Oh, Kay!

Miss Francis, just because we haven't seen her in a while. Seen here in one of her Pre-Code successes, although, judging from her expression, perhaps she's had a troubling glimpse into her future...

Record Time

Yes, I admit it. I am a gentleman of artistic tastes of a certain age. And, it seems, of a fairly specific demographic.

I have been reflecting on this while spending far too much time today on iTunes, becoming the proud owner (insofar, in this digital age, that one ever actually owns anything) of - and I suspect this won't exactly comes as a surprise - both the new Barbra and the new Madonna. It's only flaunting my age to note that I don't as yet, plan to get the new Whitney, Mariah, or Britney.

How are we ever going to explain, to a wondering future, the thrill of rushing to a record store to get the latest and greatest? I once spent the better part of a day - and a school day, to boot - waiting at Plastic Fantastic outside Philadelphia to bag a brand new Lene Lovich album. Now you just press a few buttons and it all comes rushing down the 'Tubes, in the Deluxe version.

Fun to have, but, in the words of a song that might as well be on Streisand's new collection of standards, The Thrill is Gone.

Star Power

Dalida, matchlessly splendid. Only the veil protects you from immolation by Total Glamour.

Good Night, New York

I ran across this photo the other day, and for no particular reason it took my breath away, bringing on a sudden wave of longing like I haven't had in years.

It's been more than a decade since I've lived there, more than enough time to have grown up and away from my youthful crush on the city and even to have had all it meant to live there mellow into something poised between nostalgia and a half-forgotten dream.

But then you see a picture like that, and it all comes rushing back, fierce and strong, washing away, if only for a moment, Africa and Egypt, sailing up the Nile and driving across Burkina Faso, meeting Mr. M., all the good and bad and really quite amazing that's happened, all of it paling in the memory of walking up Seventh Avenue late some weekend night, mischief afoot and the lights reflected in wet pavement and the gleaming shop windows.

Not to sound grand, but when I get in this mood I think about one of my favorite poems, "Ithaka" by C.P. Cavafy, the great Greek-Egyptian poet of urban melancholy. Like its hero, I think of my city as a goal, and somehow see myself after all again there:

...Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

You can read the whole poem, and, if you care to, learn about the remarkable man who wrote it, here.

I have a lovely life, but right now, to quote a rather less elevated source

New York is where I'd rather stay -
I get allergic smelling hay.*
I just adore a penthouse view;
Dah-ling I love you but give me Park Avenue!

*For which, substitute "sand".

Bein' Good isn't always Easy...

Just ask Dusty. In that outfit, I would think that being good is either impossible or beside the point.

Being fabulous, on the other hand? Inevitable.

Brief Encounter

"Really, Chet? What a coincidence - I'm wearing one, too!"

The Mrses. Grant

Poor dear Cary; such a complicated private life. He started with a luminous star, made immortal by Chaplin but essentially the celluloid version of a One Hit Wonder...

He continued as one of the two non-titled husbands of the World's Richest Girl, Princess Countess Mrs. Princess Sra. Baroness Princess Barbara Woolworth Hutton Mdivani von Haugwitz-Reventlow Grant Trubetskoy Rubirosa von Cramm Doan, seen here by Beaton...

...before moving on to a refreshingly simply named actress.

Who was followed, after a while, by a far less restful successor...

...before rounding things out with a granddaughter substitute.

But through it all, he never looked happier than when he bunked with the cowboy star who also shone in FredandGingerland. There's a lesson for us all there, but I'm too distracted at the thought of Randolph Scott in Barbara Hutton's tiara to think it through...

Lamé Ladies

Our favorite foursome, seen here taking their moniker a little too literally. I think, based on this snap, it's entirely possible that Betty White's hair is actually not able to be styled any differently.

Dream, Girl

In her black lace mantilla and matching collar and cuffs, the heavenly Hedy Lamarr is lost ... in a revery of Fabulon.

(If nothing else, I've always thought the career of La Lamarr proves definitively that Garbo could act; if it all were down to beauty alone, Hedy would have been the greatest star in history...)

