From the Walrus and the Carptenter to You

Have you ever had one of those days when you have a quote stuck in your head, and you just don’t know why? It’s like having “Mama Mia” by Abba stuck in your head when you know in your heart you haven’t heard the damn song in 10 years.

For some bizarre reason I’ve a quote stuck tight in my head that keeps ringing through over and over again. No idea why. No idea where it came from or when I might have memorized it intentionally. So-I’ve decided to share the pain.

Fortunately, its not an unpleasant quote, and it harks back to a gentler time in childhood.

So here you have it:

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"There is No Such Thing in Anyone's Life as an Unimportant Day"

A member of The Algonquin Round Table, Aleck Woollcott, hailed from Phalanx, New Jersey. From childhood he was an avid reader, with a particular love of Charles Dickens. After working his way through Hamilton College in update New York, Woollcott crashed around through a few different jobs, but settled in as one of the New Yorker’s most acclaimed theater critics. At one point he was even banned from reviewing certain Broadway shows. As a result he sued the Shubert theater organization for violation of the New York Civil Rights Act, but lost in the state's highest court in 1916 on the grounds that only discrimination on the basis of race, creed or color was unlawful.

His lawsuit was a perfect example of the moxie of Aleck Woollcott-an owlish character whose caustic wit either joyously attracted or vehemently repelled the artistic communities of 1920s Manhattan. His judgments were frequently eccentric. Dorothy Parker once said: "I remember hearing Woollcott say reading Proust is like lying in someone else's dirty bath water. And then he'd go into ecstasy about something called, 'Valiant Is the Word for Carrie', and I knew I had enough of the Round Table."

I’m with Dorothy on that one.

He was known to greet friends with, "Hello, Repulsive." Famously, he published the shortest theatrical review in history by submitting to his editor simply: "Ouch."

After being kicked out of the apartment he shared with The New Yorker founders Harold Ross and his wife Jane Grant, Woollcott moved to an apartment at the far end of East 52nd Street. The members of the Algonquin Round Table had a debate as to what to call his new home. Franklin P. Adams suggested that he name it after the Indian word "Ocowoica", meaning "The-Little-Apartment-On-The-East-River-That-It-Is-Difficult-To-Find-A-Taxicab-Near". But Dorothy Parker came up with the definitive name: Wit's End.

He was one of the most-quoted men of his generation. Among Woollcott's classics is his description of the Los Angeles area as "Seven suburbs in search of a city" — a quip often attributed to his friend Dorothy Parker. Describing The New Yorker editor Harold Ross, he said: "He looks like a dishonest Abe Lincoln."

You either loved him, or you hated him. As I didn’t have the chance to meet him personally (he collapsed of a heart attack during a panel discussion of the war in Europe on CBS radio and passed away a few hours later at the age of 56) I think he’s absolutely caustically magnificent.

A character among characters, it is said that he was the inspiration for the character of Sheridan Whiteside in George S. Kauffman’s “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”, that the character of Nero Wolfe was modeled upon him (though the author denies it) and that the Brandy Alexander was delicious alcoholic concoction named after him (supposedly it was created at the occasion of the wedding between Princess Mary and Lord Lascelles in London in 1922).

Here’s the recipe. Drink up!

Ingredients for the Brandy Alexander:
1 1/2 oz Brandy
1 oz Dark Creme de Cacao
1 oz Half-and-half or Heavy cream
1/4 tsp grated Nutmeg

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the brandy, creme de cacao, and half-and-half. Shake well. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the nutmeg.

If you’ve actually taken a minute to go mix up one of these tasty little ditties, then welcome back. I’ll end this by saying that he’d have gotten a kick (though an outraged one) out of his own final ending. Woollcott was buried in Clinton, New York, at his alma mater, Hamilton College, but not without some confusion. By mistake, his ashes were sent to Colgate University in Hamilton, New York. When the error was corrected and the ashes were forwarded to Hamilton College, they arrived with 67¢ postage due.

