The Murder Of Sam Poss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                    Talk about "tale as old as time."  Sam Poss' murder was in the classic vein of Leopold and Loeb, "Heavenly Creatures," Missy Avila, Shanda Sharer, and the classic 'SVU' episode, "Mean," back in 2004.   The only thing standing out here was that all involved were boys.  Yes, Leopold and Loeb may have set the barre, back in the Twenties, but in most cases, the victims and perpetrators of these teen types of killings involve girls, not boys.

                                      Nevertheless, two sick boys, Dakota White, and Brandon Warren, one of whom was 18, are down on their luck, and themselves.  They live in Perry, GA, just thirty miles outside of Macon, and went to Perry High School, as did Sam Poss!  These two made a suicide pact--but before doing so, they wanted to experience, for themselves, what it was like to take another's life.  Nice, huh?

                                         They even went about it, like Leopold and Loeb, though they were more like Dumb and Dumber.  They rode about town, spying people on the street, scoping them out as potential victims.  They finally settled on Poss, because he was " a nice guy."

                                            Which he was.  Sam Poss, like these two, may not have been the most popular kid, but he was gifted with computer skills, and would help anyone who asked.  Which is how his murder came about.  On the evening of October 15, 2016, Poss was lured to one of the perps homes, saying computer help was needed.  When Poss arrived, they placed him in the front seat of the car,   driving to White's home.  There, Poss was strangled by White with a wire cord, then placed in the car, and stabbed by Warren with a knife,  He was finally dead.  They placed his body in an undisclosed location--undisclosed, until White, testifying against his cohort, led police to Sam's body.  When placed on trial a year later, they were given Life sentences.  They should have been given the same sentence as Sam--death.

                                                Hey, they wanted it, anyway!  Supposedly.  Amazing, isn't it, how the desire to commit suicide vanished, after Sam's killing?   They didn't have the GUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                  As much as suicide upsets me, it would not have bothered me a bit if these two pieces of scum did it, anyway.   Maybe, just maybe, Sam's presence, and their deed, will haunt them for Life, until the cross over, and maybe Sam gets his turn to confront them!

                                                     Justice For Sam, everyone!  Another sweet kid, destroyed by punks too soon before his time.

                                                      He could have accomplished a  lot.  Unlike these other two!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                      Sickos!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                 Rest In Peace, Sam!  May his family find some peace and comfort!

Oh, No Reese!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You Picked A Loser!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                               Really, girls, I have never been as disappointed with a Reese selection as I have with "Next Year In Havana."  If Reese keeps choosing more like this, I will have to switch over to Jenna!   And I am NOT a Republican.

                                                 The problem with the book is that the writing is not very good.  Based somewhat on her Cuban origins, Chanel Cleeton has chosen to write a past and present story of alternating generations--a grandmother and granddaughter--who make the same journey, some of the same choices, and are similarly impassioned about Cuba.

                                                    The novel starts off with the granddaughter, Marisol Perez, carrying the cremains of her deceased grandmother, Elisa, who wishes to have her ashes placed somewhere in Cuba.  The stories of both women are told, the cuisine and romantic atmosphere of the Cuba of the past is captured somewhat, only not well enough to hold the reader's interest.  This should have been a far more engrossing book than it turns out to be, and I suspect, in the hands of a more seasoned writer, it could have been.  Instead, the writing style of Cleeson never rises above the level of chick lit at its worst.

                                                    She is better with character than narration and style, which is why I finished the book; I cared enough about Marisol and Elisa to discover their outcomes.  Understand, I had invested some time in this, so I was not about to stop.  Anyone not having read this book, or curious to, should look at this post; it could save on a lot of trouble.

                                                        I will not be rereading Cleeson again.  She is not worthy of my investment of time.  I did give her a chance.

                                                          And Reese, I will give you another chance, but stay away from crap, like this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Guess What, Girls? Two New Readers To Welcome!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

                                                I was all set to welcome one, when I saw, last evening, the follower indicator was at 111.  This morning, it is at 112, and  we have two new readers to welcome.

                                                I have no idea who they are, though one uses a cat as a symbol, so maybe my Nicholas posts helped he/she to find the way here.  In any case, welcome to you both, and  I hope you find information and entertainment on here.  And if you wish to comment, please feel free, to, anytime.  If anything I write makes you laugh, or helps make the pandemic easier, I am all the more glad.

                                                  So, a warm welcome, one and all, to our newest readers!  And remember, this blog goes great, with coffee!

    

                                       As always, we welcome new readers with this blog's unofficial theme song--  "Call Me!," by Deborah Harry!

                                        Enjoy, everyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Get A Load Of This Tramp Bitch, Darlings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                    This is Betty Lou Beets, darlings, and she does look like a real tramp!  She became the second woman to be executed in the state of Texas, after the death penalty was reinstated.  That took place on February 4, 2000, at 6:18 PM.  She was 62, upon her time of death.

