tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29273199214798113402024-02-22T11:11:58.036-05:001960s Pop CultureInterpreting 1960s pop culture since 2009. By Ian M. Clarke....
Cult Film Reviews? Visit LetsPlaySomethingElse.com
......Contact: nunspond@gmail.com..................................
1960s. Pop Culture. Popular Culture. The Beatles. Brigitte Bardot. Sharon Tate. Fellini. Godard. John Kennedy. Bobby Kennedy. Lyndon Johnson. LSD. Woodstock. Charles Manson. Neal Cassady. Ken Kesey. Hunter S Thompson.
playboy. Marilyn Monroe. Jimi Hendrix. Stanley Kubrick. Emma Peel. The Avengers.
I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-53072362394050628162024-01-30T18:26:00.001-05:002024-01-30T18:28:13.138-05:00Dennis Hopper: An Artist Knows Who to Trust<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjh9LFHGPT_UOBGI0j3BtXFnNP95vLWd4fQRAX5puXt09eyEaTEin7E4Ho62yU43plyrw5X8XQ7MBwevDkfa7-HmPWnd9bMT3paPUl0MbIYOJacIvuVAvztaFFLezcWWj6EGdECR6u4EnzNDGWcoCD5LQklyMp12TIPQULEVThliqNnS3aWcBm6Nt6nMmWk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="286" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjh9LFHGPT_UOBGI0j3BtXFnNP95vLWd4fQRAX5puXt09eyEaTEin7E4Ho62yU43plyrw5X8XQ7MBwevDkfa7-HmPWnd9bMT3paPUl0MbIYOJacIvuVAvztaFFLezcWWj6EGdECR6u4EnzNDGWcoCD5LQklyMp12TIPQULEVThliqNnS3aWcBm6Nt6nMmWk=w483-h297" width="483" /></a></div><br /></div></div><p class="MsoNormal">"The cocaine problem in the United States is really
because of me. There was no cocaine before <i>Easy Rider</i> on the street.
After <i>Easy Rider</i>, it was everywhere". – Dennis Hopper<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No other persona better signifies the lost idealism of the
1960s than that of Dennis Hopper". - Matthew Hays. film critic<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dennis Hopper was such a good actor that you always assumed
he <i>wasn’t </i>acting. That’s an extremely rare accomplishment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In his greatest role, Frank, in <i>Blue Velvet</i>, he presents
mental illness as empowering components of his personality, traits that render
him forceful and attractive and violent. It’s a seamless performance. Sure, we
say, that’s Hopper. But it’s not. He became a go-to-actor for offbeat roles
which, to work, can only be played by so-called ordinary people. Yes, the best
comedians are sad and serious. Life works in opposites. It always has.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiNbYiBM9wsxhgiwnrnXW_2XxByhTN6TIGfoYLe3QQWjRxGMqIbhDxAYzwZGM00l6wcW3hrw84tUSGZrxxvusIgZ2r7lxrUUUMQJxCAupg45rHqFn8YB0NN0sqzNQLQ-iBF1mO7VorcD6SDW_f9QPMoKSnEdQEPFidnDLgl79j3gOoTnYl2bRcSb44xX5b" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="500" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiNbYiBM9wsxhgiwnrnXW_2XxByhTN6TIGfoYLe3QQWjRxGMqIbhDxAYzwZGM00l6wcW3hrw84tUSGZrxxvusIgZ2r7lxrUUUMQJxCAupg45rHqFn8YB0NN0sqzNQLQ-iBF1mO7VorcD6SDW_f9QPMoKSnEdQEPFidnDLgl79j3gOoTnYl2bRcSb44xX5b=w320-h184" width="320" /></a></div>In his most famous role, Billy, in <i><a href="https://letsplaysomethingelse.com/an-alluring-notion-of-freedom/" target="_blank">Easy Rider</a></i>, he detaches
himself from Earth, Camus’ stranger on a motorcycle, tripping the light
fantastic, burdened with worry but unencumbered by fear. With hair blowin’ in
the wind, we motor with Hopper down dark halls of hippie existentialism. No flowers.
No peace. No music. Fade to black.
<p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 40px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHFaG92XpR3mltWh1VybR69frmZDMqgPi1yb5tie2VJHXFlIci1_yfCgY4DrGZpAmFKpMlB-BCIepGmNDTn432Ed2BVCdPXDwi3GAIOYfP2RfVfWqkw5qMwNtHDZSTWhzOx5Tbp1NQhSzS1OFKd52cSOWU6SQp7rZe-Lp4TK4VWFSiSRdlM9GkQhnSBbKH" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="300" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHFaG92XpR3mltWh1VybR69frmZDMqgPi1yb5tie2VJHXFlIci1_yfCgY4DrGZpAmFKpMlB-BCIepGmNDTn432Ed2BVCdPXDwi3GAIOYfP2RfVfWqkw5qMwNtHDZSTWhzOx5Tbp1NQhSzS1OFKd52cSOWU6SQp7rZe-Lp4TK4VWFSiSRdlM9GkQhnSBbKH=w250-h147" width="250" /></a>He long mourned his buddy James Dean. He got sick on drugs
and booze. He had five wives—with one marriage lasting eight days. Unemployable.
Erratic. Dennis the Menace. Somehow his anger was transmuted to art—without
artifice. He stumbled from the fifth dimension, torn and frayed but unbowed. He
was what he was. </p><p class="MsoNormal">He held a tremulous flame. Dennis Hopper enslaved his demons, kept them in chains, to
be visited now and then, as they hunkered in their dungeons, waiting for a
reprieve that never came. Because artists always know who to trust.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">#dennishopper #easyrider #peterfonda #jacknicholson #michellephillips #motorcycle #1960s #james dean #rebelwithoutacause #bluevelvet #davidlynch</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-54374441027569411032023-12-21T16:19:00.011-05:002023-12-21T16:25:59.191-05:00Nina Van Pallandt: Detachment is Another Way of Belonging<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3v8FmJiUHkM2kUtrH2Uf2ric6xQW1d2DIvkoUzfC4Ez0CHvfykHfeDcqxsCIxmXjTtHLAwLnh5bGe7bcwvmIXhtPYN5D0O_HqAzoL9LDm9bdXUpFsFgWHsxA8FpsXybOg2XSqLIQWFdQH2CkyklrilN3sXeJ_P4lqa5m0zzv76YvDu6RDb3IwEK4w2bd/s828/nina%20banner.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="828" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3v8FmJiUHkM2kUtrH2Uf2ric6xQW1d2DIvkoUzfC4Ez0CHvfykHfeDcqxsCIxmXjTtHLAwLnh5bGe7bcwvmIXhtPYN5D0O_HqAzoL9LDm9bdXUpFsFgWHsxA8FpsXybOg2XSqLIQWFdQH2CkyklrilN3sXeJ_P4lqa5m0zzv76YvDu6RDb3IwEK4w2bd/w572-h261/nina%20banner.jpg" width="572" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beauty of detachment</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">Born 1934. At first it she was Nina Magdelena Møller. From
Denmark. Then, after marrying Frederik Jan Gustav Floris, Baron van Pallandt,
she became Nina, Baroness van Pallandt… or just <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nina_van_Pallandt">Nina Van Pallandt</a>. They
formed an unlikely singing duo, Nina & Frederik. Sang folk music, including
calypso (!?). Had chart success. Divorced. Nina became a film star. Frederick was
murdered in a drug deal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVohyL5AnYymP-u2G6442uEHNQsuQce82T_JNG9P-OY4tbPn_c1cdMwC9zIhRVXMkVOurn2P2BafLMkqIc_BCYDqmQNmZjYnwI11BSQz2598i7yI1PKmvzKvyZUBdfXKJWAiKgunzB_Derw5pX4_n48VmqQDf7u8mcqvG-z6W2rN4gdPMNI-7K1CheQmdf/s454/nina%20husband.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="454" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVohyL5AnYymP-u2G6442uEHNQsuQce82T_JNG9P-OY4tbPn_c1cdMwC9zIhRVXMkVOurn2P2BafLMkqIc_BCYDqmQNmZjYnwI11BSQz2598i7yI1PKmvzKvyZUBdfXKJWAiKgunzB_Derw5pX4_n48VmqQDf7u8mcqvG-z6W2rN4gdPMNI-7K1CheQmdf/w229-h221/nina%20husband.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The future is calling me...</td></tr></tbody></table><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><br />With Nina van Pallandt, the ciphers don’t line up, but still
the lock opens. A mystery. We have an attractive woman who is way too European
for the 1960s—and the 1960s loved all things European—or thought it did. Somehow,
with that elegant poise, Teutonic mannerisms, and a royal title, maybe we understand
the cultural confusion. But her awkwardness bespeaks knowledge, not nativity.
It’s odd, but there’s an American vibe coming from her attitude, from the
way she half-regards a threat; a rebellious nature not found down the cold
corridors of the Danish Queens. Her spirit was not indolent.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Nina, a free spirit on a windy beach, the Pacific Ocean
frames her figure. And that’s why Robert Altman chose her for <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0070334/">The Long Goodbye</a>, for the
character <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0887684/trivia/">Eileen Wade</a>,
because of her organic, outsider status. That slight, indeterminate accent that
lets you know she’s a survivor. 'Yes', we feel,' she belongs in Malibu much more
than Barbie'. A 1960s beach bunny wouldn’t have worked. Beauty isn’t symmetrical;
it’s the <i>appearance</i> of symmetry. Meet Nina.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NMVEb5MbH2jD3jb2hksmoDTcMJlh_N-l1ButyXfCqLebS5ZqNQh0XgI2QkOe-7sno4w6Wqgwl0oCF4pz0zAVbVnTvGK7MEihwuqSajdVJlA3ZaEihRtLjCzBb7m9OCl1rnPqs_WaUISxUUwkkiWRJK2lQQkfWWLdVF7isQVkgrytQbiarrnBMdCtIfZF/s853/long%20goodbye.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="853" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NMVEb5MbH2jD3jb2hksmoDTcMJlh_N-l1ButyXfCqLebS5ZqNQh0XgI2QkOe-7sno4w6Wqgwl0oCF4pz0zAVbVnTvGK7MEihwuqSajdVJlA3ZaEihRtLjCzBb7m9OCl1rnPqs_WaUISxUUwkkiWRJK2lQQkfWWLdVF7isQVkgrytQbiarrnBMdCtIfZF/s320/long%20goodbye.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Eileen Wade. It’s her greatest role unless you count the
earlier one—as a Danish folk singer married to a royal soon-to-be drug
smuggler. Nina Van Pallandt proves that detachment is just another way of belonging.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">#ninavanpallandt #frederick #singer #actress #actor #thelonggoodbye
#robertaltman #elliotgould #film #popular #pop #culture #ianmclarke
#raymondchandler #cliffordirving #howardhughes #ibizia<o:p></o:p></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-83825740834068971702023-09-13T09:57:00.002-04:002023-10-03T19:32:15.268-04:00Diana Rigg: True to Her Own Spirit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jKz-CIfeh87lF-jJxr1BofU3AOYzWqljzOixMLBhe7pSDZfhwL63P28Z7jNI-ixYmHIu7mL7HseAuAB841zUzYcnLKsEC9-gM_U35x5djK11sR9zywVapEgSclLSB0B_qkTPyiFl6UkDP5RHBYoSbzjGUUufag1Pi3KNIkyHJwT-2cjq_TqpBTeHFLjQ/s522/rigg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="522" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jKz-CIfeh87lF-jJxr1BofU3AOYzWqljzOixMLBhe7pSDZfhwL63P28Z7jNI-ixYmHIu7mL7HseAuAB841zUzYcnLKsEC9-gM_U35x5djK11sR9zywVapEgSclLSB0B_qkTPyiFl6UkDP5RHBYoSbzjGUUufag1Pi3KNIkyHJwT-2cjq_TqpBTeHFLjQ/w458-h310/rigg.jpg" width="458" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In the 1960s, she looked like smart fun. Not so much sensual as kinetic... C’mon, catch up, On a Clear Day You Can See Forever... The promise of fresh excitement. Always on her way to <i>somewhere else</i>. Bright but unburdened. Diana Rigg came to prominence with a playful smirk that spread to a smile; with an independence free from rancor; with delicate femininity that could smash glass. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>Her role as Emma Peel in the TV series The Avengers gave her firm footing. Somehow her Shakespearean training was perfect for a program that embraced theatre of the absurd, and sexual flirtation, often in equal measure. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV02VL-KqubRt9W4iEu6mEW3bIKsV3FONep4jqOh5guJYdu0_gIqi6jTkWzMBgVJeA_NYavMFyd6kIwRAMm1ZI9pvW2IIOD10uhSlCUtci8-9qcY9M-vvDJhVRiW2t47vdI_eF9z5MAy9SCYnuxWE-tL-VaSdNMywIvE5dG7qeUd5u5sE1QEZGol2OFn2w/s1800/rigg_emma%20peel.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1799" data-original-width="1800" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV02VL-KqubRt9W4iEu6mEW3bIKsV3FONep4jqOh5guJYdu0_gIqi6jTkWzMBgVJeA_NYavMFyd6kIwRAMm1ZI9pvW2IIOD10uhSlCUtci8-9qcY9M-vvDJhVRiW2t47vdI_eF9z5MAy9SCYnuxWE-tL-VaSdNMywIvE5dG7qeUd5u5sE1QEZGol2OFn2w/w218-h218/rigg_emma%20peel.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div> It was said she squandered her fame on the theatre. No Bond girl ever tramped by limelight. But her spirit demanded independence. She would not subject herself to Hollywood strictures. Cosmetic surgery not required—for the theatre holds a mirror to the audience, not the performers. So, for the screen, it was bit parts to pay the bills. </div><div><br /></div><div> Euripides, author of Medea, in which she played her greatest role, wrote, “I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees.” Diana Rigg was true to her own spirit. Her beauty is what that looks like.
