What is going on here? No one is rushing the stage. Folks are in their seats. No Zippos in the air. No bra straps showing. Petticoats are full, waists cinched nicely. It’s a remarkable expression of containment and decorum, when you know full well those girls are about to. lose. their. minds.
And there is Elvis, prostrate, barely legal to drink, full of chills that are multiplying and sending electric shocks up the spines of the mostly female audience. I would say he’s all shook up, but that won’t come out till next year, the year he buys Graceland and is drafted into the military.
Fortunately, Elvis lives to tour again and continues the theme of lying down during set lists, even as his age doubles from 21 to 42. Yes, the sideburns and jumpsuits (and karate moves) are new. But some things never change.
I saw this today and thought it looked like a pretty good representation of today’s world, at least in the USA.
You can’t say what you really feel today without threat of cancel culture, and the media shames you if you don’t cowtow to the issue du jour of the social justice warriors, regardless of the idiocy of the demand. Take Henry Winkler, for example. People lost their freaking minds when he posted this a few days ago.
Somehow, in this twisted, brainwashed land where tolerance is demanded but yet everything is offensive, Winkler’s statement was perceived by some idiots as horrifying. Nature is horrifying? Fishing is horrifying? Some vilified him for “traumatizing the fish.” Do these same people vilify fishermen? Is it okay to fish if you’re not a professional fisherman? What are the rules these days? Where do people think FOOD comes from? What about Native Americans? Let’s cancel them. I’m pretty sure they spent all day hunting and fishing. God, what if your grandpa fished? Think about it. What if he didn’t catch and release like Fonzi? Then what? What if he ACTUALLY KILLED IT AND ATE IT? Murderer!
Guess what? You must pay for the sins of your fathers! Take your burnt offering to the wood nymphs and offer reparations for their deeds. Just think, your very lineage, your great-great grandparents who could have simply gone to the General Store and purchased couscous and tofu burgers, chose instead to learn a skill and go fish in nature, where humans have dominion over beasts.
We have a nation of snowflakes, poised to find offense at every turn, and he who screams and cries the loudest with the biggest toddler fit is rewarded by every media outlet in the system. America has lost its might, its reasoning skills, its spine, its balls. For God’s sake, let the man fish. It’s not like he smoked Parmesan cheese or sniffed children.
Oh, Henry, you warm, loving human being. God bless you for enjoying nature and sharing your enthusiasm. Bless you for not looting and rioting and burning cities down like so many others right now. God bless you for not sitting on your ass, collecting unemployment checks while restaurants fold because of lack of servers. God bless you for your smile and your kindness. Let the harsh words of the misinformed fools roll of your back. Fish, Henry. Fish your bippy off.
Mona, that’s all well and good, but before you get to the weight loss secret, please explain why your child appears to be both barefoot and topless in a nationwide ad-VERR-tiz-mint. Surely a Hollywood A-lister such as yourself could spring for a blouse and sandals, unless you spent all your money on Ayds.
Now, see here, we’d usually end this post at this point. But I fear you’ll go Googling Ms. Freeman, and you might wind up at WikiFeet by accident, as I did, a site for freaks who enjoy celebrity feet. So to spare you such heathenism, I’ll share this shot of Mona and Tony Curtis learning sign language on the set of the movie “Flesh and Fury,” wherein Curtis played a deaf-mute prizefighter.
And here she is with Roy and Dale, wearing a belted gingham dress that shows off her Ayds waist.
In this shot, she and Jane Russell talk smack about the peons at Paramount.
And finally, a shot of her with leading man, William Holden, while filming “The Streets of Laredo,” incidentally also the name of a New Zealand folk band.
On the right, we see Charles Umlauf, Professor of Life Drawing and Sculpture, during his first year of teaching at the University of Texas. While you may not be familiar with his name, chances are you have heard of one of his art major students, Farrah Fawcett, who called Umlauf her “favorite professor.” Understandably, she posed for him as a muse, as well as sculpted on her own. Here they are in his studio, during a very stripey 1971.
Below is the bronze bust of a feathery Fawcett, made by Umlauf.
We lunched at Chuy’s today, where I’ve eaten since about 1983. They’re still using their crappy limited quarantine menu, while every single other restaurant around here has been full menu for months. Still, though, I can’t quit them, as their creamy jalapeno dip runs in my veins. And just as in every trip, someone with far deeper pockets than mine has ordered the fajitas. My head cocks quickly as I smell the meat and hear the sizzle from a black skillet passing our table. The fajitas seem to wink at me, as if to suggest today is my day to give in. I sigh longingly. No, fajitas, not today, my friend. But one day. One day, we will be together.
Heavyweight champion Joe Louis (on the left) with his “Chicago set,” Paul Turner, manager Julian Black, William Russel, and bodyguard, Carl Nelson (seated). The spiffiness and swagger was not limited to the men.
Bing Crosby seems an odd name for a choice, no? I think we can all infer the condescending tone of this article, which seems to be patting Joe on the back for his civilized behavior and shall we say, refined, hobbies. Third prize went to his gelding, MacDonald’s Choice.
A silver cup and blue ribbon were presented to Mr. White (Edward White), a Chicago paper dealer, astride his five-gaited saddle horse, Rex Chief.
Among all the assessment was another “ass,” Bulgarian artist Assen Peikov, who was contracted to sculpt the actress’s face for a scene in her upcoming movie, The Barefoot Contessa (not to be confused with the Food Network chef). Wonder who got to keep the bust when the movie ended?
It was June 24th, 1938, and a celebration was in order as pugilist Jack Dempsey, aka The Manassa Mauler, blew out candles for his 43rd birthday, accompanied by his third wife (of four) Hannah and daughter Joan. A year prior, Kyril Petrov Vassilev, a Bulgarian painter of royalty, had moved to the US and befriended Dempsey. He had started this painting only 10 days prior to this shot. As you can see, he worked quickly.
So much is happening here. Desi Arnaz appears to be flashing the peace sign, which is entirely possible for the era, as it was Halloween night of 1968. Here he is strumming his guitar exuberantly for presidential nominee Richard Nixon, at the (get this) headquarters for “Good Latin-American Democrats for Nixon.” I guess that was a thing. Enough Democratic Latinos despised Hubert Humphrey enough that they switched allegiance to support Nixon? Anyway, I love the look of the mariachi man with the sombrero. And while this Desi looks much more haggard and aged than the twin bed Lucy version we grew up with, I do want to point out that his age here is only 51, the same age that Jennifer Aniston is right now.
It’s February 12, 1964, and nobody in New York City cares a farthing that it’s Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. The Beatles have just arrived in NYC, and frenzied Beatlemaniacs across the street from New York’s Plaza Hotel are losing. Their. Minds.