                                       Interestingly, Betty had led a life of crime, including public lewdness.  In younger years, she was what men of the 1950s might have called "a spicy tomato."  But she was far from fresh off the vine.  She had six husbands, and the same number of children; at least one of them, a daughter, was abused, and coerced by her into helping her cover up her crimes.

                                         The crime that led to her eventual death was the murder of her husband, Jimmy Don Beets, on August 6, 1983.  The weapon  was a .38 handgun.

                                         Betty Lou never was one for hanging on to husbands; she would eventually tire of them, and move on to the next.  Why she only killed Beets is unfathomable, because, had she not been caught, I think Betty would have evolved into a serial husband killer.  Life insurance money--the old standby--was seen as one motive for the killing of Beets.

                                            She was some nasty piece of work, and it shows in her face.  She deserved losing whatever sex appeal she had, and she deserved the death penalty.

                                             Not for nothing is the female considered the deadliest of the species.

Some Days, I Feel Like Alice, And Just Want To Go Down The Rabbit Hole!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                              Summer has come and gone, darlings.  Fall arrived yesterday --as I was taught, the seasons change on the 21st of their respective months--March, June, September, and December--so Proserpina has gone back to Hell, for the next six months, and today, as stated is the tenth anniversary of Tyler Clementi's tragic demise.

                                               Not to mention the health issues David and I are dealing with, the pandemic, the questionable outcome of this election and what said outcome means for the next four years.  Is it any wonder I often, like Alice, want to just disappear down the rabbit hole?

                                                 I often feel navigating Wonderland might be easier than navigating our world today!

                                                  And I would love to attend the Mad Tea Party!

Ten Years Ago, Tonight...............!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                               Yes, darlings, that is Tyler Clementi, as he was, and shall remain.  Were he alive today, I bet he would have been on the forefront of research into fighting this pandemic.  But who even thought we would be dealing with one, ten years ago?

                                                 I always wonder about tragic locales on their anniversaries.  At 8:50 PM, will a group gather before the George Washington Bridge, in memory?  Will Tyler's ghost be walking back and forth?  I wonder.

                                                  Ten years ago this evening, Tyler committed an irrevocable act, by jumping off that bridge.  Said act, however, set into motion, national conversations and laws in place to deal with the consequences of all kinds.  While there are still kids bullied out there, the name of Tyler Clementi, like Etan Patz, with missing children, has become code.

                                                    What a tragedy for his family, and the loss of contributions he might have made to this world.  It is hard to fathom it has been ten years already.

                                                        As long as I keep writing this blog, he shall never be forgotten!

Here Is The Latest In My Series Of Crazy Dreams!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       Theater queens of a certain age, like myself, can never forget Priscilla Lopez as Diana Morales in "A Chorus Line," and her song, "Nothing."  As should be no surprise to anyone who has heard that song, everyone in life, at one time or another, encounters a Mr. Karp.  Sometimes several.  This dream I had recently pointed out some of the ones I remember.

                                         The dream was a school dream, which, as David informs me, is a common source of dream anxiety.  In my dream, I was in a classroom, taught by a non-descript, but imposing looking woman.  The subject was Social Studies, and she handed us out a work sheet, which was some kind of research assignment we were to complete at home.  I looked it over, and, while I was a good researcher--and was it real life; hell, it was part of my profession--the questions and references were incomprehensible to me.  Today, I would question all this, saying, "But you never taught us any of this!"  In the dream, I was back to the child I was, who never dared question a teacher on anything, though now I wish I had.  Hence, these type of dreams.

                                             Oh, and by the way, Social Studies, or History, was always one of my best subjects!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                            The scene then changed to another classroom.  Same woman, but a different subject--Math.  Almost the same scenario; the teacher says to do, for homework, the problems on pages 63 and 64, in our textbook.  Fine, except when I looked at the pages, I realized the concepts and ideas needed to solve the problems had not been taught to us.  It was like, literally, throwing the book at us, and leaving us to fend for ourselves.