</div></div><div><br /></div><div>#dianarigg #theavengers #patrickmacnee #bbc #1960s #emmapeel #johnsteed #popart #popculture #gameofthronwa</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-14304412777934768202023-06-27T10:32:00.003-04:002023-06-27T10:32:41.946-04:00Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis: Cultured Queen of Branding<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcIXTScG2gT3My0-YgZoAk7s6jgK1Zlh7AI9zDbJ6VaqYGDuhrn-q9DJ02O5BS8Ttp-26uudnscUhnFZq3cXk7ci12_NQukp1iCjV-n-4mHiQ236T1QQhg3y0sj3AZpi_PJ-3hnMiYlWPVU8kj-MS1Y-qVfqZpIXerhRz7SeogOqjZBBUY2ruMDaAngfy/s1280/jackie%20kennedy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUcIXTScG2gT3My0-YgZoAk7s6jgK1Zlh7AI9zDbJ6VaqYGDuhrn-q9DJ02O5BS8Ttp-26uudnscUhnFZq3cXk7ci12_NQukp1iCjV-n-4mHiQ236T1QQhg3y0sj3AZpi_PJ-3hnMiYlWPVU8kj-MS1Y-qVfqZpIXerhRz7SeogOqjZBBUY2ruMDaAngfy/w480-h270/jackie%20kennedy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /></div><o:p> </o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gertrude Stein, reflecting on her childhood home in Oakland,
California, famously said, ‘There is no there there’. When considering Jacqueline
Kennedy Onassis, that quote seems somewhat applicable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Biographers have had a tough time with Jackie. She was
manipulative and false; she was genuine and kind; she demonstrated women’s
empowerment; she was a submissive cuckquean; she was little more than a hat
rack; she was a style icon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sQicELVZ48sq9dSmNJ2zGvdlfygJ0qwhTtfF0tZYR3XLLI1AljaeAAlawK8ugIiEqXPTLrc2osJdExtTBkJXL61XkRt7A6UpN2hXITkl4rZLlLD8i7FMw5dQk_Joo-IUBsKnEEn0ZX_cJIN5lZyc_uO2Zv-hfU91I647yHcRMr_lDfLBNoYTMxQtoxyU/s1080/Jacqueline%20Kennedy_The%20Queen.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sQicELVZ48sq9dSmNJ2zGvdlfygJ0qwhTtfF0tZYR3XLLI1AljaeAAlawK8ugIiEqXPTLrc2osJdExtTBkJXL61XkRt7A6UpN2hXITkl4rZLlLD8i7FMw5dQk_Joo-IUBsKnEEn0ZX_cJIN5lZyc_uO2Zv-hfU91I647yHcRMr_lDfLBNoYTMxQtoxyU/w214-h214/Jacqueline%20Kennedy_The%20Queen.png" width="214" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where is the 'there'?</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It’s this Zelig-like quality that perpetuates her persona.
For millions of people, she is whatever they want(ed) her to be at any given
moment. When she married John Kennedy in 1953, she knew the score. But it was
worth the ride. The money, fame, and glitz. Then Dallas. And then a slow,
five-year reinvention before shacking with Aristotle Onassis and big bucks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was vilified for selling out, for stamping on love with
lucre, but the critics<br /> undervalued her survival instincts. She <i>needed</i>
that Fifth Avenue apartment to support her brand—for the brand was everything;
it had been from the beginning. No one ever accused Jacqueline Onassis of being
dumb.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was the cultured Queen of Branding, years ahead of her
time. It’s not so much what you do; it’s how you do nothing …because for such geniuses,
for such existential sirens, there really is—and never will be—no there there.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">#</p><br />I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-56473658205442541552023-03-15T17:17:00.006-04:002023-03-28T17:03:39.512-04:00Ian Fleming: Master of the Sex/Death Ratio<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaasVvUaZ1gLJhQmpr2uUQf0fVRnZMThxz1uKJd0p56gud121RHjJl3ui6ggy1eX6jUUWQ4SUU8f4mYAYc4qWPvxRi-o1MK22U81DS7-nRPWqSLx1Yxk5we8_csuMMchrbxHq5mWXkPvP9D_AYT9kevk379wYks2_RHX4plEUor_ttN1cWVb0RCv7FRA/s620/ian-fleming%20banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Ian Fleming. James Bond. 007. Casino Royale." border="0" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="620" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaasVvUaZ1gLJhQmpr2uUQf0fVRnZMThxz1uKJd0p56gud121RHjJl3ui6ggy1eX6jUUWQ4SUU8f4mYAYc4qWPvxRi-o1MK22U81DS7-nRPWqSLx1Yxk5we8_csuMMchrbxHq5mWXkPvP9D_AYT9kevk379wYks2_RHX4plEUor_ttN1cWVb0RCv7FRA/w452-h254/ian-fleming%20banner.jpg" title="Master of the Ratio" width="452" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Author Ian Fleming (1908-64) lived with the insouciance and
bad behaviour reserved for those who have resigned themselves to an early death.
Menefreghismo is an Italian noun which connotes one’s approach to life; it translates–
roughly – as ‘don’t give a shit’. It’s hard to discern what held Fleming’s
interest, but he certainly lived with a free form, unbridled, if not erotic,
passion that seems awkward to a modern sensibility. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And that’s where James Bond comes in. Menefreghismo.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNk3-Tw2TrPmaVmHVAEL16Nb8VCOWOgOrnb6wgtY_vEs2AlzVb3bcWKhtiExgQjsa7QFckkHd1JFlSQg-2oi_YwieyVxGbQ1PV_r58nvwDh3F0iyHgbDImBEW78UrQc-LXCI_xl8UFQP3pCR7hO4BPaOwzRWlfxBFwNF5c3cn0TCF8qnmSu-ROXZ-DeA/s1000/ursula%20andress%20ian%20fleming.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Ursula Andress. Ian Fleming. Dr No. James Bond." border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1000" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNk3-Tw2TrPmaVmHVAEL16Nb8VCOWOgOrnb6wgtY_vEs2AlzVb3bcWKhtiExgQjsa7QFckkHd1JFlSQg-2oi_YwieyVxGbQ1PV_r58nvwDh3F0iyHgbDImBEW78UrQc-LXCI_xl8UFQP3pCR7hO4BPaOwzRWlfxBFwNF5c3cn0TCF8qnmSu-ROXZ-DeA/w201-h152/ursula%20andress%20ian%20fleming.jpg" title="Ursula Andress. Ian Fleming on Dr. No set" width="201" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ursula Andress & the ratio</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Although about one half of the Bond novels were published in
the 1960s, their genealogical roots are embedded in 50’s, and even earlier. That’s
why a female character can be named ‘Pussy Galore’. Not a big deal at the time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And that’s why James Bond, in books and films, was
successful. Fleming knew how to balance the critical sex/death ratio like few
authors before—or since. He was so good at it—and it is the ratio that gives
the early films their life. When, later, the ratio became unstable, so began
the era of Bad Bonds.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ratio is based on the notion that the proximity of death
heightens sexual tension—and, importantly, vice-versa. That’s one reason why you
will never see a child in a Bond film—for a child is the strongest representation
of Life we have. It just messes with the balance. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_aqjYsTgBEfdQ3YxjFIMZjgdHF185zDcQJYS3W3U6K_I15ZZwLAJXXMif10f8hVpTGYuF4k-o47-SaduvESqKsr-IMF4U3QAVNQ1F1mNYVc7Q9QDk1nzLFXk_HZvgtlEPdkOsU72awBe_lM15d-hSbzsXWO8Nf9zUBiYqf8S4624404NFnWzjGuCCA/s275/ian%20fleming%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_aqjYsTgBEfdQ3YxjFIMZjgdHF185zDcQJYS3W3U6K_I15ZZwLAJXXMif10f8hVpTGYuF4k-o47-SaduvESqKsr-IMF4U3QAVNQ1F1mNYVc7Q9QDk1nzLFXk_HZvgtlEPdkOsU72awBe_lM15d-hSbzsXWO8Nf9zUBiYqf8S4624404NFnWzjGuCCA/w130-h195/ian%20fleming%202.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><br />The ratio is based on post-WW II notions of masculinity and femininity. Small wonder Fleming was among John F. Kennedy's favorite authors.
Times change. JB (James Bond) got the JB (Jason Bourne) reboot in Casino Royale
(2006). Now it was mostly about hand-to-hand fighting, lightning cuts, and
constant close-ups. However, the ratio did appear, however warily, when needed.
<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoListBullet" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">Ian Fleming died as he lived, fully aware that
the ratio was unlivable. But longevity was never the point for Fleming, or
Bond. It was to greet Death at his own door, look in his eyes, and say, ‘Your
move’.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">#ianfleming #jamesbond #ursulaandress #drno #diamondsareforever
#danielcraig #seanconnery #1960s #popculture #popularculture #film
#casinoroyale<o:p></o:p></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-46148626725617102872023-01-04T11:06:00.005-05:002023-03-15T21:27:21.262-04:00Elizabeth Taylor: The Sublime Performance of Her Face<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoLtLOF1zrIu6tQVJN4SGzQqnkIoUVlRB1wpErKid0RlnwCnR2pg7I_YT97feIAxHyKblwXylpH6Czec2gjqwOIenrMdo59V7T9IvYH69G2QD-XwH8n2ybfuDa-BKwJcqdKGncwRQPJyJtElHGTGCDgSjuQ4InIQBp4XcugaycSIB_QWalgaiSxC67w/s800/Elizabeth-taylor-eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="800" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoLtLOF1zrIu6tQVJN4SGzQqnkIoUVlRB1wpErKid0RlnwCnR2pg7I_YT97feIAxHyKblwXylpH6Czec2gjqwOIenrMdo59V7T9IvYH69G2QD-XwH8n2ybfuDa-BKwJcqdKGncwRQPJyJtElHGTGCDgSjuQ4InIQBp4XcugaycSIB_QWalgaiSxC67w/w501-h278/Elizabeth-taylor-eyes.jpg" width="501" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps it is the sublime performance of her face. Her
perfect nose… violet/blue eyes that turn whatever color you want. Beauty is an
accident that never waits to happen. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She remains a movie star, a celluloid daemon that only asks
for light to live. We see her as a child, already fluent with assumed attitudes
and false fronts. Then, a young woman, soon to mount the golden throne, unassailable,
Cleopatra-like, the greatest of them all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqLFG8NqVrGuQbGdrUdrmdcPKzfnQMFgdpEzG0ezM7L7IjvxzKMwAHBAFGs41giCNXUc-0cvGRt5UIBGmmxZ35Yjad4EPrM_LKuAAVzCekZq6MeriUnY2Tn3o3NazHOmvcDjZ75j1st1j8DDf_hTirYpvU0V8NEyK64Yx3EVW3e_nWL2TmkwWxDkgkg/s560/Elizabeth%20Taylor%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="453" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqLFG8NqVrGuQbGdrUdrmdcPKzfnQMFgdpEzG0ezM7L7IjvxzKMwAHBAFGs41giCNXUc-0cvGRt5UIBGmmxZ35Yjad4EPrM_LKuAAVzCekZq6MeriUnY2Tn3o3NazHOmvcDjZ75j1st1j8DDf_hTirYpvU0V8NEyK64Yx3EVW3e_nWL2TmkwWxDkgkg/w152-h187/Elizabeth%20Taylor%201.jpg" width="152" /></a></div>Then the illness, the awards, the husbands, the lovers—all
that is demanded by a wayward congregation, always on tiptoes, eyes above the
crowd, praying for just a glimpse of the Queen as she enters a long, dark
limousine.<br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A better actor than accredited by critics, her supernova
publicity was too blinding to clearly see a performance. Her fame exceeded
skill, always a dangerous condition, but one that she embraced, selling toiletries
one day, AIDS awareness the next. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For few ever had such a clinical understanding of Hollywood as
Elizabeth Taylor. It used her, she used it. Simple, honest, and as coarse as
the Hollywood sign itself.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQRTjWLgSmyzu_lskpaHNvqUyp32HiAWtd3sNWjB5rL5dYMrPvT-jT99_jEfvSkysRpi86sC6NmMuKYEv6uY2gyYD3aeMJGr1Whcwqd6sxlC0VGGd1nGTVK88R8a2Cjoi7WWDOPic2DjlaYGNDYPbjyljCkH8KJ7JcHTJKvKL3i731cdyzI5OX4IAdg/s494/Elizabeth%20Taylor%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="452" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQRTjWLgSmyzu_lskpaHNvqUyp32HiAWtd3sNWjB5rL5dYMrPvT-jT99_jEfvSkysRpi86sC6NmMuKYEv6uY2gyYD3aeMJGr1Whcwqd6sxlC0VGGd1nGTVK88R8a2Cjoi7WWDOPic2DjlaYGNDYPbjyljCkH8KJ7JcHTJKvKL3i731cdyzI5OX4IAdg/w182-h199/Elizabeth%20Taylor%202.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gratefully, movie stars cannot be manufactured. There are
too many unknowns that must intertwine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
magic remains with the magician. Those most committed to celestial heights