God bless ya Aleck. Here’s to you.

An "Odyssey" Through the Creative Process and an "Iliad" of the Mind

First, to explain my headline; I found that tasty little morsel while doing research on Max Ernst’s work and his collaboration with Andre Breton. Delicious isn’t it?

I started to write just about Joseph Cornell today. I’ve always loved his little boxes, his intricate collages and his clearly complicated and disturbing mind. But, for some reason I just can’t face the reclusive, gray, long-beaked man on his own today. Instead, I have been drawn, once again to the fascinating collaboration of two of my favorite Surrealists; Andre Breton and Max Ernst. They do all meet up in the middle, just trust me.

How you ask? Among other things collage and a favorite word of mine frottage which has all sorts of interesting and naughty implications. (raise eyebrows here)

Max Ernst came to collage/frottage quite by fortunate artistic accident. Alone in a rundown inn in a village on the Rhine, he was struck by the pages of an illustrated catalogue showing objects designed for anthropologic, microscopic, psychologic, mineralogic, and palaeontologic demonstration. In contrast were the warped and rutted boards of the floor of his room. They meshed together in his artistic eye and his remarkable style was born.

Meanwhile, as Ernst was clipping away at his piles of backdated catalogs and out-of-print wallpaper samples, Breton, was slowly becoming disillusioned with the unfocused and pessimistic anarchy of Dadaism. Breton’s stumbled (I’m not quite sure how) into Ernst’s work which in fact had a profound impact on his own artistic notions. In May 1921 he organized an exhibition of Ernst's first collages. Breton had written to Cologne Dada because something in their work attracted his attention. He explained the impact Ernst's collages made in Paris:
"I remember very well the occasion when Tzara, Aragon, Soupault and I first discovered the collages of Max Ernst. We were all in Picabia's house when they arrived from Cologne. They moved us in a way we never experienced again.”

The exhibition that Breton organized was Ernst's first Paris exhibition. Sadly he wasn’t able to attend because he was denied a visa to visit Paris by the British forces occupying Germany as part of the Versailles Treaty.

Breton always retained a respect for what he described as Ernst's "profound humanity." In two essays, written in 1920 and 1927, Breton sought to explain this. He wrote, "[Ernst] projects before our eyes the most captivating film in the world and retains the grace to smile even while illuminating our interior life most profoundly and most radiantly, we do not hesitate to see in Max Ernst a man of these infinite possibilities" ( Max Ernst: Beyond Painting).

As Breton and Ernst were gulping deep from life’s cup, in contrast is Joseph Cornell-whose isolationist ways nominate him in my opinion as the Emily Dickinson of the early 20th Century. Intensely Francophile, though he had never been to France, he was in fact what we might consider by today’s standards a stalker, penning letters to Jennifer Jones and other movie stars or ballet dancers he'd never met. That being said, Cornell led a rich life of imagination and fantasy that he expressed through his little boxes. He didn't share the revolutionary fantasies of the Surrealists or their erotic obsessions. There’s not a single sexual image, let alone a trace of amour fou, in any of his work. The most he would permit himself was a gentle fetishism. If, as some have thought, Cornell's imagery had to do with childhood, then it was one which no child has ever known. Sometimes he would crack the glass pane that protected the contents of the box, but that is all he allowed in the way of violence - it suggests that the sanctuary of imagination has been attacked.

I could go on and on about the lot of them. There is so very much to say. Their work, their lives, their art, has influenced me in so many ways; from the work that I create to the way that I see the world. But, I will close for today. Sometimes there’s just no good way to wrap one of these up. So, kind readers, if you are out there, forgive me for this abrupt ending.

Abiento.

An Edible Time Machine

If you’ve read much of this blog you’ll quickly realize that while I’m not quite prepared to call it my raison d’etre, I do have a definite passion for the history, characters, creative output and costumes of the 20’s and 30’s.