                                              Which is how I felt about the Mr. Karps of my day, in junior high and high school.  Two taught Math, and one taught Science.  Eighth grade was the worst year of my life, to date, because of all the bullying I was subjected to, which paled in comparison to being subjected, each day, to Messrs.  Robert Barber, and John Frankowsky.  Wherever they be, now, my sentiments to them are exactly the same as Diana Morales, at the end of "Nothing."  Mr. Barber taught Math--or did he?  He never was able to get through to me, and, while I can now accept that I was just not wired for  Math, or anything associated with it, as a career option,  Mr. Barber, looking back did not especially teach well.  He always look disheveled, his jacket covered with chalk, and his voice droned on, and his attitude came across as one who was tired of the teaching profession.  I got the impression he just did not care, even when I went to him for help.  The thing was, I was pissed that year, for not having been chosen to take Algebra in the Eighth Grade--until I found out that Mr. Barber was the one who taught, and several of the very bright kids I knew who did take it that year, had to repeat it in Ninth Grade.  And so I realized it was not just me--it was Mr. Barber.  Up to then, I had always done well in Math, though it was never my favorite subject.  But, perhaps because of my parents, or a desire to make good money, I then had this now very abstract idea I would go into some area of Math or the sciences.  Not so.  However, Mr. Barber destroyed any ounce of interest I had in the subject.  The irony of it all is that, when I took the PSAT's, I did better on  the Math than the Verbal Section.  I actually cried.  And, then, when I took Geometry, I aced that.  Go figure.

                                                  Jumping ahead a bit, I suffered a similar outcome under Mr. Sprout, who at the time, was Chairman of the high school Math Department, and whom I had for Trigonometry.  He actually taught, or did not, the first marking period, throwing the book at us, and telling us to do it ourselves.  Either it did not work, or so many of us complained to our parents, because, after our parents went to Back To School night, getting a taste of what we were exposed to each day, Mr. Sprout announced he was abandoning this approach, and going back to traditional teaching.  He tried his best, but I got the impression he was bored, too, like Mr. Barber.  He had been at the school since 1958, when my sister graduated, and before that.  I did fine in  Trig, until we got to logarithms, I was lost.  I had several help sessions with him, but they never took.  Again, I don't think I was wired for this, and was unable to accept that, back then, but Mr. Sprout's teaching did not help, either.

                                                     One thing I will say for Barber and Sprout.  They both realized I was trying my hardest, and I think they noticed I was at least making an effort, so I squeaked through their classes I felt I would have done better in, with different teachers, a smaller class, or a different approach.  The following year, after my poor performance in eighth grade, I took something called Pre-Algebra, which was Algebra I, over two years.  I had Mrs. Eden, a real character, nice lady, and did very well.  She seemed to enjoy teaching; even while reprimanding students.

                                                       Mr. Frankowsky was more insidious.  Well groomed, and polished, he would play nice, then hand back work to me that said, "Do this assignment again!"  He never seemed to grasp that I was making an effort, and it was from him I got the ONLY Deficiency Slip I have ever received in my life.  He wasn't bored, or boring; just felt that if everyone else could get it, why couldn't I?  But, then, I never questioned my classmates on this--I wouldn't have dared, then!--so who knows; maybe I was not the only one.  

                                                        All that said, part of it was my fault.  I suffered the sin of Pride.   Mr. Frankowsky threw me out a lifeline, when he got one of my classmates, Jonathan Weinstein, to tutor me during some study periods.  I quit after a couple of sessions, not because of Jonathan, who was great, but because of my embarrassment.  I last saw Jonathan at our 25th Reunion, and never got a chance to thank him, so, Jonathan, if you are still out there, thank you very much, and not continuing with you has been one of my past regrets.

                                                       At the same time, my mother, through a friendship with the mother of a student in my class, Barbara Hellwig, said Barbara would offer to work with me.  I turned down this opportunity, again out of Pride.  To Barbara, who I know is out there, I offer a belated thanks, and regret for the opportunity extended.

                                                      However, it was not Jonathan or Barbara who were teaching these classes.  They were with me in the the Eight Grade classes, but not with Mr. Sprout.  I am sure I could have come to them, but my pride stood in the way.  And they were not being paid to teach me; these men were.   And that I aced Geometry and Math on the PSAT indicated I had some inherent potential.

                                                        Alas, these teachers did....."Nothing."

                                                        Hence, my dream.  Perhaps more induced by the thought of

more cardiac procedures.

                                                          

                                                            "Six months later, I heard that Karp had died.                                                                                                     And I dug right down to the bottom of my soul,                                                                                        And cried.                                                                                                                                                           "Cause I felt....'Nothing.' "

                                                        I get it, Priscilla!  Boy, do I get it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                

Take A Sad Look, Girls!!!!!!!!!!!! This Is The Last Time You Will See This!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                               

                                          I can tell all of you now, with certainty, that "Beetlejuice" is not coming back to Broadway.  Here is how I found out.

                                           This past Thursday, I had an appointment with my PCP at NYU Langone, on West 52nd Street.  Taking the same route, as always, I rode from 77th Street, in Brooklyn, to 49th Street in Manhattan, all the way on the R train.  I crossed over and walked up Broadway.  As I stood across from the Winter Garden Theatre--my favorite--I noticed techies dismantling the side marquee of "Beetlejuice," and in place of the sign above the theatre had been put an ad for Hugh Jackman and Sutton Foster, in the upcoming revival of "The Music Man."  Only, there was no indication of when performances would start, or even if they would.  So, what is the point?

