Saturday, January 31, 2009
Even today, however, isolated pockets of the upper Midwest are convinced that Dionne Warwick was a trio.
And, apropos the post below - Marlene and Yul: mad crazy love. Must have been fun to observe. From a distance.
Friday, January 30, 2009
We went to our fair Sultanate's recently renovated ultra-deluxe hostelry, an almost bewilderingly luxurious affair housed in one of the ugliest buildings to be found anywhere in a region not short on those.
At least the gardens are beautiful, as is the new infinity pool. The buffet featured bountiful goodies of all sorts, high among them a delightful assortment of dead pig, including both parma ham and excellent German sausage. Mr. Muscato is appalled, I am replete, and the last we saw of The Archaeologists, they were polishing off a second bottle of Prosecco on their front porch.
Life is good.
(The snap, by the bye, is my attempt to artsy-up one from Mr. Muscato's camera phone. The original, more sweeping pic included a highly uninspiring bunch of British tourists who for a little while came close to spoiling the view.)
That the candidates include a number of celebrities and models, and that this gentleman is one of them may, to be fair, have had something to do with our interest. Here's Adrian Maulana, looking very candidate-y (and very date-y, for that matter) in shirt and tie.
But when I stumbled across the image recently, my first thought was that it was Nancy Reagan on one last Happy Pill binge, having her final Helen Lawson moment.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I'm starting our weekend off in a New Wave kind of mood, so here's a glimpse of one my favorite pictures, 1982's Starstruck (from which we have previously experienced the delirious water ballet).
Once upon a time, this was exactly how I wanted to look, dress, sing, and dance. Now that I feel a great deal more like that granny character (glimpsed here throughout), I'm very glad I did. Still haven't made it to Australia, though. Wonder what's up at the Harbour View these days?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Yes, it's Zsa Zsa. Yes, she's dressed as Madame Chiang Kai-shek dressed as Eva Perón. Better not to wonder why; simply marvel at her utter Gaborness.
P.S.: I don't believe for a minute that that thieving, tacky final husband of hers lost her money to Madoff. If there still is any money, he knows exactly where it is. Delusional, dreadful climber. End of rant.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Also on the list of the International Incomprehensible, though, is temperature. I'm a Fahrenheit boy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. All these years outside the U.S. of A. and I still have no idea what those infernal degrees actually mean. Oh, I know that water freezes at 0 and boils at 100, but anything in between? A more or less complete mystery.
Without my familiar frame of reference, I'm now reaching the point where I'm floating free of common sense, as well, when it comes to temperature. These last two weeks or so have been, by local standards, fairly non-balmy. I've been running around in sweaters and scarves, burying myself under afghans when home and piles of quilts when sleeping, all the while bemoaning the total lack of heating hereabouts.
And throughout, I've been moaning, to anyone who would listen, "My God, what are we supposed to do? It's eighteen degrees!" as if I could hear the wolves approaching over the ice floes.
Today I finally had the bright idea of finding an online converter to find out just exactly how bitterly icy it really was.
I stand before you now, somewhat shamefaced, in the realization that that the dread 18 degrees is in fact just shy of 65 real degrees, or just about exactly what we used to think of as beach weather back in my northern home town.
I think my blood must have thinned after a decade in the Southern Hemisphere.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The host, of course, entertained, in the company of a blackfaced Charlie McCarthy.
Ray Bolger lent some of his own unique talents to the entertainment;
Which also included a bevy of period-costumed lovelies. Here, Betty Grable and Martha Raye launch into an impromptu can-can competition, which seems to puzzle Mary Martin.
Martha, of course, was always such a shrinking violet.
Miriam Hopkins and a puzzlingly costumed if thoroughly disguised Tyrone Power had a rather more sedate time, although they certainly seem to be enjoying themselves. Miriam Hopkins without her eye makeup, however appropriate to the era, is not necessarily a sight for the faint-hearted.
Norma Shearer was her usual contrary self, turning up sans costume and in the company of the second Mr. Mrs. Thalberg.
But in the end no one had a better time than Dorothy Lamour. And that made it all worthwhile, if you ask me.
Frankly, I think I like her better in her working-the-waterfronts guise. She's a little too Abba impersonator here...
Friday, January 23, 2009
First, I returned home one afternoon to find Upen Patel in the garden...
Hearing a noise, I looked up to see a half-dressed Dino Morea on the roof...
And then I raced inside only to find John Abraham in my bathtub.
Needless to say, I've been trying to regain unconsciousness all day!
I like him best, though, earlier on, in the '30s, when he leavened his diet of sagebrush and chaps with a great deal more variety than you might think.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Aurora Miranda, Carmen's less tempestuous sister;
Roslyn Kind, Barbra's half-famous half-sister*;
Lana Wood, Natalie's Bond-girl sister;
And now another installment in my ongoing work to ensure that the highlights of contemporary Arabic culture get a wider airing, confounding pretty much every stereotype you might have about conservatism, veils, and general prudery.
Here we have a current hit throughout the region, "Behibou Huwa," (either "I Love Him" or "I Love It," depending on how you decide to take the lyric, which is double-entendre throughout) from an artist named - are you sitting down? - Miss Pussy Samir, an Egyptian dancer turned singing sensation.
Oh, they spell it "Boosy" most of the time, but that's only because, especially in Egyptian Arabic, "p" (which doesn't technically exist in Arabic) and "b" are interchangeable (which is why, by the bye, Cairo is chockablock with "No Barking" signs). It's definitely Pussy (and won't it be interesting to see what repeating that name does to my page count? Pussy, Pussy, Pussy. Samir.).
As you will see, the song's video portrays the sweet story of a young girl and her kindness to an older gentleman in red satin pajamas. I've decided that it's more or less the "Love to Love You Baby" of the East. Enjoy.