I’ve recently discovered a book well worth reading even if you don’t take a fancy to Alice B. Toklas, Dorothy Parker and the famous Flapper Fitzgerald family. Written by Suzanne Rodriguez-Hunter, Found Meals of the Lost Generation is an absolutely delightful combination of interesting tidbits about some of my favorite characters from the period and recipes for some of the meals they were known to enjoy.

Rodriguez-Hunter availed herself of more than 100 biographies, memoirs, letters, and novels, and her research yields abundant references to food and meals of the Moderns from the now-historic banquet thrown by Picasso and Gertrude Stein for Henri Rousseau in 1908, to the exalted Cucumber Sandwiches a la Oscar Wilde served at the weekly salon of Natalie Barney; Kiki’s Boeuf en Daube from her native Burgundy; and the Truite Grenobloise dinner A. J. Liebling shared with his father in 1927 at Maillabuau’s, then one of Paris’ best restaurants.

With the notable exception of Alice B. Toklas, the Lost Generation was not particularly known for its culinary contributions. Many recipe sources are not credited at all, but occasionally she does toss in a surprise with Toulouse-Lautrec’s personal recipe for Riz a la Valencienne, Edith Wharton’s Corned-Beef Hash, Virgil Thompson’s Gnocchi, and Charlie Chaplin’s Welsh Rarebit. While they may not qualify as bona fide members of the Lost Generation, they certainly share the same time period.

I made Chaplin’s Welsh Rarebit last night and it was a treat…with or without the bowler hat and bendy cane.

Encompassing the years 1908-1930, Rodriguez-Hunter adroitly covers key expat players: Picasso, Stein, Dos Passos, Joyce, Beach, McAlmon, the Fitzgeralds, Hemingway, Kiki, Man Ray, Natalie Barney, the Murphy’s, Langston Hughes, Josephine Baker, Bricktop, Kay Boyle, et al. Even without any recipes, this little gem of a book stands on its own as an efficient survey of the lives of many of the names we have come to know collectively as the Lost Generation.

I leave you with a cocktail to try while you enjoy this tasty little book. It’s called the Jimmie Special. Named after James Charters, an ex-Liverpudlian boxer and the most popular bartender in Montparnasse.

Of this drink it’s creator says this, “On women this drink had the effect of causing them to undress in public, and it often kept me busy wrapping overcoats around nude ladies! But even knowing this did not prevent some of the feminine contingent from asking for the Jimmie Special. I wish I had 100 francs for every nude or semi-nude lady I’ve wrapped up during the best Montparnasse days!”

Do with this what you will…..

THE JIMMIE SPECIAL

For two people, combine in a cocktail shaker: 1 jigger cognac, 1/2 jigger Pernod, 1/2 jigger Amer-Picon, 1/2 jigger Mandarin, and 1/2 jigger sweet cherry brandy (kirsch). Shake thoroughly. Drink straight or mix with soda to taste.

Best Quote I've Heard Lately

Everyone who knows me well...okay, even some people who don't know me well, know that I'm not a big fan of children. There fine for those who choose to make them. Lovely little creatures. Button noses, tiny toes, interesting smell, cute accessories. But, I believe I was otherwise distracted when they were giving out the maternal genes. I truly in my heart of hearts believe that most people of my generation are having children so that they can have something new to name. What the hell else are you going to name Tucker or Tawni or Apple? The very same people have cats and dogs and treat them like children (don't get me wrong-my cats actually run my house) and cart them around in grocery stores and airports like newborns. Then, one day three or four years into a marriage they look at each other and realize they have nothing left to talk about, the sex hasn't been hot in a couple of years and nobody is getting any younger, so rather than get a divorce they have a child.

What a brilliant strategy.

Am I cynical? No. Why would you ask?

I don't have children because I know with inevitable inflation I wouldn't be able to pay for their college education and their therapy bills.