                                              One of the techies looked at me, and I told him this was the first time I had witnessed a dismantling like this.  He smiled back; he understood my sadness.

                                                 So, farewell to "Beetlejuice."

                                                 But what does that bode for how many of the remaining shows on Broadway? And how many of those will actually remain????????????

                                              Are the witches from "Macbeth" casting an evil pall over our country?

                                             It sure seems like it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I Have News For You, Dolls! The She Demons Are Democrats, Too!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                     Here they are, marching off to vote in the November, 2020 Election.  They have to get a head start, see, because they are stuck on this remote island with a mad Nazi scientist.  But they are now concerned with what America may be stuck with.

                                       While many of us mourn the loss of Ruth Bader Ginsberg, those who drink the Trump Kool-Aid are doing the Dance Of The Devil, for joy!  Shame on them!  Those who would dare to do so should be thrown into the cage with the She Demons, and have themselves torn apart by them.

                                            And look how fashionably dressed they are to vote.  Follow their example, girls, and get out there and vote for the right choice, as I know they will.

                                               Do not let Ginsberg's passing be for nothing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Fine Fictional Debut!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                              This tale of three generations of American Indian women--Granny, Lula, Justine, and Reny--in the Oklahoma panhandle, and Texas, where Justine and Reny move to for a time, is so beautifully written and moving in its depiction of both characters and landscape, that I forget, until halfway through, that Kelli Jo Ford was falling on the old tried technique of the novel as a series of short stories interconnected.  This is one of the riskiest things for a writer to pull off, but I am happy to report Miss Ford does have the skill, and pulls it off superbly.

                                                 She even works a sort of female "Brokeback Mountain" into the proceedings, telling the tragic story of two women, Marni and Stevie, who come to Texas to live, because Stevie liked the wide open spaces.  Anyone who cried over 'Brokeback,' will shed tears over Marni and Stevie.

                                                    Ford's prose style has a lyrical style that puts me in mind of Sherman Alexie.  I hope more is heard from her, as this was one of the more satisfying pieces of fiction I have read recently.

                                                       The American Indian experience can always use a new voice, and Ford offers one.  Less vitriolic than "There, There," it offers beauty and hope amidst the heartbreak.

                                                         Read this one, girls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Can You Believe This Was Not Nominated For The Man Booker Prize, Girls????????????????????????????????????????

                                        This is the final volume in Mantel's Cromwell Trilogy, which began with "Wolf Hall."  Both that and "Bring Up The Bodies," which followed, were nominated for the Booker--and won.  Many, including myself, thought Manel would pull a triple play with this one.

                                            Alas, she did not, and I fear I know why.  Panoramic and all encompassing, the epic scope of "The Mirror And The Light" is almost too much of a good thing.  At 700+ pages, it  is like binging of DVD's of every movie made about Henry VIII, as well as "A Man For All Seasons," and "Anne Of The Thousand Days."

                                               There are peaks and valleys throughout the novel.  The peaks involve the political intrigue, between Henry and his queens, and the Machiavellian tactics of Cromwell.  But there are too many minor characters and details in this mixture.  One involves a cook who sticks his finger up a handmaiden's "quim," and then stirs what is in his pot with said finger!  Forget ouch, this is just plain disgusting, and what does it add to the novel?  Nothing!

                                                  I like how the novel opens and closes with a beheading.  It starts with that of Anne Boleyn, and ends with Cromwell.  As long as the political intrigue and dialogue is engaging the reader, "The Mirror And The Light" is breathless, engrossing, and hard to tear oneself away from.  But then Mantel goes off on too many non sequitur tangents that detract from the power of the overall story.

                                                       The end result is a fitting, but flawed, closing to a trilogy many readers have been waiting for the conclusion to.  It is sad to see it is a bit of a disappointment, as I had great hope when I picked it up.

                                                         Nevertheless, if you have read the trilogy, then "The Mirror And The Light" is a necessity.  If one has not, then start with "Wolf Hall," which is the best, by far.

                                                           The rest is up to you, darlings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Darlings, We Are Screwed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       Sadly, the night before Ruth Bader Ginsberg died, David and I were discussing her, over dinner.  I maintained she would not leave this world, until the final results of this November presidential election were in.  I was counting on it.

                                          Alas, she left this world, yesterday, at the age of 87.  Her bouts with cancer were chronicled, and while she bounced back, it was said pancreatic cancer took her, in the end.

                                            But I know different.

                                            She was killed by the Trump Administration.  Just like Queen Elizabeth killed Princess Diana!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                              The sadness of Ginsberg's passing is not just the hole it leaves in SCOTUS, or the example she set for women and other aspiring lawyers with her dedication and professionalism,  not to mention graciousness and class, but what it means now, for the country!

