Mondo Mononymia: Movita

One of the erstwhile Mrs. Marlon Brandos...

Eternal Glamour

Why settle for a simple headstone? Dalida certainly didn't.

The only thing that could make this more perfect would be to have "Les grilles de ma maison" (my personal Dalida fave) playing in a never-ending loop.

Although I suppose that could be rather wearing for her less-starry neighbors...

Holy Trinity II: The Bankhead Edition

Tallulah Times Three = Triple Trouble. But possibly worth it. Although distinctly not restful.

Happy Dog...

...is Happy. Despite having survived his post-vacation Summer Clipping.

I'd like to think this portrait is rather in the style of the magnificent Baron de Meyer. I'd like to think so, but I know better...

In any case, I give you Koko the Wonder Dog, shorn.

"Wet, She's a Star!" and other Fabulosities

I've just time to note and celebrate the the fact that today marks the birthday of three of the best things that ever happened to bathing suits.

Okay, I know it's a reach, but it's hard to think what else unites these three extraordinary creatures:

An uncharacteristically dry looking Esther Williams, who not only looked good in a one-piece, but designed her own line:

Divine designer Rudi Gernreich, king of the monokini:

And the lovely and talented Miss Connie Stevens, seen here doing her best Lady Bunny impersonation:

Let's wish them all good things as they turn 85, 86 (posthumously), and 126, respectively.

Riding on the Escalator of Life...

...Or rather out of it. Here at the Café, we were sad to hear of the untimely death of Philadelphia New Wave sensation Robert Hazard.

Back when I was a tiny tot (relatively speaking) living near Phillie, my crowd of punk-wannabees, drama-club dropouts, and nascent ne'er-do-wells and I were all very excited, because, my dears, through a friend of a friend, we knew a Hero!*

In those days, you see, he was Robert Hazard and the Heroes, and about as big as you can get in that part of the world, and the Heroes were his band, and we knew one of them. Big stuff.

Time passes, he goes on to write "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" (that alone reason enough for immortality, really). Our Hero friend went on to another, much bigger band and is still going strong.

And as for me - I still think "Hey girl, I'm a personal friend of Gloria Vanderbilt!" one of the great throwaway lines of all time. I'm having a spot of trouble getting videos to post, but you can throw yourself into a nostalgic frenzy over the PatrickNagelische extras lip-synching the Heroes here.

*AND, he was that way! Hard to believe, in this Elton John, Lindsay Lohan kicky kind of world we live in now what a big deal that was, isn't it? For the record, he was the Hero above with the only haircut you'd still be caught dead in today, and, then as i have a feeling now, totally dreamy. Sigh...

Searchin'

Over in his part of the world, dear, sweet, demure Shirley will occasionally consult the oracles and review just how it comes to be that people drop on by - that is, what Google queries lead hapless gawkers into his domain.

There have been some classics ("amywinehouse is a strange cow" being about the cleanest one, not to mention one I can wholeheartedly endorse), but few will ever beat the classic simplicity - not to mention the unspoken, heartbreaking yearning on the part of one who would search for - "fat man ballet".

In any case, he has inspired me to rummage around, now that the Café's been up and running for a couple of months, to discover whence come my own Gentlemen Callers.

It's not pretty.

In fact, I would never have dreamed that there were so many people interested in seeing Marisa Berenson nude, which turns out to be the principal leitmotif of strangers popping by.

Other unexpected angles: "princess haya's diet plan" (girl does look good, but all I did was snark about her husband at Ascot), not to mention "history of the cairo rotary club" (sorry, just mentioned in passing that they meet at the divine Gezira Palace while far more characteristically chatting about a French Empress).

But then there's the one that opens up a whole potential world of Hollywood fetishism:

"Miss Colbert" paddle

I'm just not going there. What did poor Claudette ever do to you?

But I will gleefully lead future searchers utterly astray:

Here she is, boys! Here she is, world! Miss Marisa Berenson! Nude, nude, NUDE!

Yes! It's Schiaparelli's grand-daughter, Cabaret's Marisa Berenson!