That's Mr. Egypt to You

Egypt's leading contender for world recognition in handsomeness pageants, the delectable Mr. Tarek Naguib, is sadly no more immune than his Bollywood counterparts to Questionable Fashion Choices.

This little ensemble raises two questions: how much larger would the wristwatch have to be before it actually affected his balance? And: would the outfit have looked more or less silly with the necktie tied (which brings up one more question: is that shirt actually cut so that it's physically possible to bring the top buttons together?)?

According to pageantcentric blog the beauty mania® (with its arguable tagline "everybody is born beautiful…™" - have they seen the Indonesian Mega Baby?), Tarek may be ditching the Manhunt franchise (still no word on this year's iteration, alas) to make a run at Mr. World. We wish him luck - and better stylists. With the raw material he's got, I think they should opt for a "less is more®™" philosophy, don't you?

A Rainbow Tour for Our Time

Between the UN General Assembly and the gathering of the G20 (oh, yes, I do keep up!), world leaders have been much in the news over the past week, and that, to me, raised one pressing question:

What of Cameroon's glamourous First Lady, Mme. Chantal Biya?

Well, she did indeed participate in some of the UN-related fun. There is, however, good news for Chantalites, and there's bad news.

The bad news, sadly, is that she has not that I've found been captured in all her glory in any of the assemblages of spouses that have taken place of late. But not all hope is lost, for the good news is that her comings and goings have at least been covered, albeit accompanied only with this highly inadequate shot, by her nation's doubtless unbiased, free, transparent, and neutral press.

Yes, thanks to the good work of the scribes at Cameroon Radio Television, we can know that no sooner had the divine Chantal and her essentially irrelevant husband, Paul, arrived at their "suit" at the Waldorf Astoria than "a large crowd of Cameroonians living in the United States of America that has converged to say welcome Mr. President made the atmosphere even more feastive." Due to security concerns, "the crowd staged their displays along the Park Avenue Way, a short distance from the entrance of the hotel."

That would indeed have been a sight to see on Gotham's fabled Park Avenue Way, just one block over from Madison Avenue Lane. Not least because, we learn, "Their songs were pregnant with goodwill messages, some urging the President to run for the next presidential elections due in 2011." What a coincidence, that these New York-based singers should steer so close to Mr. President's own agenda (and that of his exquisitely coiffed spouse)!

I hope she had a chance to get out and about on her own a little, see some of New York, maybe pick up a trinket or two. Imagine shopping at Tiffany - or Century 21, for that matter - and running into Chantal: could anything UN-related be more fabulous?

Pinin' for the Fjords Nile

Now, normally, few people are more immune to the charms of cute-animal videos than I. However, when faced with a parrot getting down to the beat of Egyptian popular-song star Saad el Sagheer, I find myself helpless.

I also found myself, on first viewing, trying to figure out just of whom it was that the manic avian ecdysiast reminded me. And then it hit: he's channeling the legendary Reverend Alecia!

"Adam-12, Adam-12: See the Birthday Boy"

Many happy returns of the day to perennial small-screen leading man Kent McCord, who along with partner in playacted-crime Martin Milner enlivened my childhood Saturday nights. Grandmother Muscato and I rarely missed an episode, and I suspect we both enjoyed it largely because of the eye candy, although it's not something we discussed (ditto on our shared fondness for Lyle Waggoner).

Adam-12 may have been McCord's career highlight, but he's gone to be a leader in the Screen Actors Guild and quite steadily employed, still not hard to look at in his late 60s and generally apparently an okay guy. Grandmother Muscato always did have good taste...

Niche Marketing

I'm going to guess that if you're living in, say, Omaha, this is likely not an ad that will appear when you're leafing through YouTube looking for amusing early talkie musical numbers. Here, it's a staple, along with various ads for Arabic music-video channels or Islamic televangelists (yes, they do exist, and yes, they're pretty much as annoying as, say, Rex Humbard or Mother Angelica, even if they don't rise to the heights of Jimmy Swaggart or legendarily flatulent Robert Tilton).

