to our favorite pub. We normally sit on the terrace, which has great views of our little city and the sea and less smoke, but last night lots of folks were out and about, and so not a table to be had.

We sat inside, in a quietish booth near the bar. Mr. Muscato was actually quite pleased, as it meant he (vy. vy. butch, you know) could watch the big football match (Sultanate vs. Disdained Neighbor). So there we are, in a relatively quiet nook, him looking over my shoulder at the vast screen at one of the room and me... discovering that tucked into the other side of our booth was a mysterious little screen, the size of a computer monitor ten years ago, that for reasons wholly mysterious was showing a succession of Asian pop videos with the sound off.

I was lost. Football fans on all sides raged, our excellent meal came and went, and we were even treated to an especially choice version of one of our favorite bar sights (older and very respectable local man enjoying the company of a lady distinctly not his wife, sister, mother, or daughter, although very likely about the age of the last). My eyes stayed glued to the Silent Mystery Karaoke Screen.

One video especially stood out. Now, I know nothing but nothing about Asian pop; my last flirtation in that regard came two decades ago while I was living in Japan. I came home armed with only three words gleaned from the credits: Seaside, Super, Shinee. And, thanks to YouTubes, here it is. I think that what most enchants me is that both this video and the version in the bar featured handy English subtitles - which appear to be almost entirely different (last night's version featured a great deal of "going down the road of love," which is wholly absent here, for instance).

They do share, however, the deathless refrain that has provided the title above. I think the boys are Korean, they're certainly very energetic, and, unlike I would ever be, they're able to keep a straight face while exclaiming "Take me Take me Enjoy Today!" My current guess is that the song is "Seaside" while the band is Shinee. After watching it three or four times, Seaside Super Shinee is exactly how I feel.

Beauty and the Beast

Seconds before she planned to spring at and devour rising starlet Jane Fonda, Louella Parsons finds her attention distracted, saving us from the prospect of a world without Barbarella.

Mutual Admiration Society

Well, mutual at least in their shared, sincere, and wholehearted admiration of Grace. I'm going to hope this was a backstage, post-concert shot for Tina, 'cause otherwise she's a mess.

Gloria, Janis, and Dick

The bad girl of 1968 meets the bad girl of 1918. The latter outlived the former by a dozen years, which ought to tell you something. Gloria's seventy-odd here, and I'm deeply jealous of her shoulders. Janis appears vaguely to know where she is, but not much more. Dick is in plaid, which may not be a good idea.

This was the kind of thing that we once got to see on television all the time. Now people shout at each about their octuplets and their investments and, for all I know, their octuplets' investments.