Oh, yeah, I know it's a scam. But in that headdress, who cares if she's draped in a little chiffon?

Window Dressing

One of the things I always liked about South Philadelphia was the local habit of treating one's front windows as a showcase, with Virgins, Hummels, bouquets, and in general junk of all kinds providing a kind of preview of each of the narrow rowhouses' inhabitants.

It's a less prevalent custom in Europe, but we were happy to see that some people in Amsterdam were doing their best, as in the owner of this enviable collection:

I'd especially like to know in what context at some point - in the very early 70s, from the look of it - Sony appropriated a toned-down Big Boy for a mascot...

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?

Marriage is a Sacred Institution

Just ask Ernest and Ethel here...

Now tell me true: could two boys possibly do it worse than they?

(Image unrepentantly borrowed from the divinely erudite House Next Door.)

One Name Wonders: Acquanetta

Née: Mildred Davenport

Image du Jour: Sci-Fi for the Rest of Us

This, I think, is what it would have taken, once upon a time, to spur my interest in all things intergalactic.

Darth Miranda: Tico Tico [EXHALE]!

Sadly, it appeared only last week at a Japanese exhibition. And so I'm left with my obsession with 30s melodrama and the real Carmen Miranda.

Somehow, I think I'll live.

Yet Another Miss M.

One does adore Andrea Marcovicci, if only because she has triumphed over an unpromising start (as the lead in a legendary flop, the musical Nefertiti) and an only middling film/tv career to take up the mantle of Miss Mabel Mercer and wear it triumphantly in cabarets around the world.

Nice shoulders, too...

My Nightmare has a First Name...

Expect a trickle of further travel snaps, darlings, as the days go by, if only because August in this Sultanate is dull as the grave. And yes, our little problem of earlier today has seemingly been resolved. Thanks, Omantel!

Herewith, what has to be one of most horrific pieces of commercial promotion I have ever seen. Even worse than most of the serious Amsterdam street art, and that's saying a lot.

Yes, it's a hotdog, preparing himself - like some slave headed for the burial pyre in Olde Sumeria - for his own ingestion.

In what world could someone think that the sight of an anthropomorphic sausage enketchuping himself would encourage random passers-by to think, "Gee! He sure looks ... tasty!" like some latter-day Alferd Packers? It boggles the mind.

That this was located almost smack-dab in the middle of the park between the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum (yeah, we're cultured as well as adorable) somehow makes it only more of an atrocity.

Holy Trinity I

Or is it The Unholy Three? You decide.

Edith Sitwell giving readings, 14 Moscow road;
Osbert giving champagne parties -
Sachie's got a cold...

Home Again, Home Again...

...Jiggity Jig.

My mother used to say that, almost every time we drove into the driveway, although I have no idea why.

But in any case, Mr. Muscato and I are back to our (surprisingly cloudy) Sultanate by the Sea, to an ecstatically happy dog and the unhappy discovery that the something - being a pessimist, I'm blaming our local Internet filter, which seems to have ratcheted up in our absence - is preventing me from posting further photos.

Depriving you, my darlings, of all sorts of richness. Well, where there's a will there's a way, and, one hopes to be back at full force soonest.

Weekend Update: AmsterPride

For the second year running, Mr. Muscato and I have managed to wholly inadvertently* schedule our stopoff in Europe (one of the perks of living la vie expat in the Persian Gulf) at the same time as our destination's gay pride festival. Last year, Paris; this year, Amsterdam.

The first signs of municipal preparation starting appearing Friday morning; at first, I took them for yet more bad Bad Street Art.


By Friday night, the city center was dotted with street parties. We were walking perfectly quietly along the Amstel, turned a corner, and found ourselves in the middle of this:

Which was actually lots of fun. As with such occasions around the world, extremes collided - drag, tourists, and, as here, a little casual hotness:

Saturday morning found us slightly hazy, but game, so we trotted over to a friend of Mr. Muscato's for a divine brunch of vol au vents, salmon sandwiches, and heavenly little pastries from the clever shop around the corner before stationing ourselves canalside for the boat parade.

We found a nice spot and enjoyed the people-watching.