But even this doesn't seem as random as the lengthy listings in several local publications in which members of the NRI (non-resident, i.e. expatriate, Indian) community advertise their matrimonial intentions. It takes a while to get used to the idea of someone listing themselves as the "Christian Kerala boy, 37, clean and well-employed" looking for a bride, or for that matter the parents of "Educated Mumbai-origin girl, 28, MBA and own visa" hoping for the best by looking to a free pennysaver for their daughter's future.

But is it any odder, I suppose, in the end than Manhunt?

Honey, We're Home!

Well, our Eid mini-break was a smashing success, interrupted by moments of trauma and ending up with a domestic disaster.

Good stuff first: a lovely trip, really, visiting both the usual destination for depravity in these parts, Dubai, and several of its satellite emirates (one, Abu Dhabi, is actually the center off which the others, even Dubai - especially Dubai, these days - depend, but don't tell Dubai that). We lazed poolside at our favorite hotel and were pummelled into submission by large, stern Indian masseurs. We ate and, yes, drank immoderately. We shopped, we caught up on the local gossip (the general opinion: the bottom, although perhaps not yet here, may be in sight, although it's still dispiriting to see all the half-finished towers languishing), and in general we enjoyed life on a slightly larger scale than is generally possible in our own little Sultanate.

We also got lost, a lot, for signage is not always this region's long suit, especially given how frequently, up in the Emirates, construction has gone on well ahead of common sense, meaning that you will realize just as an exit ramp fades into the rear-view that the sign really meant... all very boring. On the other hand, we certainly did see parts of the various statelets that we would have missed by going direct from points A to B.

And let's not even talk about the traffic. Mr. Muscato and I agreed that one of the less salubrious developments over our time in this part of the world is that the Sultanate's drivers have in that time managed to catch up with and even exceed their neighbors in sheer badness of driving, with the local specialities - extreme tailgating and signal-free lane weaving - adding a very special frisson to the travel experience.

It's as if driving offered the normally congenitally mild-mannered and intricately polite local citizen an irresistably enticing outlet for aggression and rudeness, one which they seize with highly uncharacteristic gusto. When you're surrounded with worse drivers than those in Cairo or Dubai, you know you're facing some of the world's most challenging roads. Sadly, the local fatality statistics reflect the situation all too accurately, and I'm starting to be surprised that the Powers What Be, normally so concerned with maintaining the image of pristine perfection in regard to all things local, haven't taken more vigorous steps.

Our homecoming, alas, was not quite the idyll promised above by the euphoniously enamed Cyril Ornadel and his terribly formal-sounding Westminster Orchestra of London (which also seems vaguely redundant - one wouldn't expect, after all, a Westminster Orchestra of Bucharest, would one?). No, indeed; we instead were faced with a distraught Ermilia and tales of a broken pipe and an inundation that wreaked havoc upstairs, including completely flooding our cosy parlor.

The combination of the climate and the concrete construction used to create the Villa Muscato (and all its neighbors, for that matter) pretty much guarantees a slow drying-out and the possibility of vicious molds, but fortunately Ermilia is extremely resourceful and had already marshalled a platoon of plumbers, cleaners, and other necessities, likely minimizing the longer-term difficulties. As it is, we may be in the catbird-seat position of at last persuading the landlord to remove several rooms of regrettable wall-to-wall and possibly even a full bathroom makeover. We shall see.

The dog, of course, was quite delighted by the chaos and the chance, disgusting creature, to roll around on sodden rugs. It could all have been a great deal worse, but as it is we've lost a stack of books (don't you keep some handy in the bathroom?), will have distinctive strips of lost finish around the feet of various pieces of furniture, and will have to make unaccustomed use of our mostly-for-company downstairs drawing room until we regain possession of the flood zone. Bother.