                                               Face it , dears!  We are screwed!  Forget Joe Biden.  Because of Ginsberg's passing, which even she could not control, we will get four more years of Dump Trump!

                                                Not to mention some potential nightmare scenarios, involving SCOTUS.

                                                Like Condoleezza Rice!  Who would have a Steinway Grand hauled next to her desk, while she shines her pearly whites, playing tunes of hope, while she whittles away at the low income, disenfranchised, and stirring up the trouble her Boss Man would command, because you know she would obey him, darlings!

                                                Even more repulsive is the thought of  William P. Barr. But, then he is too busy being Trump's Personal Ass Wipe.    Literally.  He humbly, like a good sycophant, gets down on his knees, and wipes Trump's ass, each time he goes to the bathroom, which is a lot.  Imagine, the so-called Leader Of The Free World being on a fast food diet, and having to wear Depends!  The first President to do so!  Biden also has to change those and keep the Donald from tossing them off as he runs down the hall, so fecal matter does not get all over the White House.

                                                    Poor Ruthie has left us in a real mess!  But don't blame her.  Blame its causes.

                                                     Already Mitch McConnell is calling for one of his own, before the November election.  I am calling for McConnell's removal.

                                                       Oh, and as for Brett Kavanaugh, well he is going no further.  After all, he has what is known as "the Irish Curse."  

                                                        Not much there, huh Brett????????????????

                            

                                                   Will we be forced to flee the USA, after November 3?

                                                    If so, I want to look as good as Heather Menzies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                              

Meet My Friend, Nicholas!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                     Actually, girls, you have met Nicholas in other posts, where I have referenced him, and posted this same pic.  But I wanted to give him a posting of his own, because he deserves one, as he is not just my friend, but a caregiver.

                                      Nicholas always appreciates a pet and a scratch from me.  He looks up, sees it is I, and settles back down.  But, he always raises his chin, because he likes me to scratch underneath it.  From what I have been told, I am the only one Nicholas allows to do this.

                                       During the warmer months, he loves going out in his back yard.  He has all sorts of hiding places, but, when I go out, and call him, he comes out of hiding, to give me love and comfort.

                                        Even more, Nicholas knows I am currently having a rough time, and is concerned about me.  I never realized how much till one Saturday, I was in Apple Tree, alone, and had an episode of dizziness.  I sat down on the green bench, resting my head and arms on one of the chair arms.  Suddenly, I heard some movement from behind, and Nicholas came right up near me, pawing at me, to make sure I was OK.  When I sat up, and told Nicholas I was OK, he stayed with me for several minutes, before going back to his place. I was so touched by this, realizing the special connection Nicholas and I have.  I am so grateful to him, not just for this, but because he always makes me feel better.

                                           So, here is to you, Nicholas!

                                            In Bay Ridge, you are certainly the coolest cat!

A Warning To Randy Rainbow--From One Queen, To Another!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                               Now, girls, I have absolutely nothing against Randy Rainbow.   I actually enjoy his insightful, politically astute and hilariously funny lyric parodies to famous show tunes.  But, especially considering yesterday, I have to issue this warning to Randy--

                                Keep your vocal cords and writing away from "FRANK MILLS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

                                In the first place, you look too much like Pee Wee Herman to sing it.  Second, you haven't the vulnerability and innocence, and no way to convey that.  And lastly, while your voice is fine enough, it is not good enough for that song.

                               I know you have sense enough to avoid "Over The Rainbow."  That almost goes without saying.

                                But "Frank Mills" belongs to Shelley Plimpton, Allison Case, and myself!

                                Avoid it at all costs, or I will make you Bitch Of The Week!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                               Because, honey, I am the Sylvia Fowler of my generation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                 

                               

Oh, My God!!!!!!!!!!! "Night Of The Lepus!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

                                     Last night, I was sitting in my reading chair, absorbed in Hilary Mantel's conclusion to her trilogy, "The Mirror And The Light," when David shouted from the bedroom, "Hey, you know what is on?  'Night Of The Lepus' !!!!!!!!!!!"

                                      This was the 1972 trash classic, with a cast including Stuart Whitman, Rory Calhoun, DeForest Kelley, Paul Fix, and, in her final film appearance, Janet Leigh!  To think, she was Oscar nominated for "Psycho," just twelve years before, and now this!

                                       I have only seen this film, pardon the pun, in bits and pieces.  The scene where the rabbit paw breaks through a wall to menace someone is so fake, you can see it is a hand on a human!  The exterior shots of the giant rabbits are simply trained ones photographed against micro slides and miniatures.  The plot is actually "THEM!," minus the tension, terrifyingly realistic giant ants, and the brilliant acting performance given by little Sandy Dresher.  No one in this entire film approaches the brilliance of her 30 second performance.