embrace an entrepreneurial spiritualism. They just seem to know what to sell, when,
and to whom.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Somehow, against all odds, Elizabeth Taylor discovered how
to fall deeply and passionately in love with herself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>#elizabethtaylor #richardburton #cleopatra #miketodd #1960s #popculture #moviestar #michaeljackson </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-56355245870524566892022-11-11T16:24:00.002-05:002023-03-15T21:28:43.770-04:00Jane Fonda: Redeemed by Resilience<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cYZQotKjtn_v6zque86VciDNlr4McEXD1Rps7spUq9cg-Ld9OBe-IV130jS_aNyGmcv9bjEfx6DIj6H8Q03SPWWhE6PgGZZL53EQe26vgZGFZa59aLKFXqcSQ9Pf0h-fgx5RnSLtb9Cbj7i4FmewLam_TyIW-Wtc20np2J4U1NLhqFXc9hCDSwAoVg/s1050/Fonda%20in%20Klute.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="1050" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cYZQotKjtn_v6zque86VciDNlr4McEXD1Rps7spUq9cg-Ld9OBe-IV130jS_aNyGmcv9bjEfx6DIj6H8Q03SPWWhE6PgGZZL53EQe26vgZGFZa59aLKFXqcSQ9Pf0h-fgx5RnSLtb9Cbj7i4FmewLam_TyIW-Wtc20np2J4U1NLhqFXc9hCDSwAoVg/w550-h229/Fonda%20in%20Klute.jpg" width="550" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“Well, there's this man... and I don't know exactly what
he wants out of me, or anything like that. But he took care of me… When you're
used to being lonely and somebody comes in...and moves that around, it's sort
of scary I guess…I want to...manipulate him. In all the ways that I can
manipulate people. I mean, it's easy to manipulate men. Right?”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Dialogue from <i>‘Klute’</i> (1971)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was never robust, but had a hardness about her, as if Life,
early on, had delivered low blows…. a mother’s suicide, an industry that
celebrated beauty above brains… You could hear it in her sharp delivery, see it
in her curt smiles. Perhaps Jane Fonda’s sublimated pain compelled her – professionally
and personally – to haphazard choices.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We have a sex queen in <i>Barbarella</i> (1968) evolving into
a political activist who poses in a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gun unit in
Hanoi (1972). Just four years apart... Aside from an extremely private pursuit of integrity, she’s to be admired more for diligence than condemned
for dreadful photo ops.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLecqlaxbnUk3GQivrrTNbQXhWaw2Ii9KjfpopscmKX7k-MsDhvaCn14QqchA26cBwyF_feayoqaSx-4eQPBlyYCobrTepT_9vriyoyStOM7XneqXLwfVZhjvaQFPy5vRLeCdLJUcglSnwEG4KmIpNeCegEQpYtEsZeL9rzTk7VyMBy_MO9gDyPsZsg/s809/jane%201.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="650" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLecqlaxbnUk3GQivrrTNbQXhWaw2Ii9KjfpopscmKX7k-MsDhvaCn14QqchA26cBwyF_feayoqaSx-4eQPBlyYCobrTepT_9vriyoyStOM7XneqXLwfVZhjvaQFPy5vRLeCdLJUcglSnwEG4KmIpNeCegEQpYtEsZeL9rzTk7VyMBy_MO9gDyPsZsg/w160-h199/jane%201.jpg" width="160" /></a></div> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It comes as little surprise that her greatest role is of an emotionally
damaged prostitute, striving to escape ‘the life’. The film <i>Klute </i>(1971)
seems tailormade for someone detaching from the corporeal and sliding into a
more cosmic vibe, the world of the mind where people can’t find you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jane Fonda always hummed with a West Coast 60s
ethos…but never a hippy like brother Peter. There was a drive to escape <i>herself</i>,
to transition the entertainer, the dancing bear, to Citizen Jane, to be taken
seriously, damn it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And she was. Jane Fonda was redeemed by her resilience. She
never let up. Even her exercise videos attest to a discipline unknown by many. Relaxation
is not in her lexicon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She always had
more angular lines than curves. And it was this emotional awkwardness that
empowered her performances. Her difficulty in expressing compassion and
understanding did indeed look real.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-D9u-oDJdlnMdxYbeuKcUyDQDQYPm3sC94pz5IGEiUwtNSuN5WBlnDIk0twyY7HpVfCjiWcpqB0PnmpP6TVuzAGUscNA6t2cz48OiBQgFyoSh1ejrUqXUXLnSj6NWImJY6-VxWX0WnPhpDMf_hcdwrqCXhNcYBkeAyfWGSWibEzWCqOCkb9rUYiAOQ/s500/barbarella.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="334" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-D9u-oDJdlnMdxYbeuKcUyDQDQYPm3sC94pz5IGEiUwtNSuN5WBlnDIk0twyY7HpVfCjiWcpqB0PnmpP6TVuzAGUscNA6t2cz48OiBQgFyoSh1ejrUqXUXLnSj6NWImJY6-VxWX0WnPhpDMf_hcdwrqCXhNcYBkeAyfWGSWibEzWCqOCkb9rUYiAOQ/w165-h247/barbarella.jpg" width="165" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Again, from<i> Klute.“You make a man think that he's accepted. It's all
just a great big game to you. You're all obviously too lazy and too warped to
do anything meaningful with your life, so you prey upon the sexual fantasies of
others. I'm sure it comes as no great surprise to you when I say that...there
are little corners in everyone which were better off left alone. Little
sicknesses, weaknesses, which should never be exposed. That's your stock in
trade, isn't it, a man's weakness? I was never really fully aware of mine...</i><i>until you brought them out.”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In her best roles, perhaps in her life, Jane Fonda reveals the
difficulty of emotional honesty. And the camera just loves emotional honesty. It’s
so difficult to fake.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">#janefonda #klute #donaldsutherland #peterfonda #1960s #cult #film #rogervadim #barbarella #vietnam #film #review #pop #culture</p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-2773067561718659102022-08-09T09:51:00.001-04:002023-03-15T21:30:32.781-04:00 Princess Margaret: Just a Passenger in Life<p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9fu7jNHKIfe2abbwEm-FmRoLtpTxKqiMWjtpsfMHHJPwEoVpLhVP5Fvj4AAintMDVpSovek4E4Uqa7UhllAz40ZvrBMVLpG0O3itG6TT5WVKSkzKuMSGI1E4MXvTrq5LcQpjN7rQg5pUShpVtHlSqxP8A8xAnvPfThEw0UCGZ4ELwjQLAl_d-lMllg/s1916/banner2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="1916" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9fu7jNHKIfe2abbwEm-FmRoLtpTxKqiMWjtpsfMHHJPwEoVpLhVP5Fvj4AAintMDVpSovek4E4Uqa7UhllAz40ZvrBMVLpG0O3itG6TT5WVKSkzKuMSGI1E4MXvTrq5LcQpjN7rQg5pUShpVtHlSqxP8A8xAnvPfThEw0UCGZ4ELwjQLAl_d-lMllg/w656-h278/banner2.jpg" width="656" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Princess Margaret became a little manic at receiving such
approval of her musical abilities, and she started wriggling around in her
crinoline and tiara as she tried to mimic the sexual movements of the
professional entertainer. Her dress with its petticoats bolstered by the wooden
hoops that ballooned her skirts was unsuitable for the slinky act but all the
rapturous applause seemed to make her forget this. Just when she had embarked
on a rendering of “Let’s Do It,” a very menacing and unexpected sound came from
the back of the crowded ballroom. It grew louder and louder until it eclipsed
Princess Margaret’s singing. It was the sound of jeering and hissing, of
prolonged and thunderous booing. – </i>Caroline Blackwood</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">‘Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret, the Countess of
Snowdon, the younger sister of Queen Elizabeth II of England’... That
was on her business card, so to speak…</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBPmIPrjFrqrja1z-2LofOsqbvodDPGdas1aaVK8TdGFswXBq81Bi_S65gbQ_4EwB0gZ8mfap-P5TqioK4p3lbVcK3Bfbn7tQIhfYLrHMVYy-77K_aFJpCvnbGHd9DtXmqcP9wK_4UEoWhtAt_zFeAzfsXshS39GexHqPE3HpzJmgTImH2UCtRGhS8A/s1024/margaret%20jagger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBPmIPrjFrqrja1z-2LofOsqbvodDPGdas1aaVK8TdGFswXBq81Bi_S65gbQ_4EwB0gZ8mfap-P5TqioK4p3lbVcK3Bfbn7tQIhfYLrHMVYy-77K_aFJpCvnbGHd9DtXmqcP9wK_4UEoWhtAt_zFeAzfsXshS39GexHqPE3HpzJmgTImH2UCtRGhS8A/w171-h129/margaret%20jagger.jpg" width="171" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Her sister is just over there, over in the shadows… so what else to do but
crank it up and what better time in the history of the planet than the 1960s? Swim through the hemp fog, scotch in hand, to set
the table on a roar. There was the drinking, the parties, the men, the cutting
remarks, the petty squabbles. Given her position to do good things, why turn so
sour?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUjrPImjIk4HauqkJ24PLWD5cr0krd1txlXfABlgPan5u62Nx-rmxdrypsJfQI78vqlkGUaWONKhGfO3tgT0r9x3nai9FiTi6PHMSLgx2pYEyIfZaQcX5KF78OZpZPZHNZUr0tr-C7IYPmlcj922BszbJqXaFDlSC_OEGGutsXCBLlOifW3w2IS7CKiw/s3440/barbara%20and%20margaret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3440" data-original-width="3416" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUjrPImjIk4HauqkJ24PLWD5cr0krd1txlXfABlgPan5u62Nx-rmxdrypsJfQI78vqlkGUaWONKhGfO3tgT0r9x3nai9FiTi6PHMSLgx2pYEyIfZaQcX5KF78OZpZPZHNZUr0tr-C7IYPmlcj922BszbJqXaFDlSC_OEGGutsXCBLlOifW3w2IS7CKiw/w236-h237/barbara%20and%20margaret.jpg" width="236" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Why indeed. Her friends disappeared or lingered only for tidbits.
The men left her. If they stayed, it seemed for something they could later
trade. She was…tolerated. So there she is, nightclubbing with Liza and Mick and
McCartney and whoever was called to the table.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Cloistered during the formative years, she was ill-equipped for
the world of grownups. Too often rude, too self-involved, too selfish… perhaps
too smart, too many ribbons to cut, too many hands to shake.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">At the time of her death, the papers wrote of a
wasted life, privilege squandered, time wasted, and talent ignored. “I have
always had a dread of becoming a passenger in life,” she mused... Well, she was successful
in that regard: but was she pushed from the train or did she jump? </span></span><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">#princessmargaret #royalfamily #english #britain #queenelizabeth #princediana #princeharry #scandal #1960s #paulmccartney #mickjagger #petersellers</span></span></div>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-2123463520005233072022-05-04T12:04:00.003-04:002023-03-15T21:32:53.758-04:00Jim Morrison: Rage from the Stage but Think on the Page<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrlHnkIuJHw5IyOqv5hk55RSP1Bgxsisgokf4JC5e6-9erm8nMQXHzNGIl_PdLl6461RZQAfXVx-vmJVOymVbuoGdBUy_BeI2H_Bf_HrISR88XA8EXaT0dXCP168Nr0ymI9vXAT5-wd6d7je97v3x0FyLw1OVMgAMF4KGTuFEUY0K58WMJQ61nFF92g/s584/jim_morrison_banner.jpeg.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="584" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrlHnkIuJHw5IyOqv5hk55RSP1Bgxsisgokf4JC5e6-9erm8nMQXHzNGIl_PdLl6461RZQAfXVx-vmJVOymVbuoGdBUy_BeI2H_Bf_HrISR88XA8EXaT0dXCP168Nr0ymI9vXAT5-wd6d7je97v3x0FyLw1OVMgAMF4KGTuFEUY0K58WMJQ61nFF92g/w553-h241/jim_morrison_banner.jpeg.webp" width="553" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Whether he
lacked the talent or time to develop into a great poet remains unclear. Much of
Jim Morrison’s brief life is obscured—perhaps strategically—with vague
pronouncements, clumsy metaphors, spacey diatribes and art house pretension.
But when he was great, he drifted far beyond expectations, completely original,
yet always too smart for the job.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Importantly,
Jim Morrison <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">looked </i>like a rock star.