Recently, a friend mentioned a quote by humorist Fran Lebowitz from a Paris Review interview that seems to summarize my feelings to an absolute "t".

"I wouldn't say that I dislike the young. I'm simply not a fan of naïveté. I mean, unless you have an erotic interest in them, what other interest could you have? What are they going to possibly say that's of interest? People ask me, Aren't you interested in what they're thinking? What could they be thinking? This is not a middle-aged curmudgeonly attitude; I didn't like people that age even when I was that age."

No truer words were ever spoken. I've been known to take the stance that I've nothing to say to children...none of them have read Proust, so what's to talk about? Call me a curmudgeon if you must. Fine. I'll gladly bear it. But, anyone who's known me for more than 20 years will tell you that I too didn't enjoy children when I was a child..so why change now?

I leave you with another of Ms. Lebowitz's little tidbits with which I agree wholeheartedly. There was nobody like the magnificent Ms. Parker-not before and certainly not since.

"Dorothy Parker makes me laugh, always. Her book reviews. People really slight her because she was so dissolute, she hardly wrote, she was a drunk. I think if someone can write a book review of a popular novel published fifty years before you read the review, and you laugh every time you read it, that person is remarkably talented. "

In closing, and keeping with the theme. I've no doubt that I, despite my wishes, will die on a perfectly sunny day.

Abiento.

Tell Janet I Said Hello..Vesuvio and City Lights in San Francisco

After a week in San Francisco I found lots of things I liked, and a few that I didn't like. Some things met my expectations and some didn't. One thing that truly missed the mark in a BIG way was the City Lights Bookstore. I was really looking forward to this little piece of history tucked away in the North Beach area. I was SERIOUSLY disappointed.

But, right next door the Beat Movement got some of its historical glimmer back for me in the form of the Vesuvio's. This unofficial bar of the Beat Writers is located right next door. I'd give my eye-teeth for the amazing oak bar. And, Janet, who at first appears to be just a really cool woman who's worked there for 30 years, then let slip that she owns the joint, is one of the nicest bartenders I've met in many a year.

Make sure to check out Poet's Alley outside and the cool mural. Here's the poem scribbled outside:

When the shadow of the grasshopper
Falls across the trail of the field mouse
On green and slimy grass as a red sun rises
Above the western horizon silhouetting
A gaunt and tautly muscled Indian warrior
Perched with bow and arrow cocked and aimed
Straight at you it's time for another martini

A wee bit of history of the joint. In October of 1955 Neal Cassidy (Dean Moriarity of "On The Road") stopped by for a shot of liquid liberation at Vesuvio's on his way to a poetry reading at the Six Gallery. It was at this moment that Vesuvio's became the official pub of choice for the Beats. Vesuvio's was established in 1948 and also has the distinction of being the place where Jack Kerouac holed up and cancelled a meeting with author Henry Miller, who wanted to meet the young author after reading and being impressed by "Dharma Bums." Henry waited it out in Big Sur as Jack whiled away the hours at Vesuvio's. The night got longer, and the meeting never occurred.

Back to the letdown of City Light's. Okay-I'm all for a book store. I LOVE a book store. I go to cities just to visit their book stores. But, I have to be completely honest, City Light's didn't live up to the hype. First, most of their stock is trade paper. I guess this is the price range of the hundreds upon hundreds of tourists who troop through the front door every day looking for a glimmer of the Beat hotspot. But, I just wanted a book. I thought it would be a rockin bookstore that I'd while away the hours at...not. The help is not exactly fantastic either. Okay-I'd be tired of "Hey, do you have blah, blah, blah" from a million tourists, but maybe I thought that a booker would recognize the soul of a true book lover. Apparently not. My friend got barked at and I got disappointed when I asked if they had any other work translated into English by Luis Fernando Verissimo and the guy looked at me as if I had asked if he wouldn't mind terribly if I peed in his hand. I'm not sure if he'd not heard of Verissimo or if he had a personal beef with the Brazilian, but City Light's can't help you if you're looking for his work.