The parade itself was much like those in New York, San Francisco, or elsewhere, with the novelty that the participants were balancing precariously on boats and barges behind boats rather than on teetering floats.

Several local friends grumped that it was All Getting Very Tame, as the public nudity was subdued and the political content minimal.

The overall tone was hot pants, confetti, and a lot more paleness than one generally sees exposed in more southerly climes. I suppose it does rain a lot in Amsterdam.

In the memorable phrase popularized by JoeMyGod, I love my people.

Just before a light rain succeeded the earlier scudding clouds, we were rather entranced by this combined hommage/get well wish to a troubled songbird:

The shower was succeeded by a downpour; we retreated with our companions to the nearest flat, for gin and tonics and a great deal of laughter.

While the street festivals continued and the bars roared, Mr. Muscato and I stole away for a last-night-of-the-journey dinner at a quiet little seafood place behind our hotel. We had mussels and whelks and all kinds of good things, washed down by a cold glass or two of good white. It seemed a good way to say goodbye to a long and lovely trip.

*It really is accidental. I swear. What can i say? Sometimes fortune smiles on the most disorganized of planners.

Birthday Cavalcade

Today's birthdays are a truly mixed lot, although when you get to thinking about them, they do share creativity, a certain élan, and a serious interest in the world around them. They are all, in their own ways, persons of marked qualities.

Qualities that include idealism and skepticism, embodied in Percy Bysshe Shelley...


As well as worldliness and wit, as in Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother (she would have been 108, bless her):

Not to mention charisma and an enormous generosity of spirit, as in the one and only Satch:

Add in selflessness, determination, and infinite courage, as with Raoul Wallenberg:

Perhaps sharing this anniversary bodes well for another birthday boy, 47 today. If all goes well, they are qualities he will need, in bulk.

Not to wax either political or sentimental, let's hope.

Birthday Girl: The Greatest Leading Lady of Them All

Happy 105th to one of filmland's stalwarts, the indispensable Miss Myrna Loy.

She was, in her own way, one of the great stars, but one who was always the top-billed woman, never quite the true lead - Mrs. Nick Charles, not quite Nora by right of primacy in the story.

Still, she was superb.

And she achieved her position only after dozens of pointless films in which she was cast as an Eastern menace, an Oriental houri, or a decorative exotic. Rather a feat for a girl from Radersburg, Montana.

She matured, in the mid 30s, into the fondly remembered Perfect Wife, a foil to William Powell, Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy...

In later life, as stardom waned, she remained lovely, serene, and a smart, funny lady. Her memoir is one of the few truly worth reading for a sense of what it was like to Be There Then.

She was a trouper, doing summer stock, making the rounds of the talk shows, and then emerging from semi-seclusion toward the end to accept an overdue honorary Oscar and to defend the memory of her great friend Joan Crawford (if someone as sensible as Myrna says there's more to Christina's story than Christina lets on, I think we'd all best listen).

The last words she spoke in public, to an audience of tens of millions watching the Academy Awards, were typically reticent, typically gracious: "You've made me very happy; thank you very much."

And fade to black.

Travelogue

As neither of us had spent much time in Olde Amsterdam, Mr. Muscato and I have felt free to be flatout, unapologetic tourists (of which, my goodness, there are a great many in this part of the world).

We have admired churches:

And taken in views of picturesque canals:

We have been struck by how very beautiful even the most random things can be - swans, for example, waiting for bread outside a café window:

Joined by friends who live here, we've gone to the most touristic of joints, the equivalents of Mamma Leone (although we've also had some pretty stunning haute cuisine, so we're not total Philistines).

In the former category, though, this floating Chinese joint has 700 seats, extremely amusing waiters, and startling good Peking duck:

Given how stunning so much of the city is, it's all the more striking that Amsterdam is, at the same time, undeniably the place that Modernism went to die (likely in a bicycle accident - they are a serious local menace).

In short, we are having a marvelous time, regretful only that every passing pleasure brings us that much closer to our return to the infernal heat and August dust of the coast of Arabia.

A realization to which we react by quickly finding another café and having as silly a cocktail as the menu allows.