The image matched the music—perfectly. In 1967, he invented how a rock star
must appear—the hair, the leather pants, the boots, even the attitude. So
powerful is the image of Morrison that his influence remains undiminished.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">With The
Doors, he found a band to match his dark visions. Ray Manzarek’s brooding organ
seemed wired to Morrison’s dread. When Morrison died, so did The Doors, though
they struggled for a while, pushed on by the momentum of their silent singer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5d9-yL8Uh1qApGQP7ec08TWuhKznozBa8NeorXvtjXgP7OVrl3cXku038nFWz66CwLAhjIN1g1L9xnauIiIidXOYIDqeOJpihu-LYcU_AiQDrgPAsIaSNZU8gQx4PBaDw0Cb41QRXYcU75_ywBA5n0EHq09jmPUV8qcwnIamjzmBes37hKfgUURN52w/s1200/jim-moririson_the-doors.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5d9-yL8Uh1qApGQP7ec08TWuhKznozBa8NeorXvtjXgP7OVrl3cXku038nFWz66CwLAhjIN1g1L9xnauIiIidXOYIDqeOJpihu-LYcU_AiQDrgPAsIaSNZU8gQx4PBaDw0Cb41QRXYcU75_ywBA5n0EHq09jmPUV8qcwnIamjzmBes37hKfgUURN52w/w236-h124/jim-moririson_the-doors.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">He grew
uncomfortable with show business, more artist than magician, more preacher than
singer, hungering for fame until aware too late his soul had stopped. You can
rage from the stage but only think on the page.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Restless demons
empowered his words. He battled bravely until no drug or drink could forestall
The Big Sleep—which was his end game anyway. Or maybe not. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With months to live, he was trying to get
better in Paris, get his lungs back, repair a heart damaged by rheumatic fever,
but never made it. His girlfriend didn’t help. Or maybe it was all predestined,
just as he had predicted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like his
contemporary, George Harrison, much of Morrison’s life seems passed in
preparation for death. And Death always obliges the eager.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2VWBqWZUlDQ3eB0DSubRcgUxPA77m6NUMi-jIN1NL9uBB8WtmnkqBWLTv11IJW8x64OyQy7FZoNmUkInxY3FXxBTK83ydt1qVO45wJ_63fgg9PpEMxMM0hdSPf6i8d7TLLx9xx16eoFLOtCscbANd78h3Ku_UFY-lvLMN658tVSGBklTEkIClzrBTw/s980/Jim-Morrison%20reading.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="671" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2VWBqWZUlDQ3eB0DSubRcgUxPA77m6NUMi-jIN1NL9uBB8WtmnkqBWLTv11IJW8x64OyQy7FZoNmUkInxY3FXxBTK83ydt1qVO45wJ_63fgg9PpEMxMM0hdSPf6i8d7TLLx9xx16eoFLOtCscbANd78h3Ku_UFY-lvLMN658tVSGBklTEkIClzrBTw/w165-h241/Jim-Morrison%20reading.jpg" width="165" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At Pere </span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lachaise Cemetery, Jim Morrison</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> appears nightly, courtesy of The 27
Club, alone in a dimly lit corner, forever searching for that single, indelible, timeless line that always tells the truth. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">#jimmorrison #thedoors #lizardking #lawoman #lightmyfire #classicrock #perelachaise #georgeharrison #1960s #rock #music #27club #losangeles #whiskeyagogo</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-80744564925003634382022-02-09T12:17:00.002-05:002023-03-16T10:29:57.346-04:00Eve Babitz: It’s All About Eve<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1rSRGtxE0fYb5FpCNMvxf2Br1nCSsFTKm_2w4I_InuopL19-Ip3GkdL5tGLMhyloWB6LH7KYqaJ6ndNa_9SVL5i7P0tlECpV5Te4xLnAt-JscZI0qgLaETcEr1zgoetcMHneHAELYww5rmDH-lSEhjU6ojphICuM4Fo4RygFqNpEZmN05WbLo2YXYXg=s681" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="681" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1rSRGtxE0fYb5FpCNMvxf2Br1nCSsFTKm_2w4I_InuopL19-Ip3GkdL5tGLMhyloWB6LH7KYqaJ6ndNa_9SVL5i7P0tlECpV5Te4xLnAt-JscZI0qgLaETcEr1zgoetcMHneHAELYww5rmDH-lSEhjU6ojphICuM4Fo4RygFqNpEZmN05WbLo2YXYXg=w499-h280" width="499" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Though
labelled a 1960s ‘It Girl’ (but never ‘a West Coast Edie Sedgwick’), <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/12/19/obituaries/eve-babitz-dead.html">Eve
Babitz</a>, through force of personality, creativity, and a hard buzz of
underlying craziness, made herself, and those </span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">around her, an enduring work of art. That’s a rare
achievement that can’t be strategized or funded—thank God. (Corporations remained puzzled,
restricted by an invisible blockade, unable to monetize whatever ‘It’ is.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Consider ‘It’ as yet another definition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">organic</i>. Eve belongs more to a ‘sense’ of time & place than
actual Los Angeles in the 1960s-70s... <a href="https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1949/faulkner/biographical/">Faulkner</a>
is always the Deep South. <a href="https://www.biography.com/writer/f-scott-fitzgerald">Fitzgerald</a>
remains preserved in the sparking lapis lazuli of the Jazz Age. A time &
place. That’s Eve.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaA08vsIL3ZKoor50VC73gz_IzkQBwr35EW9V7KJ3y-2NXK6Oqhxq5LTQlWY8l7CTfZpiEWzIpvL5w1x95VssSIzF4QB28V52GuilmKVvyDwgkxPOBU0LoJvhaaGN9rTUdCYH9zPqunQlEw4WoVVIZ0FLIzw2csdb1P7MVyOwBKOlTI8-f0tmhM5zIJw=s2000" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="2000" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaA08vsIL3ZKoor50VC73gz_IzkQBwr35EW9V7KJ3y-2NXK6Oqhxq5LTQlWY8l7CTfZpiEWzIpvL5w1x95VssSIzF4QB28V52GuilmKVvyDwgkxPOBU0LoJvhaaGN9rTUdCYH9zPqunQlEw4WoVVIZ0FLIzw2csdb1P7MVyOwBKOlTI8-f0tmhM5zIJw=w267-h185" width="267" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">So there she is seated, <a href="https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-marcel-duchamp-played-chess-naked-eve-babitz">naked
with pendulous breasts</a>, playing chess with <a href="https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/themes/dada/marcel-duchamp-and-the-readymade/">Marcel
Duchamp</a> (1963), in a moment definitely closer to Dadaism than Cubism. Or
she’s dancing somewhere on the Sunset Strip, in a hot club with Warren Beatty
or </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Steve Martin or Ahmet Ertegun or Stephen
Stills or Jim Morrison or Edward Ruscha or Warren Zevon or Harrison
Ford… or whomever. More explorer than groupie. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Her appetite for Life was
enormous, enabling true participatory journalism, involuntarily leap-frogging Tom
Wolfe and Norman Mailer and Hunter Thompson and other practitioners of ‘new
journalism’. Eve wrote about Eve, even though it’s never clear she totally
understood her subject. Thankfully, it’s all about Eve.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtutNQoQtgZGCRa70yCe8pckEGZmZp1faHbjPI6UTjGL2Ma5SuibcHs0mIqxNPPjEg0b1jvWDVaqwpZfzB9UGRh9J5cdc4kMSOswXjzDSsR04ffZgR9I_iPahUkxipDZhBgkshz8WdyeMUDAHFyPr80nZiFgitpecgB1LInfkGpXJ5ARmHDRUwt8grjg=s1224" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1224" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtutNQoQtgZGCRa70yCe8pckEGZmZp1faHbjPI6UTjGL2Ma5SuibcHs0mIqxNPPjEg0b1jvWDVaqwpZfzB9UGRh9J5cdc4kMSOswXjzDSsR04ffZgR9I_iPahUkxipDZhBgkshz8WdyeMUDAHFyPr80nZiFgitpecgB1LInfkGpXJ5ARmHDRUwt8grjg=w240-h134" width="240" /></a></div><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Her books and articles have a wayward
honesty that pull readers into tentative friendships: you want to travel with
her, but remain firmly in the back seat.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Eve’s often outrageous behavior is
somehow subsumed in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inevitability </i>of
her actions—as if ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it had to happen this
way. Can you describe a more interesting alternative?’<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, it’s those restless, Peter Pan-eccentric
spirits, garnishing dull days with pixie dust, then to dance beneath diamond skies, to bequeath us the prayer ‘There’s wild magic everywhere. You only have to move.’<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">#evebabitz #losangeles #warrenbeatty #jimmorrison #harrisonford #normanmailer #huntersthompson #marcelduchamp #fscottfitzgerald #williamfaulkner #edie sedgwick #andywarhol #1960s #1970s</span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-91393633750873076182022-01-14T09:19:00.002-05:002023-03-16T10:31:19.806-04:00D.B. Cooper: Brushing Heaven’s Gate With a Landing Light<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgj6AwMsAQG6IXx73yZWeUeg0ti1-XS-3vBQOZK7_X9lyWhNdjqlqCuDaT_QKto0vYTWQPAGfeN6O_AFpSke4a4U1AiQ0xYSUyp3C9vBIvQP4oxsWXAcq4vi61LQOk1eh-ME2Jo34or6rphNHVZXTltPVrreVGtP2J-FTy7jczAEOcmINdZo4bwcfCp-A=s1050" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="1050" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgj6AwMsAQG6IXx73yZWeUeg0ti1-XS-3vBQOZK7_X9lyWhNdjqlqCuDaT_QKto0vYTWQPAGfeN6O_AFpSke4a4U1AiQ0xYSUyp3C9vBIvQP4oxsWXAcq4vi61LQOk1eh-ME2Jo34or6rphNHVZXTltPVrreVGtP2J-FTy7jczAEOcmINdZo4bwcfCp-A=w413-h372" width="413" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>D.B. Cooper...or whatever...</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">Do not
look for him<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">In
brittle mountain streams<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">And do
not examine the angry rivers<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">For shreds
of his body<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">Or turn
the shore stones for his blood<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">But in
the warm salt ocean<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">He is descending
through cliffs<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">Of slow
green water<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">And
hovering colored fish<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">Kiss his
snow-bruised body<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">And
build their secret nests<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span lang="EN-CA">In his
fluttering winding-sheet<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 54pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-CA">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-CA">Leonard
Cohen<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj30vj3P8M_w0BIk9gCZ1T_G6FUmUz1SYebUWmPHhlKn31yT7L5MWQmwsAiiqutBFzrqCzGIL36MHUIlIBuTmvjc9Za5tXXkg7F4Tvc6xM8ZBYfMTSpKIsceIdrPlpTHh1wvjVGZQN5jJ47IRf-6dogathzEZTu_xKbEkFEmEcKG7DEGzndmSH4JD1ytg=s785" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="785" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj30vj3P8M_w0BIk9gCZ1T_G6FUmUz1SYebUWmPHhlKn31yT7L5MWQmwsAiiqutBFzrqCzGIL36MHUIlIBuTmvjc9Za5tXXkg7F4Tvc6xM8ZBYfMTSpKIsceIdrPlpTHh1wvjVGZQN5jJ47IRf-6dogathzEZTu_xKbEkFEmEcKG7DEGzndmSH4JD1ytg=w236-h200" width="236" /></a></div><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He hails from 1971 but
the vibe is sooo 60s. He’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonnie_and_Clyde">Clyde Barrow</a> with a
parachute. He’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randle_McMurphy">Randle
McMurphy</a> escaping into the midnight trees. Nobody really knows anything
about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D._B._Cooper">D.B. Cooper</a>,
except that he hijacked a Boeing 727, got $200,000, and jumped out at 10,000
feet with a parachute over southwest Washington State. Pitch black. Raining. Never
seen or heard from again. No body. No parachute. Nada. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The snake eats its tail.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The crime remains the only unsolved air piracy in
commercial aviation history. It’s driven people crazy. Thousands of
books and articles have been written. There are a million theories. Why? Ask
yourself why?</p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUZ4LEE36YuTZVWC-2vd6QOha75O2fzEsf0fIkKMr1uu14_nJxX0Kn_gA0YRDN8RQbrSfSPJoKS3tM_V78kf-B92z12rvZqkj9lxdrc4TXuYILgIijbP2wjr_63MJk-7yBfBPWKPrbR-MbR726VB0qbrbop9hy2Wtrl9qXaytEzBa5pGS0_HdDwE5v3A=s506" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="504" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUZ4LEE36YuTZVWC-2vd6QOha75O2fzEsf0fIkKMr1uu14_nJxX0Kn_gA0YRDN8RQbrSfSPJoKS3tM_V78kf-B92z12rvZqkj9lxdrc4TXuYILgIijbP2wjr_63MJk-7yBfBPWKPrbR-MbR726VB0qbrbop9hy2Wtrl9qXaytEzBa5pGS0_HdDwE5v3A=w196-h197" width="196" /></a></div>The FBI has given up. Exhausted after decades of futility...