So, the good and the bad, the touristy and the terrible. What did I truly expect? Well, I dreamed I'd find a dusty signed copy of Little Big. What I found was a great salty dog next door. Life is just full of compromise.

Put Crepe Bows Round the White Necks of the Public Doves

I stumbled upon this poem one day, my freshman year in college. My father was ill, for the first of many, many times and it spoke to me-as Auden speaks to me like no other.

The day we scattered my father's ashes into the Atlantic I gave a copy of this poem to my mother. We three women were too beside ourselves with grief to read it in front of the other mourners gathered on the beach, huddled behind the piper who piped my father out of this world and onto the next.

Each time I see these words, I remember his strength, his kindness and everything he was to everyone who knew him. It's been eleven years today since he closed his eyes for the very last time. Every time I look at my sister, I see him in her big blue eyes. That twinkle of mischief he had glows out of her and into me. I know how lucky I am to have her..to be her friend at long last. We are the shards and remnants of a good man-not a perfect man. But a good one.
I still miss him. Still, and deeply.


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Who Killed Thomas Ince? Can You Say "Rosebud?"

I love a good mystery, and one of my favorites is not only based on a true story, but is filled with all the right elements; intrigue, famous people and a long well paid-off silence. And of course, the death of a man.

Saturday, November 15, 1924 media mogul William Randolph Hearst had everything lined up in his meticulous manner to throw the weekend party of a lifetime on his infamous yacht the Oneida for silent movie pioneer Thomas Ince. By the end of the weekend, many lives would be changed forever, and one man-the birthday boy himself, would be dead.

It was on a Saturday, November 15, 1924 to be exact, that the Oneida set sail from San Pedro, California heading for San Diego. Among the guests that weekend were Hearst's mistress Marion Davies, silent film star Charlie Chaplin, columnist Louella Parsons and Dr. Daniel Carson Goodman, Hearst's film production manager. Ironically, Ince himself literally missed the boat, due to a production deal that he was negotiating with Hearst’s International Film Corporation and had to catch up with the party in San Diego.

No one is quite sure, or willing to say, what happened at dinner that Sunday night. One thing is clear though- early Monday morning, Ince was taken from the yacht by water taxi and brought ashore, accompanied by Dr. Goodman (a guest and Hearst’s personal physician). By Tuesday night, Thomas Ince was dead.

Forty-eight hours after leaving the Oneida, Ince died in his own home. Ince's personal physician signed the death certificate citing heart failure as the cause of death. The Wednesday morning papers, however, told another story: "Movie Producer Shot on Hearst Yacht!"--Headlines that magically vanished in the evening edition. Without further ado, Ince's body was cremated, after which his widow, Nell, soon left for Europe with her children.

Things were getting interesting when the Hearst organization issued a statement claiming that Ince fell ill while visiting the Hearst ranch in San Simeon with Nell and their children. But the lie didn't stick. Too many people knew where Ince really was-on board The Oneida alone-nowhere near San Simeon or Nell or their children. One thing was certain-someone was lying, but who and why?

Legend says that Hearst shot Thomas Ince in the head by mistake. He was really aiming for Charlie Chaplin. Hearst suspected that Davies and Chaplin were secretly lovers. In order to keep tabs on the two, he invited them both on board The Oneida. Supposedly, he found the couple in a compromising clinch and went for his gun. Davies' screams awakened Ince who rushed to the scene. A scuffle ensued, followed by a gunshot and Ince took the bullet for Chaplin.
Another account of the shooting came from Marion Davies' secretary, Abigail Kinsolving, who claimed that Ince raped her that weekend on board the yacht. Things became even more interesting when, several months later, the unmarried Kinsolving delivered a baby, and died shortly after, in a mysterious car accident near the Hearst ranch. Bodyguards found her body, along with a suspicious looking suicide note. Her baby, a girl, was conveniently sent to an orphanage supported by Marion Davies.