                                      Now, I only saw the ending.  Watching these cute little bunny rabbits being killed was offensive to my love of animals.  The last shot is of two people running through a crop of greens, where a rabbit lies in hiding.  Will it be another Lepus?  Heh!  Heh! Heh!  This moment should have been more detailed--like the camera zooming in on the bunny, who bears its sharp, blood spattered teeth, or another scene altogether, where a little girl receives a pretty Easter basket with a rabbit inside, who gnashes its monstrous teeth at her.

                                         Nor is it explained, at least from what I could see, how the rabbits mutated to their giant size.  In "THEM" it was atomic testing in the dessert, but, in this film, shot in Arizona, it is anyone's guess; giant rabbits just turn up!  Another good reason NOT to visit Arizona!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                          Someday, I hope to see this entire trash classic.  But the poor little bunnies are so cute, it is a shame when they are killed.

                                            And, couldn't they have worked in Grace Slick's signature song, "White Rabbit" into this?

                                           Forget about getting the rights.  Doing so would have required too much wit and imagination!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                       

                                             "Hopping down the bunny trail," darlings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Sad Farewell To Dame Diana Rigg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                  When "Bye, Bye, Birdie" hit the screen in 1963, with Ann-Margret seeming to come right at the audience, there was no better hip twitcher, at the time, then she.  But when "The Avengers" made its American television debut, with Diana Rigg as Emma Peel, all that changed.  Ann went on to a glorious career, but Diana was the one we all stood in front of the television with, and twitched our hips.  I know I did, and I wanted to look like Diana Rigg, then; I mean, who didn't?  And that was back in 1965!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                    So, I was sad to learn of her passing on September 10th, after a bout with cancer.  Diana--who was eventually Dame-ed-- was quite an actress herself.  Though remembered for Emma Peel, my favorite performance of hers was as Edwina, daughter of Vincent Price in "Theater Of Blood."  Remember her as "Butch, The Hairdresser's Assistant???????????"  Priceless!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                      She graced the stage so many times I was not sure if I had ever had the pleasure of seeing her on stage.  Then I remembered the 2018 revival of "My Fair Lady" David and I saw at Lincoln Center's Vivian Beaumont!  Rigg played Mrs. Higgins not as patrician as Gladys Cooper, but in her more down to earth, yet classy, way.  If only the ending had not been changed and that Lauren Amborse thing had not been cast.  Both Rigg and Harry Haddon-Paton, not to mention Norbert Leo Butz walked off with the show.  So did everyone, except Ambrose.

                                       It is no wonder Rigg left the show before the run ended.  She was too knowing, to put up with Bartlett Sher's tinkering with the piece, not to mention Ambrose's unprofessional antics.  I am sure Rigg could see, from day one, what was clear to me from the start--Ambrose was not suited for the part.  Had I known Laura Benanti would eventually go into it, I would have waited for her.

                                      Still, it is sad to witness the passing of Rigg at 82.  Her class, her humor, and the flair she brought to her acting will be missed.  And can never be replaced.

                      

                                       Here is Diana Rigg, in "Theatre Of Blood."  As I said, priceless!

Girls, Please Say A Special Prayer For Our Dear Friend, Chloe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                          Yesterday, while David and I walked up 76th Street, I, as usual called out to Chloe, who looks exactly like this, and got  her usual, robust bark of a greeting in return.  Chloe was in her back yard, and did not come out front to see us, as she often does.  Instead, her owner, Liz, appeared, and, to our great upset, tearfully told us that Chloe had almost died this week.  Which is scary, not only because we love her so much, but because, the last few times we have seen her, David kept remarking on how thin Chloe looked.  She was always a girl who kept her figure, and besides she had a lot of fur.

                                            Apparently, she had been in pain for some time, and, when taken to the vet, discovered she had inflammation of the bowel.  Some corrective surgery was done, although  she is still having some bouts of diarrhea.  So, I want everyone out there to send their best wishes to our beloved Chloe, who is very much a great lady, and loving to us all.  She is one of the many animals in the neighborhood I visit, who are able to cheer me up!

                                              We love you, Chloe!  And I know you are a fighter!

                                                Send those prayers, girls!  And, hopefully Sister Camille, too!!!!!!!!!!

"What Are You Looking At, You Stupid Ass Nurse?????????????????????"

                                                Could this actually have been me during my TEE Cardioversion procedure, this past Thursday?  It might have been, because, prior to actually going through it, this is how I was feeling inside--all churned up and nervous.

                                                  The team that handled me were anything but stupid assed.  My two nurses, Samantha and Denise, at NYU, were lovely, and sensitive to my fears, which they helped to alleviate.  In fact, I was not aware of coming to--suddenly I was there, then not, then back again.  Like Glinda in "The Wizard Of Oz."