He’s gone baby gone, this black-feathered defrocked angel that ordered a
bourbon and soda, stared out the plane’s window, then vanished forever into the
night, as if he was never there; as if he never existed. He is
Camus’ Meursault, but more than an outsider—someone who has no
need for terra firma; a fading phantom who cannot be traced through
corporeal stigmata.<br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They could never find him because they were always looking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">down</i>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This narrative is clearly airborne. It
has to do with winding jet streams and falling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">into</i> the sky and holding onto the back of that silent condor as it
sweeps up to the moon and brushes heaven’s gate with a landing light.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">#dbcooper #hijack #cult #criminal #1971 #boeing #popculture</p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-60963523806883687072022-01-03T10:39:00.003-05:002023-03-16T10:32:58.566-04:00Kurt Vonnegut: Trapped in the Amber of this Moment<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv5SiJPPTlkABqaOXbUL1Hwx-kbQ8vgk3P7tmwXdaBBQcSHI-s4I618DTuU5aj6dS_iY3YCO-MmnT8oNzldlDnlXBA3NXrfnn4qV7pUm7ZpwP-K2VPol-qO52MgEw6w7SnDMSxRhSvlCTqb65MpU_PqTgpyOkNDShFPuzNqubgDyq-61o0gtchdqsHUw=s615" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="615" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv5SiJPPTlkABqaOXbUL1Hwx-kbQ8vgk3P7tmwXdaBBQcSHI-s4I618DTuU5aj6dS_iY3YCO-MmnT8oNzldlDnlXBA3NXrfnn4qV7pUm7ZpwP-K2VPol-qO52MgEw6w7SnDMSxRhSvlCTqb65MpU_PqTgpyOkNDShFPuzNqubgDyq-61o0gtchdqsHUw=w537-h305" width="537" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He looked like the themes he wrote about—a slightly
debauched Mark Twain who just may have traded river rafts for a space ships, and
cigars for cigarettes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Kurt Vonnegut had seen war close up with burning
fleshing in the air and eventually counterbalanced the horror with child-like euphemisms.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZSOCPZPuqm2nemKMebzfCeb_PfAZ7lV5ij6zPCpdBzcpCMQCVERIWMapNcNiQlHwDX9cPuO6kUKLwYI_Tw7V_ofp5Cz3aCev_DkyqFmIkL4pLGAYW3Vs_AGTfC7vkBI9zAmo56I55UvkZFtcvmc6D8y3gR3GQqfuY-k0pgJDD5G8gL9jHw83mPvLikg=s500" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="340" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZSOCPZPuqm2nemKMebzfCeb_PfAZ7lV5ij6zPCpdBzcpCMQCVERIWMapNcNiQlHwDX9cPuO6kUKLwYI_Tw7V_ofp5Cz3aCev_DkyqFmIkL4pLGAYW3Vs_AGTfC7vkBI9zAmo56I55UvkZFtcvmc6D8y3gR3GQqfuY-k0pgJDD5G8gL9jHw83mPvLikg=w158-h232" width="158" /></a></div><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">His novels were somehow meta long before
self-awareness became buddy-buddy with irony. His books are easy-to-read prophesies,
non-sectarian but spiritual, dark with a flashing light at the end of the
tunnel.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">An obvious humanitarian, Vonnegut was wary of
humanity. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slaughterhouse House Five</i>,
which he claimed to be his best book, isn’t about World War Two so much as it’s
about the kind of people who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">participated</i>
in the war and how it affected them. His skill comes in melding the fantastic to
the ordinary—and in that way explains how easily evil may overcome good, and
vice-versa.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Like Hemingway, his sentences are deceptively simple. With
Vonnegut, you’re misled by the often sophomoric humor, glib insights or
near-cartoon characters. Then, later, the full force of the message hits you
and that rare and precious </span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">reader-writer connection clicks in.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTiLF4MQa9P2OWW8VjdJnW4y3T6r9X4yzgzlDpAAb8uVnPIC1OlAqpOnoPpng2cZjz6jd-Prt0QSZFguyNRum1BuM-fMoltqMajd8tnDjKqlf2ywU7D2IAqGXTSpNm1EJVBZEXHSGBkh2VGjnVQcp43WpS_Fnr6NT3lyZiUz9AG1p8qcqcS3e1CunyBA=s790" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="603" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTiLF4MQa9P2OWW8VjdJnW4y3T6r9X4yzgzlDpAAb8uVnPIC1OlAqpOnoPpng2cZjz6jd-Prt0QSZFguyNRum1BuM-fMoltqMajd8tnDjKqlf2ywU7D2IAqGXTSpNm1EJVBZEXHSGBkh2VGjnVQcp43WpS_Fnr6NT3lyZiUz9AG1p8qcqcS3e1CunyBA=s320" width="244" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Initially embraced by the 1960s counter-culture, Vonnegut aged without
relinquishing his Mark Twain follicles and cigarettes, his mustache sagging
under the weight of worries—that humans might not make it over the fence; that
people are too smart in the wrong way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There is a Zen quality to his writing, as if he’s seeking the tranquility
to be found in the acceptance that no one, ever, has really understood life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> ---</span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>“Why me?"<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>“That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you?
Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you
ever seen bugs trapped in amber?"<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>"Yes."<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>- Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this
moment. There is no why.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-size: 14pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">- Slaughterhouse
Five<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> #kurtvonnegut #vonnegut #slaughterhousefive #author #american #counterculture #huntersthompson #billypilgrim #glenngould</o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-11691294369158268802021-10-19T11:22:00.005-04:002023-03-16T10:34:35.268-04:00Anna Karina: The Importance of the Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37H2YGEoQH7HgXHZxyvwQG_rHysW1mUF9kmNMhT8-DyQXHs-wpcjI1cMXeDbtJs9xupmNIgFJC5PW67bcm3Wt2HEMhmnC_Tl5F1g60N1CTFjmShVqNY8r6QBLq8gJMWeF8rDS05aOGQ5s/s747/anna+banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="747" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37H2YGEoQH7HgXHZxyvwQG_rHysW1mUF9kmNMhT8-DyQXHs-wpcjI1cMXeDbtJs9xupmNIgFJC5PW67bcm3Wt2HEMhmnC_Tl5F1g60N1CTFjmShVqNY8r6QBLq8gJMWeF8rDS05aOGQ5s/w766-h204/anna+banner.jpg" width="766" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>She didn’t
belong with the hippies. She wasn’t rebelling. She wasn’t stoned. With <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXPtNTw0Hrk">Anna Karina</a>, you could see
the love of life was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9bZDKBk81g">on
her face</a>, even when bathed in a vale of tears.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivN7T2eV5a6nPpEs0evPNfjRpodLUDrKBjiprdjQXQl6FXBlq9rslDQmovNxOxCeu8PHb_0wsd2kBMqEOTMRGgbYoi9AZnZ2C0g-icbZGFYmHDI5WoRHyw33R39UtJoXrCqoFUtQPwuUbR/s934/anna+karina.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="934" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivN7T2eV5a6nPpEs0evPNfjRpodLUDrKBjiprdjQXQl6FXBlq9rslDQmovNxOxCeu8PHb_0wsd2kBMqEOTMRGgbYoi9AZnZ2C0g-icbZGFYmHDI5WoRHyw33R39UtJoXrCqoFUtQPwuUbR/w220-h165/anna+karina.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><br /> There seemed to be a
Zen-like acceptance of the here-and-now, no yesterday and maybe no
tomorrow. Her pursuit of the present was
irresistible.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1q9G2YmVqI">She might dance now</a>. She
might cry or adjust her beret. It was the ‘moment’ and you couldn’t look away.
There was no need for a narrative or three-act structure or character deficits.
There was just Anna.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyknFJrfhWZ3tUPZl1PuaEiP891gTIbLelAjVjR1wcvyKnpdTQgdGmbkMcIl5SOYZf1kO0xml_d6ECIT4vzdcTWMHfLQ2IMnbufivC2U7a1w01ITCO69i-pvxakF-vYggqSXYG8tJ49b_D/s2508/Anna-Karina2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="2508" height="95" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyknFJrfhWZ3tUPZl1PuaEiP891gTIbLelAjVjR1wcvyKnpdTQgdGmbkMcIl5SOYZf1kO0xml_d6ECIT4vzdcTWMHfLQ2IMnbufivC2U7a1w01ITCO69i-pvxakF-vYggqSXYG8tJ49b_D/w189-h95/Anna-Karina2.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>It was a
charmed life (often the gods are kind to those with no agenda)...as if the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hsQi4ouYYzI">French New Wave</a> just
happened to her. With her pale face and dark eyes, there’s a lightness to her
that is ghostly. We see her forever in a school-girl outfit, pleated skirt and
sweater: it wasn’t innocence; it was detachment. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">In her face
and body and attitude was an expression of the unshakable confidence that comes
with the serenity of freedom:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she was
what the 1960s always wanted to be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwpvIKaGztICTEZsjhjCk7iWDkeMtTSOqaZdKvm7tcnHxA9O9QMWLXWF0qXwCb4d-1JI2FnBFx1fJmkgQdfwaQLoCPmJAo9_SOyr3nX57M4nNVLlzsZwtPQ-4KpqOjGB5c2kyNrwDFuR6m/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="500" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwpvIKaGztICTEZsjhjCk7iWDkeMtTSOqaZdKvm7tcnHxA9O9QMWLXWF0qXwCb4d-1JI2FnBFx1fJmkgQdfwaQLoCPmJAo9_SOyr3nX57M4nNVLlzsZwtPQ-4KpqOjGB5c2kyNrwDFuR6m/w158-h118/anna+karina.gif" width="158" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-58551038872594335322021-06-10T15:48:00.012-04:002023-03-16T10:35:57.829-04:00Amanda Lear: A Riddle inside an Enigma Wrapped in a Sequin Gown<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vbDc0YZLOVJan7JgpGI6nLIOWtaYW975tX5lrdK5AG7_QjSOs2xXtPqWSZt62I2KtWTKcWMSdunaybsHtY9hHfjRgEknKKYPTDmsZOHxp0B_4alOsNt03jqjXt1XAXCARrxMW5O8GZ70/s1600/ferry_lear.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="1600" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vbDc0YZLOVJan7JgpGI6nLIOWtaYW975tX5lrdK5AG7_QjSOs2xXtPqWSZt62I2KtWTKcWMSdunaybsHtY9hHfjRgEknKKYPTDmsZOHxp0B_4alOsNt03jqjXt1XAXCARrxMW5O8GZ70/w528-h248/ferry_lear.jpeg" width="528" /></a></div> <p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Was she born a
man? A woman? When? 1939? 1941? Where? Saigon?
Hong Kong? Singapore? Switzerland?
And why is her voice so deep?</span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who was/is/will
be Amanda Lear? </span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Questions without
answers. Yet there she is – beautiful, vivacious, easy to laugh, rushing to the</span> next party, posing for Salvador Dali, hanging with the Beatles and Stones. She models for prominent designers. She’s a cover girl on fashion magazines.</p><span style="font-family: inherit;">David Bowie pays
for her singing lessons and off she goes to become a big star in France and
Germany. A disco queen. A professional muse.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">She paints canvas. Dali paints her. She poses for Playboy.</span><div><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eq9dn4wx9HNvPOZD2zEjEkHm6PH-P3TSSn4jitI9p9aj-hOTn6F1H2_rVIRZKM3Hcdwn8x2Yjpr5gaZSGZaBfZKp8fYsmnfv7NuoQsg02tbNKi_8_5ufWKdPbgAF4Q52cHWFALAmgbOF/s225/amanda+face.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eq9dn4wx9HNvPOZD2zEjEkHm6PH-P3TSSn4jitI9p9aj-hOTn6F1H2_rVIRZKM3Hcdwn8x2Yjpr5gaZSGZaBfZKp8fYsmnfv7NuoQsg02tbNKi_8_5ufWKdPbgAF4Q52cHWFALAmgbOF/w194-h194/amanda+face.jpg" width="194" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />So easily bored.