Toraichi Kono, Chaplin's secretary, added fuel to the fire. He claimed to have seen Ince when he came ashore. Kono told his wife that, Ince's head was bleeding from a bullet wound. The story quickly spread among the Japanese domestic workers throughout Beverly Hills. One month after Ince's death, the rumors ran so rampant that the San Diego District Attorney's Office was forced to take action.

A single person was interviewed by the D.A.’s office-Dr. Goodman. Goodman stated that once ashore, he and Ince caught a train heading back to Los Angeles. According to Goodman, Ince got sick on the train so they disembarked in Del Mar and checked into a hotel. Goodman then called a doctor, as well as Ince's wife. Concerned for her husband, Nell agreed to come to Del Mar immediately. Goodman, unclear whether Ince was suffering from a heart attack or indigestion, claimed he left Del Mar before Nell arrived. The D.A. quickly and conveniently closed the investigation-no doubt under the considerable pressure of the Hearst offices.

Rumors and suspicions continued spurred on by the very people who celebrated with Ince on the Oneida. Until the day he died Chaplin denied even being there, insisting that he, Hearst and Davies visited the ailing Ince later that week. He also stated that Ince died two weeks after their visit. In reality, Ince was dead within forty-eight hours after leaving the Oneida and the bereaved Chaplin attended the memorial services that Friday.

Marion Davies stirred the pot with her own set of denials. She never acknowledged that Chaplin or Goodman were on board the yacht that weekend, and always denied that Louella Parsons was among the guests. Davies insisted that Nell Ince called her late Monday afternoon at United Studios to inform her of Ince's death. Nell must have been quite the seer, as her husband didn’t die until the following Tuesday.

One person walked out of the mishap with all she could ever dream of-Hearst took care of Louella Parsons-apparently rewarding her for her silence. When The Oneida sailed, Parsons was a New York movie columnist for one of Hearst's papers. After the Ince affair, Hearst gave her a lifetime contract and expanded her syndication. Her legendary power over Hollywood blossomed.

Supposedly, Hearst, himself, also provided Nell Ince with a trust fund just before she left for Europe. In return, she refused an autopsy and ordered her husband's immediate cremation. Rumor also has it that Hearst paid off Ince's mortgage on his Chateau Elysee apartment building in Hollywood. D.W. Griffith always said: "All you have to do to make Hearst turn white as a ghost is mention Ince's name. There's plenty wrong there, but Hearst is too big."

Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle-the Real Story

I'm heading to San Francisco this week and it's had me thinking about the infamous Fatty Arbuckle and all the stories I've heard through the years. I realized I don't know much of the real story, or what's left of it after nearly 75 years, and I thought I'd do some reading. I didn't realize how much he influenced Hollywood in those early years. Maybe you didn't either. So, here's some of the real facts.

Mack Sennett recalled meeeting him: "A tremendous man skipped up the steps as lightly as Fred Astaire. He was tremendous, obese --- just plain fat. 'Name's Arbuckle,' he said, 'Roscoe Arbuckle. Call me Fatty! I'm with a stock company. I'm a funnyman and an acrobat. But I could do good in pictures. Watcha think?' With no warning he went into a featherlight step, clapped his hands, and did a backward somersault as graceful as a girl tumbler."

By 1921 Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was one of the highest paid actor/directors in the motion picture business. But on September 5 of that year, during a weekend party he was throwing at the Saint Francis Hotel in San Francisco, everything changed. Virginia Rappe (Rap-pay), a girl attending the party, ran screaming from a bedroom, took sick and died four days later.

