"It's the Story...

...of a tubby lady / Who was bringing up three five very tubby girls..."

And not a blonde among them?  I call shenanigans on the whole lot of them.

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Oh, Lord

In naïve, or pure, Camp, the essential element is seriousness, a seriousness that fails.

- Susan Sontag, "Notes on Camp"

Well here's a curiosity.

Public Service Announcement

Miss Audrey Meadows makes for a charming spokesperson for "friendliness," a concept we can surely all endorse, but when it comes to her look, the words are most definitely "double knit" and "AquaNet."  And she makes it work, right down to the ascot, no?

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Gotta Dance!

"The pure examples of Camp are unintentional; they are dead serious."

- Susan Sontag, "Notes on Camp"

Today's SSCE is a bit of a Redux, as this treasure has for years been one of my very favorite YouTube finds and popped up way back in the Café's earliest days.

It reminds of the early '80s, the glory days of New York Public Access TV, when, any time the possibility arose, my pal Miss Rheba and the rest of us would hightail it up to Manhattan - not (or not only, I suppose) to run around the East Village, try to second-act Broadway shows, and desperately attempt to feel worldly and sophisticated, but to sit around as stoned as our budget allowed, watching the amazing cavalcade of humanity that had taken advantage of a system that, it seemed, allowed anyone with a half-hour to spare and a dream to get on television.

We watched Channel J, of course, the soft-porn outlet that made a (bigger) star of Robin Byrd and featured the creepiest and most terrifying escort and fetishy phone-sex ads imaginable (people d'un certain age who lived through that era will never forget - with a shudder - the phrase "the extra 'E' is for extra peeeee!"  But I digress.  As if that were something new...).  They were certainly something we didn't have in one of your better Philadelphia suburbs.  But it was the other channels that really grabbed us, the ones that featured kooks and cranks and well-meaning souls like the alarmingly enthusiastic lady here.  She is, by the way, apparently one Reverend Alecia, and more than that the Internet does not tell much, although there is a little info about her here.  If you like her style, but think you'd enjoy seeing her moves set to something even more authentically of the era, you might try this.  I have a feeling you won't forget it...

Too, Too Divine

The news from dear JoeMyGod that things have gotten even odder in the world of That Somewhat Different Bishop, Eddie "Muscles" Long, got me thinking. Why I love the Internet is that what I was thinking about was, more or less, this very wallpaper. And therein lies a tale.

The paper, you see, is from a longtime Philadelphia institution that I've only just discovered disappeared seven or eight years ago. It was a place called the Divine Tracy Hotel, a name that only hints at the bizarerie within. The DT, you see, was run by the International Peace Mission, better known locally as the Church of Father and Mother Divine. Theirs is a saga that reads like fiction (think Sinclair Lewis meets Nathanael West), but it was just part of the background weirdness of living in the City of Brotherly Love back then.

The Tracy was, even thirty years ago, more than a shade down at heel, but it had its standards. Actually, it was entirely a creature of its standards, which followed the particular diktats of Father and Mother and ranged from a vegetarian diet (served in the actually rather cosy Keyflower Restaurant) to a strict dress code (no shorts, please!) to a total segregation by sex (men on one floor, women on another, and no mixing allowed). It was way eccentric, but it was cheap and cheerful.

Why, then, the wallpaper revery? Well, you see, once upon a time one was a student 'round about those parts. From time to time it was extremely inconvenient not to have a quiet place uninterrupted by roommates, houseparents, or worse. Where better, then, for a young man of Artistic Tastes to repair with a friend for a quiet evening of, um, studying, than a quiet and almost laughably inexpensive hotel that ruthlessly enforced a single-sex setting? As long as you kept things quiet, the very patient (except with short sleeves and lamb chops) staff (who all had noms d'hôtel, or I suppose du Divine like Sweetness Peaceful and Cheery Faithfulness) were none the wiser. Actually, I have to admit that after the fourth or fifth consecutive weekend I took up residence in one of their $15 doubles (with, I also have to admit, varying study pals), I think Mr. Faithfulness might just have had a clue.

In any case, that's wallpaper I've seen from all sorts of angles, none of them strictly kosher, as it were, by Divine Tracy house rules.

Sadly, the glory days of the International Peace Mission have long ago come and gone. The Tracy is now student apartments, and its grander sister, the Divine Lorraine, lies derelict in North Philadelphia. Amazingly, though, Mother Divine lives on. Here she is, pictured in the Main Line mansion that is now the focus of the movement:

The snap's from a few years ago, but I picture her still there, just a shade more Miss Havishamy, waiting either for the return of Father Divine or for Mr. Faithfulness to bring in her doubtless meat-free dinner.

So in any case, Bishop Eddie may now claim to be a king, but he's still a piker by Father Divine standards - he after all, convinced not a small number of people that he was God incarnate, and got rather a fascinating life out of it. What Mr. Faithfulness and his fellow church members got out of it is less clear, but they all seemed serene enough. Maybe he tries on Mother's stoles when she's not looking...

The wallpaper comes courtesy of Katbert's very festive Flickr photostream.

Birthday Girl: Hallelujah, Baby!

Once upon a time a bored Canadian housewife woke up one morning fired with what she decided was a call from God.

She hopped into her 1912 Packard and took to the road, preaching far and wide and never shy about using whatever means necessary - including the Packard - to draw a crowd.

Within a few years, she had parlayed her Packard and preaching tent into the fastest-growing church in the USA and had herself become one of the most famous women in the world.

She was Aimee Semple McPherson (Semple was husband #1, dead in the mission field; McPherson was #2, left behind when Aimee got behind the wheel of that Packard; still to come was #3 and a few other adventures). She would have been 118 today, had her longevity matched her ambition.

She was the first celebrevangelist, and the 1920s were her decade. She took her Foursquare Gospel on the air, becoming the first woman to hold a radio broadcast license, and she kept it on the road, using her Angelus Temple in Los Angeles as the home base for crusades that went 'round the world and took in millions.

She set the pattern for countless hucksters - I mean preachers - to come, not only in her rise, but in her inevitable descent into scandal.

She survived a mysterious kidnapping in 1926, vanishing off the California coast and turning up a month later in Mexico. She said she'd been held hostage, and that the pristine state of her shoes after a putative 13-hour trek through the desert was a sign of God's grace. Others said they'd seen her in a string of motels and roadhouses with one of her deacons, a married gentleman.

While Aimee managed, more or less, to turn even this to her advantage (she preached for another two decades), the scandal and ridicule marked the end of her media honeymoon.

Dorothy Parker, reviewing her memoirs, called her "Our Lady of the Loudspeaker", saying:

"Well, Aimee Semple McPherson has written a book. And were you to call it a little peach, you would not be so much as scratching its surface. It is the story of her life, and it is called In the Service of the King, which title is perhaps a bit dangerously suggestive of a romantic novel. It may be that this autobiography is set down in sincerity, frankness and simple effort. It may be, too, that the Statue of Liberty is situated in Lake Ontario."

You can read an excellent New Yorker piece by John Updike here, or, if you're feeling craftsy, why not print out these 1922 Aimee paper dolls from Vanity Fair?