Amanda writes songs. She has lovers. She is a gay icon. She doesn’t belong in
the 1960s/70s/80s/90s because she has no use for time. </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The real Amanda
can only be seen by moonlight in a patina of pixie dust, sprinkled by a wayward
nymph on her lazy way to nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
best mystery enjoys unending immunity.</span><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p></div>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-87334505957213275542021-04-16T14:39:00.001-04:002023-03-16T10:37:08.721-04:00Sophia Loren: Of Strangeness in the Proportion<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihsLloe1YyAB4oB_flVXESR8-USGx1vZJ5qxqCwmEN-f6mBrngECmEYeE73AOrtpqf459jSBeExjBSGJImAUn6UQZlmmb8o7l1_Rob3EeP0YF0bfEhr2R7R-7nShO-S0nBfBmYqjbF6585/s640/sophialoren_banner_photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihsLloe1YyAB4oB_flVXESR8-USGx1vZJ5qxqCwmEN-f6mBrngECmEYeE73AOrtpqf459jSBeExjBSGJImAUn6UQZlmmb8o7l1_Rob3EeP0YF0bfEhr2R7R-7nShO-S0nBfBmYqjbF6585/w595-h335/sophialoren_banner_photo.jpg" width="595" /></a></div><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>“There is no
exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.”</i> - Edgar
Allan Poe</span><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLDDxQ1iSS7lRNus2R7w8ei6rrV65pHgPSBTYLzZVw8zX-DwbtRJVaz7Ge0qZUsnOKoJNvVCI3ekdnM4Xse_-dRYjm3m5bsivxiUyVt7kQDnvl5cf5Uet89jNy0sZ3xshY8VKj9pyEf-z/s1000/sophia+loren1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="776" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLDDxQ1iSS7lRNus2R7w8ei6rrV65pHgPSBTYLzZVw8zX-DwbtRJVaz7Ge0qZUsnOKoJNvVCI3ekdnM4Xse_-dRYjm3m5bsivxiUyVt7kQDnvl5cf5Uet89jNy0sZ3xshY8VKj9pyEf-z/w151-h197/sophia+loren1.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><span lang="EN-CA">We have
millions of Monroe and Bardot lookalikes, but there are few, if any, women who
remotely resemble Sophia Loren. What is it about her beauty that it should be
restricted to one face only, ever?<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">The eyes, the
nose and the lips – the proportions are odd, yet together proffer an allurement
more supplication than seduction. If sound took form we would see harmony.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_lani_y-FnZA7dTYMf6mb0dVOQDSFKD5EO8DMqZeNxaH_-XqtGrHdWgTMVE7XVMlACot3fRKYIFYfmZ0ZOmm_S40XH1xl8luLjtLCnf-9caDenx2E8rNrMCZWfpBRjt6nuE3DOVsjV72/s400/sophia-loren-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="292" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_lani_y-FnZA7dTYMf6mb0dVOQDSFKD5EO8DMqZeNxaH_-XqtGrHdWgTMVE7XVMlACot3fRKYIFYfmZ0ZOmm_S40XH1xl8luLjtLCnf-9caDenx2E8rNrMCZWfpBRjt6nuE3DOVsjV72/w149-h204/sophia-loren-.jpg" width="149" /></a></div>Her face remains
more in memory than on a screen – for that’s where she belongs amid timeless
shadows and sighs, the candle-lit embrace under a windswept moon with everything drifting out to dawn.<p></p><o:p></o:p><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">She could only come from an old land of sun and sea where the past is bemused by the present, knowing the love of life leaves you untouched by time. You can see it in her smile and the way she swirls her skirt. When she’s around, you don’t need a clock.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-79256260912296476332021-03-15T15:38:00.003-04:002023-03-16T10:42:03.142-04:00Stuart Sutcliffe: Those We Leave Behind<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyx276FRxFLcP3hJhvYFK6A3-JpCoEiBLFhI6Cyqk8hLPfUQD2NkMfePIZYb_hg2Hms15nXYfKQobUt4wK2q7Ik6qF1OByQBSO2p9OHhDPlDWVImdy0h1TldSuwFFUCYoK60SoYDs2xGx/s1038/George-Harrison-Stu-Sutcliffe-John-Lennon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="1038" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyx276FRxFLcP3hJhvYFK6A3-JpCoEiBLFhI6Cyqk8hLPfUQD2NkMfePIZYb_hg2Hms15nXYfKQobUt4wK2q7Ik6qF1OByQBSO2p9OHhDPlDWVImdy0h1TldSuwFFUCYoK60SoYDs2xGx/w552-h326/George-Harrison-Stu-Sutcliffe-John-Lennon.jpg" width="552" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>"[He is my]
alter ego ... a spirit in his world ... a guiding force.”</i> – John
Lennon<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: arial;">It would be
cosmically ironic if <a href="https://beatles.fandom.com/wiki/Stuart_Sutcliffe" target="_blank">Stuart Sutcliffe</a> (1940-1962), an original member of <a href="https://www.thebeatles.com/">The Beatles</a>, ever wanted to be a famous musician. But he quit the group early on to
begin a life behind an easel, not a guitar. Anyway, he had the eyes of a
painter, not a musician.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXGPQTpy8flxboXCh-dyHjtAgWu3OpA-mEplr5Q6ynyeHAhEYPjQrUZWhKswuNsc4nOflDXgP52HjhUNeLfnpnjd07BfxKwQ6zfwgcFLKPEfVIF6J08lXJ64WJCsU207dl6J37MNvFMzJ/s250/Stuart_stucliffe+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXGPQTpy8flxboXCh-dyHjtAgWu3OpA-mEplr5Q6ynyeHAhEYPjQrUZWhKswuNsc4nOflDXgP52HjhUNeLfnpnjd07BfxKwQ6zfwgcFLKPEfVIF6J08lXJ64WJCsU207dl6J37MNvFMzJ/s0/Stuart_stucliffe+2.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: arial;">The universe-wide
divide between the anonymous solitude of his death and the raucous, global fame
of the Beatles leads us to question the role of those we leave behind. Does
their essence – like static, temporal monuments - demark the progress of our
lives, or are they as unchained as the wind, always with us, changing but
unchanged?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6ajQXbCdIKD6fOyzFWIOY1rYyrVYpMnH6ofApXi2-pSIFlSs_Q2oUJvZerL72q50EcQlElnHdSLnth0YVPzTzmYDLFp0Jk_fOYF0jfU548RfE6rnTwlbpO3I1xAWrB9D8AHaoKdj2f1c/s240/Stuart_stucliffe+3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="240" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6ajQXbCdIKD6fOyzFWIOY1rYyrVYpMnH6ofApXi2-pSIFlSs_Q2oUJvZerL72q50EcQlElnHdSLnth0YVPzTzmYDLFp0Jk_fOYF0jfU548RfE6rnTwlbpO3I1xAWrB9D8AHaoKdj2f1c/w159-h159/Stuart_stucliffe+3.jpg" width="159" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Stuart Sutcliffe, a leather-clad, pale face
angel, ghostly and delicate, decides to emerge on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band – called the greatest rock album of all time.
There he is, a silent sentinel, defiant but reassuring, imparting that wisdom
shared only by the departed – nothing dies if remembered, nothing leaves if
loved.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just listen to
the way he sings<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xO_Qvnu6_I" target="_blank"> Love Me Tender</a> with an ethereal, driving determination - like
a playful prayer - sure to leave footprints in the sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-67750423994177352932021-01-22T09:02:00.005-05:002023-03-16T10:43:38.833-04:00Jerry Lewis: Show-stopping Banality<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51JLNNNbJq-d2ps9Mgq7Ilfv6816VdyGSj1Kh6PG4F6BWGvlMPQEM9mCHpbhftvcuKSwQwtbFkvu1Rrhyphenhyphen-OEvDhZoMWXlYku99yxZnwVXP9_Ch1js3hpTe3255RhhDSsPEDprjw1_f67M/s1020/jerry+lewis+banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="1020" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51JLNNNbJq-d2ps9Mgq7Ilfv6816VdyGSj1Kh6PG4F6BWGvlMPQEM9mCHpbhftvcuKSwQwtbFkvu1Rrhyphenhyphen-OEvDhZoMWXlYku99yxZnwVXP9_Ch1js3hpTe3255RhhDSsPEDprjw1_f67M/w576-h279/jerry+lewis+banner.jpg" width="576" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">To many of us, his
talent isn’t obvious. Too much noise always gets in the way. Ego. Insecurity.
Immaturity. Neurosis. Some performers are empowered by their deficits;
Jerry Lewis’ took him just so far, and then left him stranded and exposed,
swooning in self-pity or foaming over persecution by an illusory cabal of
envious insiders.</span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifm3YXx8Ew3aMKQo36jcifJZ8xrUfmk7hEAIEN3D6aXf1Jn1q3mQoENZzkdZfuZI5nNU9cMfhzVbaI-fA44ZpT2pvLEwHMpD3coDEoe-sP5XPlKmrxTMcBnOZJSlgq9kRHVJHMZ7axn-Io/s1125/jerry+lewis.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="1125" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifm3YXx8Ew3aMKQo36jcifJZ8xrUfmk7hEAIEN3D6aXf1Jn1q3mQoENZzkdZfuZI5nNU9cMfhzVbaI-fA44ZpT2pvLEwHMpD3coDEoe-sP5XPlKmrxTMcBnOZJSlgq9kRHVJHMZ7axn-Io/w207-h183/jerry+lewis.jpg" width="207" /></a></span></div><p></p></blockquote><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It wasn’t long
after the war and the advent of television. America was ready for a new clown.
And there he was, no Emmett Kelly, but somewhere between a schlemiel and a
schlimazel. Whatever, it worked pussycat, and together with his partner, Dean
Martin, he had the world at his feet. And then the ground began to tremble.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">With few
exceptions, most of his work has chaotic noise that cracks the fourth wall,
through which he shrieks to the audience to appreciate his efforts, to applaud
his genius, thereby sacrificing character for personal adulation. Jerry can’t
seem to help it. He really wants you know, damn it, how f’n hard he’s sweating
for your smiles. The self-loathing is palpable.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuMH7WX3B7-tuY_RJ-FiyFweG3LJQ8WSIowNJhTIB_v6Ij1NSpSaKPdt7tw4KTE1A5nvgpLpjTDvGW12k4NLOwzLVro9QSbgYx-fog8MwgMXo_Ljz4YOdy3PneVOaGljutCg3ta5vVZTA3/s619/jerry2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="619" data-original-width="424" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuMH7WX3B7-tuY_RJ-FiyFweG3LJQ8WSIowNJhTIB_v6Ij1NSpSaKPdt7tw4KTE1A5nvgpLpjTDvGW12k4NLOwzLVro9QSbgYx-fog8MwgMXo_Ljz4YOdy3PneVOaGljutCg3ta5vVZTA3/w171-h250/jerry2.jpg" width="171" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">His talent was
one of daring invention, of wild kinetic energy, unregulated by taste or
refinement. He didn’t follow orders or regulations. He did it all himself.
Jerry Lewis had guts and stamina that pushed him to the front of the crowd –
but once there, he so easily followed the path of least resistance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">His style of
humor was destabilized as the 1960s progressed. Not even Vegas saved him. He
retreated into charities that eventually disowned him. Nowadays, his albums are
rarely played; his films, unwatched, whereas his boozy buddy, Deano, just keeps
burbling along. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Much of Jerry’s
humor had him portraying a man of inferior mental faculties. That hasn’t aged
well. It doesn’t matter because, in the end, it was all about Jerry anyway.