On September 17 Roscoe Arbuckle was arraigned in San Francisco charged with the rape and murder of Virginia Rappe. The legendary producer, Adolph Zukor (who footed the legal bill) tried to bring in the great trial lawyer, Earl Rogers, father of Adela, but Rogers was in ill health and couldn't take the case.

Adela remembered her father speaking to her about Fatty's plight, "They will make it very tough on him, because of his weight. A man of that enormous fatness being charged with the rape of a young girl will prejudice them, even just the thought of it."
The ambitious Mr. Brady had a very helpful ally in William Randolph Hearst --- the undisputed champion of yellow journalism.

Hearst crucified Arbuckle for another reason --- circulation ... Hearst was gratified by the Arbuckle scandal; he said later that it had "sold more newspapers than any event since the sinking of the Lusitania."

The ugliest twist, one many people are unaware of, is that Arbuckle was completely innocent. He was set up by a venal woman named Maude Delmont, known as "Madame Black." Delmont would provide girls for parties and then have the girl claim she was raped by a prominent director or producer. Concerned about his career, the victim would submit to Delmont's request for money to keep the story out of the press. When Rappe died a few days after the party, from a condition unrelated to the events at the St. Francis Hotel, Delmont gave Fatty Arbuckle's name to the police.

After two trials resulted in hung juries, Fatty was acquitted at the third, with a written apology from the jury --- an apology unprecedented in American justice.

"Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle [they wrote]. We feel that a great injustice has been done him ... there was not the slightest proof adduced to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime. He was manly throughout the case and told a straightforward story which we all believe. We wish him success and hope that the American people will take the judgement of fourteen men and women that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame."

It was, of course, too little too late. Will Hays, the ex-Postmaster General, had been installed as a kind of overlord-Pope charged with cleaning up the movies for America. Roscoe Arbuckle's career was decimated. The funnyman who'd done handsprings down the steps to introduce himself to Mack Sennet; the fat man who'd two years earlier signed a contract with Adolph Zukor for the astronomical sum of one million dollars a year; the director who'd acted as mentor to his friend Buster Keaton, would never rise again. A scandal fueled entirely by innuendo had been hideously successful. Fatty's time was past.

Arbuckle worked as a director, under another name, on several films after the trials. Keaton suggested he use the name Will B. Good, he did ... almost. Louise Brooks told Kevin Brownilow about working with Arbuckle at that time.

He was working under the name William Goodrich. He made no attempt to direct this picture. He sat in his chair like a dead man. He had been very nice and sweetly dead since that scandal had ruined his career. It was such an amazing thing for me to come in to make this picture and to find my director was the great Roscoe Arbuckle. Oh, I thought he was magnificent in films. He was a wonderful dancer --- a wonderful ballroom dancer, in his heyday. It was like floating in the arms of a huge doughnut --- really delightful.

Though Arbuckle had begun a come-back and had signed with Warner Brothers in 1933 to act in some comedy shorts, he was never to see his popularity regained. After a small one-year anniversary party with his new wife on June 29, 1933, Arbuckle went to bed and suffered a fatal heart attack in his sleep. He was 46.

In the short history of the motion picture, Fatty Arbuckle is of central importance. His coat and hat were borrowed by a young Charlie Chaplin to create a character that became an American icon. He was a very close friend of Buster Keaton's and is credited with singlehandedly sheparding Keaton's early film career. That Arbuckle is usually conceived as a minor figure stands as testament to the power of the vendetta directed at him.


Thanks is due Kevin Brownilow, author of "Hollywood: The Pioneers" and "The Parade's Gone By."

Ms. Bishop, What Shall I Loose Today?

I've not forgotten about this little island of writing I've begun. Just had to take a little time off because of the burden's of everyday life.

For some reason, after a long talk with a dear friend last night the words of Elizabeth Bishop came to mind. I couldn't get them all lined up in my mind, so of course I've turned to the Internet to help me remember. It's a lovely poem. A lovely sentiment. Maybe you'll think so too.
Loose something every day.

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.