The Fickle Finger...

So I'm still, mostly, stuck at home, and with the time not spent entertaining Rick the Physical Therapist, exercising to "Pee-Wee's Playhouse" (my current routine being conveniently the length of one episode), or catching up on old movies and new TV, I'm spending far too much time on the Interwebs.  It's got me thinking.

Shameless Sunday Camp Explosion: A Happy Song

Sometimes the depth of what I don't know really startles me.  How, for example, could I never have heard of Folies Bergère de Paris, a nifty little confection from 1935 that ends with this remarkable number?

Portrait Gallery: The First Mr. Streisand

For no particularly good reason other than I must be on the mend, as eye candy is once again appealing, Mr. Elliott Gould, once upon a time.  I don't know about you, but I'm intrigued; say what you will, Babs has good taste in more than just music...

Prohibition in Curls

It's her birthday, making her - depending on what source one prefers - anything from 111 to 107.

Sprung

I'm just going to let dear Miss Durbin (looking uncharacteristically sultry - she is rocking that Vera West gown) sing us into the new season.  Which started, this morning, with snow.  Bother.

A Fond Return

Bonus points to the clever Gentle Readers who know for 

what poem this charming illo was originally intended...

So it seems I'm getting better.  I won't say it's all been roses, but from the beginning one is told over and over again that every day brings a little improvement, and on the whole that's proving true.  The mental and physical fog that follows the sort of things I've been through is lifting, and my convalescence, as of this week, is heading in new directions.