                                                      My voice was a little ragged, after having a camera shoved down my throat, which, thankfully I have no memory of; otherwise, the photo above would have been real.

                                                       Now, I wear a heart monitor and await the next step.  Perhaps I should be singing "At The Crossroads," which Samantha Eggar did in the 1967 film "Dr. Dolittle," which I still have not seen, and was actually nominated for Best Picture that year.

                                                        Hmmmm......maybe that will be my next post!

                                                        Nevertheless, loads of thanks to my superb team at NYU!

Guess What Today Is????????????????????????

                                                             "I met a boy called Frank Mills,

                                                                    On September 12th, right here

                                                               In front of the Waverly."

                                                              --Shelley Plimpton, as Crissy, in

                                                                 "HAIR," Broadway 1968 

                                                       Of course, darlings, we can never forget what yesterday was.  I even remember where I was that day, and the horror at seeing the second tower fall.  I thought I was in the middle of an apocalypse.  Well,  maybe I was.

                                                         Because of 9/11/2001, today can get lost in the shuffle.  But theater aficionados know today is "Frank Mills" Day."  From 1978 until 2000 (because 2001 stopped it!) I would annually stand in front of the Waverly Theater (now the IFC) on Sixth Avenue, near West 4th Street, in the West Village, and sing this song.  I sing it regularly, for a vocal exercise I do each morning; if I can handle "Frank Mills" I am ready for anything.  It is a special gift I have that I can convey the vulnerability and innocence required to perform it.  Since Shelley Plimpton, only Allison Case, in the 2009 revival has matched her for perfection.  That is a time span of over forty years.  Because casting directors, in casting "HAIR" generally are not as detailed about casting Crissy as they need to be.

                                                            Shelley still owns the song, though, and you can hear her in the preceding post.

                                                              Even after coming through a heart procedure on Thursday, I still feel up to singing "Frank Mills," though I don't know if I will go in to Manhattan and do it.

                                                               So, a Happy "Frank Mills" Day To everyone on here, Shelley especially, and, of course to Allison.

                                                                Oh, and "Angela and I {still} don't want the two dollars back.  Just him."
                                                            

                                                           

 

                                                             

                                                             

                                                              

Hair - Frank Mills

No, Not THAT Elizabeth Taylor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                        This remarkable authoress, whom I believe was referenced in Lara Prescott's "The Secrets We Kept," is indeed that.  Her 1957 novel, "Angel," has the tone and feel of a Victorian novel.  It might have well been entitled, "Portrait Of The Authoress As A Narcissistic Bitch," because that is what the title character is--a latter day Veda Pierce, who treats her mother and aunt abominably, goes about her own business, but, unlike Veda, does not turn predatory and land a prison sentence.  Only a decaying "Grey Gardens" type estate--or, for that matter, since this is England, a Satis House, a la Miss Havisham.  And, like that latter character, "Angel" ends her days in embittered loneliness.  The difference is, she doesn't care at all about it.

                                          And yet, for awhile, she is quite the sensation of the day with her cheap attempts at literature, which she extols, and the critics diminish.  I wonder if Taylor here is criticizing such novelists of the day, like Taylor Caldwell, or Frances Parkinson Keyes, both of whom I would gobble up in a second; they are such, romantic fun.  But don't ever mistake them for "Middlemarch."

                                           "Angel" falls somewhere between the two, leaning more toward Eliot.  And what a refresher after attempting Richard Powes' overblown "The Overstory."

                                             Talk this up at your next meeting, girls, with plenty of tea, with cakes and dainties!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                            

Happy, Happy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

                                     Just one day remains, girls, till I go to the executioner--oh, excuse me, I mean the electrician--and this is sort of how I feel.  Not to mention, if we don't all get ourselves to Sally Hershberger, we could all end up looking like this.  Then those masks would be covering our faces permanently, not just during the current pandemic.

                                       But, really, darlings, if you find your visage in the mirror closer to this than you would like, you are in for some real problems!

                                           When you let yourself go, fashion and glamour go down the drain!

"On A Picnic Morning, Without A Warning, I Looked At You, And, Somehow, I Knew!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

 

                                           Happy Labor Day, everyone!  In more innocent times, Channel 7 would annually show the 1955 film "Picnic," to mark the Labor Day Holiday!

                                             Who could forget the dance scene, where William Holden and Kim Novak dance to "Moonglow?"  We all wanted to wear that pink dress Kim Novak was adorning, not to mention the hair, but I loved Susan Strasberg's outfit in this scene, too.  Of course, Madge (Novak) was the prettiest girl in town, but this was William Inge territory, where there were frumps like Mrs. Potts, and spinster schoolteachers, like the one enacted by Rosalind Russell.

                                                 So, get out your best summer frock, and wear it for the last time, this year, on this Labor Day!