That’s the lesson, pussycat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Jerry Lewis joins
the immortals with the wondrous, show-stopping breadth of his banality.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-31731932671141904702020-12-22T12:54:00.014-05:002023-03-16T10:44:56.669-04:00Neal Cassady: Drive He Said<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFHR3W_tqhJq7Vnvz3fyES-OyFd_lcRHek-KfdtD8c0WaKRpN6IUwXZdmVMm-Pxbr4gSapEMg3PlZIrFwGuvbDXKwEUofLUW3_7lqnM-bplDczPPyjK8LJGhQTVmxqNDXEt4dyuULqP9d/s700/cassady+banner.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="700" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFHR3W_tqhJq7Vnvz3fyES-OyFd_lcRHek-KfdtD8c0WaKRpN6IUwXZdmVMm-Pxbr4gSapEMg3PlZIrFwGuvbDXKwEUofLUW3_7lqnM-bplDczPPyjK8LJGhQTVmxqNDXEt4dyuULqP9d/w541-h288/cassady+banner.jpg" title="Neal Cassady: Ready to Drive" width="541" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King of the Road</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><i>“Twenty years of fast living - there's not much left, and my kids are all screwed up. Don't do what I have done." - </i>Neal Cassady</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">If he was just a
clown, a hyperactive dunce, a celebrity buddy, he would have been abandoned by American</span><span lang="EN-CA"> literature. But Neal Cassady always makes into
the footnotes. He’s always there, On the Road with Kerouac or On the Road with Kesey
or wherever – he always seems to be moving, vibrating, jabbering and anxious to
devour Life just before it devours him.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcX9VfBdEBGk7bKP2ZKPMiGmIUullQ1eQkS5xHfZ85nmz-l8J08ycT28HEidUjbUq7kSmXzEfy0pagT-SgWESnfblsApqNOkdBAfTXpPpi53spbPRzjXYykunaVFRr9t62ONdJ_Pg_DYYP/s482/cassady+and+kerouac.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="482" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcX9VfBdEBGk7bKP2ZKPMiGmIUullQ1eQkS5xHfZ85nmz-l8J08ycT28HEidUjbUq7kSmXzEfy0pagT-SgWESnfblsApqNOkdBAfTXpPpi53spbPRzjXYykunaVFRr9t62ONdJ_Pg_DYYP/w251-h234/cassady+and+kerouac.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cassady & Kerouac: Hit the road Jack</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-CA"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><br />He drives the beatniks. He drives the hippies. He drives a neon-noir zeitgeist into the perfumed
arms of flower power. He belongs to mid-century America (<i>I like Ike but I dig
Kennedy</i>), a post-war Huckleberry where the Mississippi meets macadam. And like
all travelers who know the real purpose of moving, he never takes baggage because
the game is about escaping, not finding.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA">- 1968. His last
breaths of life fog cold metal of a railway track at night. There he is, under a
Mexican moon, hanging on, alone, the Holy Goof slowly slips behind the wheel for a velvet drive to the stars.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppOFVJFWuL011_nb6M7EodBTsBYZxfxotkBBzmDhyphenhyphencg19P0IzZuVlsbjXuP3TIRLCGjeu7D6bnrFRwOC1nIhRMZSpueozrsa2OPWR-SWxOdcPdl5uUxc8NIrF14MJkLOSwqekScqMdG9C/s300/cassady.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="300" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgppOFVJFWuL011_nb6M7EodBTsBYZxfxotkBBzmDhyphenhyphencg19P0IzZuVlsbjXuP3TIRLCGjeu7D6bnrFRwOC1nIhRMZSpueozrsa2OPWR-SWxOdcPdl5uUxc8NIrF14MJkLOSwqekScqMdG9C/w152-h136/cassady.gif" width="152" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Always keep moving</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-45163205789129844742020-11-23T16:28:00.005-05:002023-03-16T10:46:22.770-04:00Donald Crowhurst: Just Like You<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wfniGImqi7usuJdQrp35gCzMIu7u6LpRV9j6g36803eZUk3PLRtmxaWD5gxum9aFZAsRVyI9HVcEu45F_E1bk7hDBYL8-7ItU9uSfq9Sys-UeXm_MYy-Z3otVPgARZqhWrjFw1ZPn5bE/s618/crowhurst+banner.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="618" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wfniGImqi7usuJdQrp35gCzMIu7u6LpRV9j6g36803eZUk3PLRtmxaWD5gxum9aFZAsRVyI9HVcEu45F_E1bk7hDBYL8-7ItU9uSfq9Sys-UeXm_MYy-Z3otVPgARZqhWrjFw1ZPn5bE/w573-h385/crowhurst+banner.jpeg" width="573" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking beyond the vanishing point<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="termtext"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">An error
in judgment or a weakness in character such as pride or arrogance helps bring
about the hero's downfall.</span></i></span><span class="termtext"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> – Characteristics
of Greek Tragedy, Quizlet<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="termtext"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport</i> - Shakespeare</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2VUlc8bLFUMsRdqyqk712NKaI0W7RIi3dsZO9Z989ILG19woNexF4ePU4XM4LVSeXZ6XhyemwYkUGUDkGnTCT43LyhkBbdzB8MCz5MBK29wGGaTptPtZl35UyoastOWaRu4afMQschhXA/s822/crowhurst+family.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="822" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2VUlc8bLFUMsRdqyqk712NKaI0W7RIi3dsZO9Z989ILG19woNexF4ePU4XM4LVSeXZ6XhyemwYkUGUDkGnTCT43LyhkBbdzB8MCz5MBK29wGGaTptPtZl35UyoastOWaRu4afMQschhXA/w267-h247/crowhurst+family.jpg" width="267" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wealth. Fame. Status.<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="termtext"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Under similar circumstances, perhaps you would
have done the same. That’s what makes Donald Crowhurst a family member. He wasn’t
outrageous or evil. Nor was he cruel or violent. He was just like you, a
tightrope walker mercifully unaware of the ever-present chasm. Just a slight
breeze, just enough to puff out a jib, is all that’s needed to slip.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="termtext"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1969, he slipped into the living hell of a dark
mind; at first, intellectualizing his behavior, and then, when the center would
no longer hold, diving into the womb of salvation and peace, a hundred miles deep
in the North Atlantic.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="termtext"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13hET7kPJ-YfC70CJ4er4qW7Ys0r6_cRGggepE3cWF5sMiSIIFchcpttuda-BuV012wu1fCuIXfzQ3bDR0QdXTlbn7DGJMXpOR2yaYfNIcOgxgj_L8qXIpvkL233z1nDac13bHRA1xSb-/s1200/all+voyages+must+end.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13hET7kPJ-YfC70CJ4er4qW7Ys0r6_cRGggepE3cWF5sMiSIIFchcpttuda-BuV012wu1fCuIXfzQ3bDR0QdXTlbn7DGJMXpOR2yaYfNIcOgxgj_L8qXIpvkL233z1nDac13bHRA1xSb-/w320-h200/all+voyages+must+end.jpg" title="The Voyage that Never Ends" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of the Voyage</td></tr></tbody></table><span class="termtext"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />He needed the money for his family, for his
dreams, and The Sunday Times Golden Globe Race, a singled-handed, round-the-world race, offered everything. Wealth. Fame. Status. Yet, he had to win. It would take near genius-level cheating, but we all have different talents.</span></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wait, here’s an
idea to draw less attention: what about a hail-fellow-well-met second
place? The gods must have been bemused to let such a forlorn, sad man drift and
bob across the whirling waves. What a character this Crowhurst was. Let’s blow
his bark into first place. And that was it - the tipping point.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gone was a
father, a husband, a kind heart and a good sailor. How fragile and weak and
courageous and strong. Exactly like you.</span><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-22135072146954380902020-10-01T17:53:00.011-04:002023-03-16T10:47:30.045-04:00Mike Nichols and the Rarity of Entertainment IQ<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XTvdAgfUMeDhmaMpdyDRe7DLdHd8vjUMUJjjSYWwAAvY3amrkJGgD4wt1S7W4jM9uMT8a58Z03BcPWXpp9WJC-gLgPTjHgKKGugVIcvUS9QIwhyMCsZ3VjtFubzODy3U4Kp6QNSosWEz/s512/banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="512" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XTvdAgfUMeDhmaMpdyDRe7DLdHd8vjUMUJjjSYWwAAvY3amrkJGgD4wt1S7W4jM9uMT8a58Z03BcPWXpp9WJC-gLgPTjHgKKGugVIcvUS9QIwhyMCsZ3VjtFubzODy3U4Kp6QNSosWEz/w644-h326/banner.jpg" width="644" /></a></div><p></p><p><i> <b>Mike Nichols directs Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. </b></i></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-CA">If we don’t
accept the possibility of genius, it’s difficult to explain how consistently –
if not contiguously - successful <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2014/11/21/movies/mike-nichols-celebrated-director-dies-at-83.html">Mike
Nichols</a> was on screen and stage. One
person can’t direct that many hits; one can’t win </span><span lang="EN-CA">that many awards.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Part of the mystery is
no mystery at all: Mike Nichols had an odd talent which cannot be learned,
copied or modified. He could sense material that had hit potential and was able
to dust his work with a patina of artistic refinement. It had <i>quality</i>, not just fame. Very rare.</span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuCr2c7MGVZRss1ZErzB-SjwyjNVmpnDGCWTHOiZtn0z41XhPQrpqd1blzW0eaFkv3QZgGZbqZaKTqG12Hod7HydQIq0bnKJ7MIbwudRPrgdphoT_CgXHe_7SgZX8_BJDNgk5tvT9WDh7E/s1296/nichols%252C+taylor%252C+burton.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1296" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuCr2c7MGVZRss1ZErzB-SjwyjNVmpnDGCWTHOiZtn0z41XhPQrpqd1blzW0eaFkv3QZgGZbqZaKTqG12Hod7HydQIq0bnKJ7MIbwudRPrgdphoT_CgXHe_7SgZX8_BJDNgk5tvT9WDh7E/w379-h213/nichols%252C+taylor%252C+burton.jpg" width="379" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Nichols, Taylor, Burton on the couch in Virgin Woolf</b><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Beginning with the
films <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2016/sep/18/whos-afraid-of-virginia-woolf-edward-albee">Who’s
Afraid of Virginia Woolf</a> (1966) and <a href="https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/graduate">The Graduate</a> (1967), he
rarely took a false step. Same <span style="font-family: inherit;">thing with theatre. <a href="https://stageagent.com/shows/play/2431/barefoot-in-the-park">Barefoot in
the Park</a> (1963) kicked it off and he just didn’t quit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-CA">Born </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Mikhail Igor Peschkowsky, in Berlin, in 1931, Nichols developed supreme
survival instincts. He seemed to know what people wanted, what they liked, what
they wished to see – and especially, in the beginning, what made them laugh.
Similar to many funny people, he suffered depression, but he endured, and
perhaps made the illness an unwelcome attribute.</span></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #202122; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMHwpGluY8ql5w8Copqcv38IDatfy8M_RKFm_wdE5BmvGx5H_ZzPDsus8X3tt1ruicUYLNymQWpOJaJtfc1z4dSE8-zlccz-oF06RqIAPgWPqz4L4qx4Ws2PxKedFxmUxLmZDAEhX5cXX/s1024/Mike+thinking+it+out.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="1024" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMHwpGluY8ql5w8Copqcv38IDatfy8M_RKFm_wdE5BmvGx5H_ZzPDsus8X3tt1ruicUYLNymQWpOJaJtfc1z4dSE8-zlccz-oF06RqIAPgWPqz4L4qx4Ws2PxKedFxmUxLmZDAEhX5cXX/w276-h191/Mike+thinking+it+out.jpg" width="276" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Mike Nichols: Thinking it out</b><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Regardless, when
someone is so good at a difficult job, we must take note of the high-water
marks, as if to say, we were lucky that such an artist touched down. Our prayers illume the illusion of life as we watch people
- like Mike Nichols - paint in the dark, fifty feet high.</span><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-8272932133649537022020-06-21T19:33:00.001-04:002023-03-16T10:48:46.316-04:00Janis Joplin: Freedom's Just Another Word<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCC1rna1WzzLlf4zmZ2n1Z3QP9pgLarkJF0wQYVIdLYgvvuhVVWBlHQCqg-ljhfr1tR2q1pBdMg0SiaIR4FdmA_vOwEnioyOZlHo0rvOWvybXgLEf-1cjFDZ69X3SuJPRrMTX9xPokpHH/s1600/Janis+joplin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="279" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCC1rna1WzzLlf4zmZ2n1Z3QP9pgLarkJF0wQYVIdLYgvvuhVVWBlHQCqg-ljhfr1tR2q1pBdMg0SiaIR4FdmA_vOwEnioyOZlHo0rvOWvybXgLEf-1cjFDZ69X3SuJPRrMTX9xPokpHH/s640/Janis+joplin.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“On stage, I make love to 25,000 different people, then I go home alone.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
― Janis Joplin</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="authorortitle"><span style="background: white; color: #333333;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1zFnyEe3nE">Janis Joplin</a> became
famous because of her incredible singing voice. That’s the essence of her
appeal. She had no stylists</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> or wardrobe assistants, no dry ice machines or back-up dancers, no lip
syncing. That stuff doesn’t keep you around 50 years after you left...No, just
a few guitars, drums, maybe a keyboard...and Janis. That’s it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Don’t let
her early death distract you from the raw talent – and her talent was as raw as
it gets. She knew how to sell a song, the same way Sinatra did or Judy Garland
or Aretha Franklin or any of the greats. Listen to her sing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXV_QjenbDw">Me and Bobby McGee</a> and
you’ll hear it. ( It’s the phrasing, it’s the pitch control, it’s that cosmic alchemy of spirit, personality, experience, physicality, hope, defeat,
love and loathing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">She was
strong but could seem weak, a leader that followed others, laughed with a
cackle but sad beyond belief. She needed heavy drugs to do what? Calm a
restless soul? Obliterate despair? Help her to remember to forget? No answers,
only convenient asides. Perhaps she wished for escape from her self-made cell. Maybe<a href="https://genius.com/Janis-joplin-me-and-bobby-mcgee-lyrics" target="_blank"> freedom is just another word </a>for nothing left to lose, maybe not, but Janis never played with a strong hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">She molded
her appearance to coincide with her persona – all feathered boas and junk
jewelry and owl sunglasses and psychedelic cars. But a persona is, well, just a persona.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXHWmMdVviISQ2yUCC4lIRTfnZ1LGELQL08fIeBPsQHZF85LZs5Pyv1P0JfCq-lpHUwJ1Eo8dgnKD4qrrzhhF4wOmyXzgNzz1Stkem9a9GV1pw1geVZA-a8U9HJtixxYC8_Xg7qbiHQDn/s1600/janis+joplin+banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="840" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXHWmMdVviISQ2yUCC4lIRTfnZ1LGELQL08fIeBPsQHZF85LZs5Pyv1P0JfCq-lpHUwJ1Eo8dgnKD4qrrzhhF4wOmyXzgNzz1Stkem9a9GV1pw1geVZA-a8U9HJtixxYC8_Xg7qbiHQDn/s200/janis+joplin+banner.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">There she
