Friday, August 25, 2017

Birthday Boy: Genius


On a good day, when I knew him, this is how he looked.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Birthday Author: The Fresh Hell Girl


Miss Dorothy Parker was born 124 years ago today.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Leave it to Joan, Joan, Joan


A moment with The Greatest Star, just because.

Saturday, August 19, 2017

A Mimic Life



I think we could all use a break, don't you?

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

"Very Fine People"


Yeah, I know it's a cliché, and I've run it before. But Jesus Christ. The President of the United States, in his golden tower, defending a mob of torch-bearing fascists. To paraphrase Miss Vicki Lester, in a mood that now to me feels strangely familiar: "How do we live out the days?"

And then there's that thudding, nerve-shattering last line: "Still think you can control them?"

Saturday, August 12, 2017

And We Need Them Most Of All



I've been sitting, these last few days, and thinking, hard, about what one could say...

Friday, August 11, 2017

Women of Distinction - and an Aesthetic Opportunity



As another blessed week limps to a close, and in the face of bad news from all over, today more than ever I needed a lift...

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Project Runaway


I don't know about you, but I think that sounds like a perfectly capital idea...

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Redux II: Mother of Exiles


I already reposted this once this year, but it's never too soon to be reminded of what we're really all about. Or at least the country I knew and loved was...

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, 
With conquering limbs astride from land to land; 
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand 
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame 
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name 
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand 
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command 
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. 
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she 
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, 
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, 
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, 
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
- Emma Lazarus