                                                    And, remember, it is the last day to wear white shoes and seersucker!

Too Bad Reynold Brown, Or Someone, Did Not Get As Much Credit As Diane Von Furstenberg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                Who would have thought that 1958'a "Attack Of The 50 Foot Woman," in which Allison Hayes, as Nancy Archer, an anguished, sloppy looking mental patient, is transformed by radiation into a gigantic bombshell, would turn out to be a fashion icon of a film?

                                  Because, once she evolves to the titular size, all of a sudden she is wearing this stunning white two piece halter wrap.  I do not know who designed the costume, but Reynold Brown designed the now classic poster, which is emblazoned on a yellow T-Shirt of mine, so perhaps he is the one to bestow credit for Hayes' glam tran!

                                     I mean, 50 feet or 5, who wouldn't want to look like this?   No wonder the Nurse, played by actress Eileen Stevens gives the screen's best depiction of hysteria, until Veronica Cartwright surpassed it, three years later, in "The Children's Hour."

                                      Stevens' character got all worked up, not only because of the size, but because she knew she would never look that good.  Can you blame her?

                                        And how about the scene where the fake hand comes through the bar doors, and William Hudson practically wraps himself in it, like a customer strapping himself in to an amusement ride?

                                         Oh, there are so many camp reasons to see this film.  But who ever thought fashion would be one of them?

                                           I want that outfit in pink, girls!  Right after Sally Hershberger does my hair!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                          Here is the famous Reynold Brown poster, darlings!  See what I mean by the fashion, and style??????????????????

What An Unexpected Literary Gem!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                         Somehow, girls, my expectations were this would be the book I would toss aside, while Richard Powers' novel would be the one to enrapture me.  The joke is on me, dolls, because the reverse turned out to be true.

                                           Historical novels have changed, over time.  The lush romanticism and structural evolution over time has been abandoned for hard hitting political realism in ours.

                                             The funny thing is, as I said, after reading Lara Croft's "The Secrets We Kept," I thought about re-reading "Doctor Zhivago."   Well, if you read "The Parisian," darlings, it is almost the same.  The protagonist is Midhat, an Indian (as in India) who goes to Paris--hence the title-to become a doctor, and study philosophy.  But, before you can say Mary Shelly, he is back in his hometown, running his father's textile business amid difficulties with his chosen wife, an obsession with a French woman he still carries a torch for, and political strife between India, Syria, and Palestine.

                                                To think this is Hammad's debut!  It is one of the more remarkable I have come across, and so engrossing I could barely stir from my chair while reading to the the end, which is on a poetic note, and sums things up beautifully.  This last word also describes the quality of Hammad's prose, which is driven both narratively and historically, with much political intrigue thrown in.

                                                 "The Parisian" took me by surprise.  Had it come out this year, it would have made my Ten Best, for sure.  As is, this is a book for the ages, or, at the very least, years to come!

                                                    A must for those craving good literary fiction!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 

"Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!" Could Lady Macbeth Have Foreseen Covid 19?????????????????????????

                                                   I have to wonder if literature's most notorious hand washer was years ahead of Dr. Anthony Fauci.  Were Lady Macbeth's spots--actually a projection of her own guilt-- a glimpse into our future, with the Covid 19 pandemic, at hand?

                                                   It certainly sounds plausible to me, but, who knew, until now, that "Macbeth" would turn out to be a work of prophecy?  Well, it does start out with a trio of witches, so that about certifies it.

                                                    Probably reading "Hamnet," which also deals with the bubonic plague, aka the Black Death, provoked this question in my mind.

                                                       Thanks to all this, reading or seeing "Macbeth" will never be the same!

                                                        And I have always wanted to play one of the witches!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Could This Be The Book Of The Year? It Could Turn Out To Be!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

                                            The year, of course, is not over yet, girls, but "Hamnet," by Maggie O'Farrell, is the only novel that has truly excited me, emotionally, narratively, and structurally.  It imagines how Shakespeare, who emerges from out of someone else's being in this novel, came to write his most enigmatic play, "Hamlet."

                                              I don't know how much of this is fiction or fact, but the author gets her period research right, and Hamnet, whose death (and that is not a spoiler, darlings!) ignites the drive of the novel, comes to haunt the reader in a way unseen since the titular character of Daphne Du Maurier's novel, "Rebecca."  All the more tragic because the deceased was only 11 years old!

                                                Don't look for Polonius or Ophelia here.  O'Farrell is not that blatant. What she centers on is a family stopped in its tracks by grief, and how that grief impacts them all over time.  What may sound like a downer is not, because the reader is given the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, plus living characters one can care about as much as Hamnet.

                                                  I did not expect to be blown away as much as I was.  You just never know, dolls!

                                                  But blow me away it did.  Should it be named Book Of The Year, remember, you heard it first, here!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!