But we've resolved not to let all that interrupt our enjoyment of our last day of Eid holiday, instead working to maintain our mini-break-induced zenlike calm so as to be ready for what promises to be a busy few months. Tomorrow it's back to the grindstone, and I for one don't plan to let a little extra water here and there distract me from a last day of lounging, reading, and a little something cooling. Just like Mr. Ornadel's be-peignoired pal up there, in fact.

Road Trip

Yes, it's true. Ermilia has been busy stuffing my best toilettes with tissue, the bags are out, and we've laid on the lap rugs and picnic hampers. While the Muscato Mobile may not be quite on the order of this lovely 1939 Delage Chaperon roadster, we are nonetheless off for a few days of motoring in the region, or at least of motoring interrupted with large doses of luxurious lethargy, the occasional bout of gluttony, and, one hopes, lashings of Champagne or what passes for it in these parts.

If the techno-gods allow, there might be a little checking in from parts yet more exotic, but if not, I trust you all to behave yourselves. Au reservoir!

Of Holidays, Pancakes, and Pronunciation

Hereabouts we have just launched into celebrating the Eid al-Fitr, the festival the marks the end of Ramadan. It's a good time for all, with (more) feasting, a return to daytime eating and drinking, and generally lots of going out, hanging out, and (respectable) carrying on.

To an English speaker, it's a bit of a challenge, pronunciation-wise. "Eid" is clear enough, with foreigners getting away with "eed" even though the "ei" actually stands in for the dreaded "ain", a letter the sound of which has no direct English parallel and which in the wrong hands can sound like a cat having its neck wrung ("ain" is responsible for much of the off-key nasal harshness that pops up with some Arabic speakers). "Fitr" is more troublesome, as there is, ideally, no vowel sound at all between the last two letters.

Thanks to a cranky and difficult colleague of days gone by, Mr. Muscato and I tend to giggle inappropriately when friends try to use the holiday's full name. This gentleman was the kind who makes one wonder why Americans ever think of venturing overseas: pompous, condescending, and extremely thick, all at once. He felt it necessary, one year, to gather the full staff of many nations together at our place of work to give us a little greeting before, grudgingly, sending us off on the long Eid break.

Throughout his turgid remarks, he might have wondered why they were being greeted with muffled coughing, muttering, and finally outright giggling. Fortunately (or not) he considered all of us, of whatever nationality, as at best The Staff and at worst The Natives, and simply went away, leaving the rest of us to fall about at his having, over and over, talked about the "Aid el Fateer" - turning the coming few days from "the feast at the end of fasting" to "the feast of pancakes," which in Arabic - trust me - is far funnier than the nearest English equivalent, which I suppose would be nattering on about "Christ's mask" or something like that.

But, in any case, we've, in the words of Ms Ciccone-Penn-Ritchey, made it through-oo-oo, and our little Sultanate is more or less closing down for the holiday's duration - the papers stop printing, offices are abandoned, and only the nightlife starts to gear up, preparing for another busy season. And we get to eat breakfast when the good lord meant us to, in the morning, noonish at the latest, and not at six-something in the evening.

For those celebrating, a happy and blessed Eid!

Pleasant and Effective

I have to believe that even the hardiest of late-Victorian marketers must have quailed at the prospect of having to peddle this to an unsuspecting public. What can you say? "Now in Fig - Only Half as Disgusting as Sarsaparilla!"?

News Flash

"Well, it mustn't get around, but... it's all true. Stephen Haines is stepping out on Mary. Her mother told me. Yes, that's right - the one with the strange ideas about swastikas..."

When it Comes to Happiness...

I don't care; this is the kind of thing in the face of which I'm perfectly helpless. As so often, though, if you pay too much attention, it grows deeper and, inevitably, darker. Happy go lucky? Sometimes. Her own superintendent? Rarely, and least of all here, a star on the ascendent. And there's the way that the choreography - and Judy is too rarely praised for her gift for motion, if not, strictly speaking, for dance - seems just barely to be reining her in.

And that happiness? She didn't, at least consistently, have her share; but how much more she gave, and gives.