is jamming with sex machine <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZmiefQ5y4U">Tom Jones</a> or rapping
with the impossibly beautiful <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hqlTZXoH70&t=39s">Rachel Welch</a>. Few
other celeb hippies had the guts – and brains - to shake off the tie-dye and
patchouli and just follow their hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Like Brian
Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin did not commit suicide and
wasn’t fated to die young. That’s morbid and sloppy. It was a series of dark,
unresolved private issues and <a href="http://60spop.blogspot.com/2017/02/jean-de-breiteuil-how-drug-pusher.html">plain
bad luck</a> that led her away. That said, those who knew her well would tell
tales, years after her demise, of her darkness and isolation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">They still find
it hard to say farewell to Janis – because she always seems to be around, just
one head-thrown-back-shattering-cry-for-love that swells it all back to life one
more time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><i>“The first time I heard Janis Joplin’s version [of Me and Bobby McGee] was right after she died. Paul Rothchild, her producer, asked me to stop by his office and listen to this thing she had cut. Afterwards, I walked all over L.A., just in tears. I couldn’t listen to the song without really breaking up. So when I came back to Nashville, I went into the Combine [Publishing] building late at night, and I played it over and over again, so I could get used to it without breaking up.” </i>- Kris Kristofferson</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<br />I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-87102357779980663342020-03-24T14:17:00.001-04:002023-03-16T10:49:31.119-04:00Ann-Margret: The Allure of Energy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlsYMRF3BcP5M7lDgBuvWKaFYo4BVO5417TXwf_noDtd0d4tEftIc23CVqhh8Oo9pVFWcHeug-O4eyo-q6XHEHuC-BeVooaQWTJjDtNIBOuKWZ8xqftoXzBjKPwYH_nK-lEWSkv-TYOtO/s1600/kitten+with+a+whip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlsYMRF3BcP5M7lDgBuvWKaFYo4BVO5417TXwf_noDtd0d4tEftIc23CVqhh8Oo9pVFWcHeug-O4eyo-q6XHEHuC-BeVooaQWTJjDtNIBOuKWZ8xqftoXzBjKPwYH_nK-lEWSkv-TYOtO/s1600/kitten+with+a+whip.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<script async="" data-ad-client="ca-pub-1834627212777059" src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Ah, her chin. Just the way she held it – defiant, confident, with Attitude before
everyone had Attitude. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1j6Kz5xKD1czwywncjaWUIPKuJi7NefGyasKfEBOovSUQ_ocw3ycwxlv9V1CEBg2Os2Ol8_LzwzXia5OwGdCivU0A4a1ks_2bcphSuQTiBtwWfp91AfO7Q8dmj7WjlyfLZN0-U9Vt1dA4/s1600/ann-margret-elvis-presley-gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="508" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1j6Kz5xKD1czwywncjaWUIPKuJi7NefGyasKfEBOovSUQ_ocw3ycwxlv9V1CEBg2Os2Ol8_LzwzXia5OwGdCivU0A4a1ks_2bcphSuQTiBtwWfp91AfO7Q8dmj7WjlyfLZN0-U9Vt1dA4/s200/ann-margret-elvis-presley-gun.jpg" width="157" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Anne &amp; Elvis: Doppelganging</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">If energy
alone could convey sexual allure, then it would look like Ann-Margret.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">She had it... The body – hard but curvaceous, the hair long and electric. The voice, either
soft sensual or direct and laughing with an invitation to roll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">You could
cover her in paint (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSltA8Ov-tQ" target="_blank">The Swinger</a>) or beans (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJh7Gu_UmRk" target="_blank">Tommy</a>) and it only enhanced what was
obscured. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Ann-Margret
met her match with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XH2K9N16VMY" target="_blank">Elvis Presley</a>, two of them so ridiculously alike that there
was a doppelganger effect tripping along the XX/XY chromosome axis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJFAPatNJbr05LOUnNQ6cQ7vPYtunW28HIFyNeVs8kPK986DQtQRaLu9tYLuJVqvNP_HkYPuOk7fCHONB3hU7AoGRgQOqwvibl_pvC2pM_TTkmNj8nESuXyQEg7NhnHEO0trXy864xEhy/s1600/ann-margret-cycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="766" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJFAPatNJbr05LOUnNQ6cQ7vPYtunW28HIFyNeVs8kPK986DQtQRaLu9tYLuJVqvNP_HkYPuOk7fCHONB3hU7AoGRgQOqwvibl_pvC2pM_TTkmNj8nESuXyQEg7NhnHEO0trXy864xEhy/s200/ann-margret-cycle.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Always on the move</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And when it
wasn’t hip to entertain U.S. troops in Vietnam, she went anyway, shaking for
boys – just farm boys dazed by fear and heat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Always
ambitious, so eager to confront challenge with an inviting grin
- more hip than hippy chicks - empowered by her untethered spirit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">That day she left Elvis’ funeral, head up, keening overcome by forward thrust, to be alone
in the desert on a Harley thundering toward Viva Las Vegas. </span>For years ago
she discovered that only movement itself could calm such a restless soul.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-2265698948656316772019-12-02T10:12:00.001-05:002023-03-15T21:35:44.948-04:00Glenn Gould and the sacred gift of silence<br />
<script async="" data-ad-client="ca-pub-1834627212777059" src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLE_3LxTHBHeYkPRWtBUhiQWsrkwJLno1zO9FoHSa6-bzvWoHx9run9CWkj_CeeZC838mLTHkfekufZhVUE6uZx9vgFsgwtaQG_7EUVNg1pdx0hiuqKug7EnViJFI2NKlHupva8pJsaVy/s1600/gould+banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLE_3LxTHBHeYkPRWtBUhiQWsrkwJLno1zO9FoHSa6-bzvWoHx9run9CWkj_CeeZC838mLTHkfekufZhVUE6uZx9vgFsgwtaQG_7EUVNg1pdx0hiuqKug7EnViJFI2NKlHupva8pJsaVy/s640/gould+banner.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A musician
so outrageously gifted that he worshiped silence, listening to the notes as if small, restless friends. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">He shied from human contact yet always embraced Bach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6RNRJ5G7tQHWIW1WyjLAN9Lk1vWCk1gNQc9LRYA69ZNlfMcoTQEXENWlEResKFqGUSApRyejQqOsRpdyIb94E7rm-ipkU874J0Wf0yWnfKPc0V3N93sQ_QFozVJeUa1x3MgL3EiyowB2/s1600/gould1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="214" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6RNRJ5G7tQHWIW1WyjLAN9Lk1vWCk1gNQc9LRYA69ZNlfMcoTQEXENWlEResKFqGUSApRyejQqOsRpdyIb94E7rm-ipkU874J0Wf0yWnfKPc0V3N93sQ_QFozVJeUa1x3MgL3EiyowB2/s200/gould1.jpg" width="135" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;"> Head-flung-back ecstasy</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Genius does
not go unpunished. There were the obvious eccentricities, the quirky cadences,
the sotto voce, preternatural humming that came as a prayer to gods others
could never know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfeDUpPuosPbZ5ZtUEZiKSxBxhyIE7yht23tEiCMPdyjeRCDI5oZncpnSFwDF9rZuE0Gn08PB6Jxgm8xToj5eINbBOPBo6iSILl-XxiNHR1I_z7koQKOKnqSh-EqoP1CEj3eMyJ9iu8MsB/s1600/gould+last.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfeDUpPuosPbZ5ZtUEZiKSxBxhyIE7yht23tEiCMPdyjeRCDI5oZncpnSFwDF9rZuE0Gn08PB6Jxgm8xToj5eINbBOPBo6iSILl-XxiNHR1I_z7koQKOKnqSh-EqoP1CEj3eMyJ9iu8MsB/s200/gould+last.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weighted with awareness</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<script async="" data-ad-client="ca-pub-1834627212777059" src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Always
alone, even with people, communing with that music of dark space wherein you risk deafness by the awful beauty of solitude. So Canadian: it is the distance between us that
pulls the soul upwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">You can see
it in the hunched back, weighed with awareness, in the hands that were always
beautiful white wings, and the head-flung-back ecstasy as music holds him as a lost lover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Glenn Gould, when in the deep trance of talent, gave us whatever music always meant to reminded us of.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBSUS-qV6SlJ1NiL1sefMRkIKKzv5SWz9L0UWUf5dzXVOz2L3zoaTmoHcQkIbYu4Pk1EQkLcWQqqTGz1oaYsRxfZXMqbPFnHQ7IH5P1FQI6ZVo6xlJkUxEkiiLbyZJhyphenhyphenbOtZFdtYQbNRD/s1600/gould+alone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBSUS-qV6SlJ1NiL1sefMRkIKKzv5SWz9L0UWUf5dzXVOz2L3zoaTmoHcQkIbYu4Pk1EQkLcWQqqTGz1oaYsRxfZXMqbPFnHQ7IH5P1FQI6ZVo6xlJkUxEkiiLbyZJhyphenhyphenbOtZFdtYQbNRD/s320/gould+alone.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The awful beauty of solitude</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-74205992875520124952019-10-09T16:52:00.002-04:002023-03-16T10:50:18.126-04:00Brigitte Bardot: The Attraction of Detachment<br />
<script async="" data-ad-client="ca-pub-1834627212777059" src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbi072rNHi03NfVlC_9ny8QRFLE7p8CkmSssgF2gapZ2_rLUINSEHEPA8LEDSHpF6xp2ltTk-GTKHzq3oA-dWCn-kVT0wb_G8NAbRSd7BzKq1y2s0ht54Far61qNrjisY4Z4BXToomJfz/s1600/banner2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="500" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbi072rNHi03NfVlC_9ny8QRFLE7p8CkmSssgF2gapZ2_rLUINSEHEPA8LEDSHpF6xp2ltTk-GTKHzq3oA-dWCn-kVT0wb_G8NAbRSd7BzKq1y2s0ht54Far61qNrjisY4Z4BXToomJfz/s640/banner2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<script async="" data-ad-client="ca-pub-1834627212777059" src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brigitte
Bardot had a talent for beauty. But it
wasn’t the ridiculously perfect face of Catherine Deneuve. Or the seductive,
interwoven curves of Raquel Welch. Bardot’s beauty was never cheekbone-dependent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Indeed, she
had an attitude that somehow forced her appearance to the wings, an insouciance
that made her surprisingly relevant to the 1960s, where her sex-symbol sisters
seemed increasingly absurd. It was a rebel streak, not a come-hither. The
slight </span><span lang="EN-CA">overbite.
The updo cascade of blondeness. And a detachment that didn’t stop with the people
in her room, but included everyone.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-CA"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiTL-Iod1j2fcJpzcqt5PlaQN8DC4aUQzBTpBYIaEZVOM0dF1RmCpWPQC6FvZ41_gM5AuQRkW9Gx6eHtgruiTjMHPHcP1tRybVxHxevCB2-q5QLRfgffThyphenhyphen_EIs92FGWGJmFgBajgfFKjP/s1600/bardot-picasso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="1200" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiTL-Iod1j2fcJpzcqt5PlaQN8DC4aUQzBTpBYIaEZVOM0dF1RmCpWPQC6FvZ41_gM5AuQRkW9Gx6eHtgruiTjMHPHcP1tRybVxHxevCB2-q5QLRfgffThyphenhyphen_EIs92FGWGJmFgBajgfFKjP/s320/bardot-picasso.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bardot. Picasso. Beauty. Beast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You just knew she was going to handle this film gig like last night’s
lover, with a soft adieu and a pout and then out the door; that she didn’t
care about character nuance or plot development.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nY27wJiLiqL5D8c8qNHRL3DhFQ-MdXUYSYMW0PpLGwNa27CTmfR2a0ix76hAww_17pqhNF7aDsJgHC0c5O5Jm19OXoVeaDaOV2TDlFCm_HoNdWJ33HaXbXYUBRmLSoHFn5ssiHB501we/s1600/bardot+smokin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><br />
<span lang="EN-CA">It was her pilgrim spirit, an easy laughter than had more to with exits
than entrances. You followed her into the next scene just to see if she showed
up.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<span lang="EN-CA">And then she left. No facelifts. No excuses. Seeking the 60s sunshine
all golden over Cote d'Azur, alone with animals and others without guile.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHNnFSM_YAey5su45oxN6jSnH_h79CTm3uAjT5LLeK4k02U43ojx42NHx4m_8YUnoZjVXM-GgRfRfGeErtwCFmg_gVcvvb31ILRj697s_14th2BUPnmgja0aIvyIfT7hUlacYivU_FDE0B/s1600/bardot+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHNnFSM_YAey5su45oxN6jSnH_h79CTm3uAjT5LLeK4k02U43ojx42NHx4m_8YUnoZjVXM-GgRfRfGeErtwCFmg_gVcvvb31ILRj697s_14th2BUPnmgja0aIvyIfT7hUlacYivU_FDE0B/s1600/bardot+beach.jpg" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-CA">What to make of her oeuvre? All the insubstantial films. The wasted time. Doesn't matter. She's not listening, caring as much about them as she does for you, held somewhere between a Gallic shrug and a seductive playfulness that comes so easily to those with no past.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span>
<br />
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
<br />I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2927319921479811340.post-23747559245676730242019-06-13T15:54:00.001-04:002023-03-16T10:51:01.396-04:00Brian Jones: Born Under a Bad Sign<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<script async="" data-ad-client="ca-pub-1834627212777059" src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><i>“Yes I want
to be famous, and no, I don’t want to live till 30.”</i> - Brian Jones<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><a href="https://www.brianjonesfanclub.com/">Brian Jones</a>, the founder – and
the best musician – of ever-popular <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqK-J9S2GXs">The Rolling Stones</a> - didn’t
know how to handle fame. He was destroyed by popularity. The more fame Brian gathered, the more drugs he ingested, until...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdqU9d12BxHwg1WO88F8OXSkOR9ox6HpcybGv33w9ykRs19D0Nx4YXKsv-VdU8eizMMP7MfFfejlzxWK9mCyv0ic9F0sd-1eocsPItpO_tPIJgwC-4yYz-WKkc6dIqaEvXvwjb6DmBgp6/s1600/brian+jones+the+leader.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="375" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQdqU9d12BxHwg1WO88F8OXSkOR9ox6HpcybGv33w9ykRs19D0Nx4YXKsv-VdU8eizMMP7MfFfejlzxWK9mCyv0ic9F0sd-1eocsPItpO_tPIJgwC-4yYz-WKkc6dIqaEvXvwjb6DmBgp6/s200/brian+jones+the+leader.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jones: Leader of the Pack</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">He gave The Rolling
Stones its name, booked its early gigs, made up set lists, led the way in its
rebellious attitude and style – and was <a href="https://ultimateclassicrock.com/brian-jones-fired-rolling-stones/">fired</a>
by the other members.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">With his beautiful,
angelic golden pageboy haircut, <a href="https://agnautacouture.com/2013/09/01/brian-jones-style-of-an-eccentric/">his
dandy suits</a>, his just-above-a-whisper voice, his obvious fragility, who
would have known he sired and abandoned eight children and beat women?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">He wanted The Rolling
Stones to remain as a rhythm & blues band, not a rock n’ roll group, and
battled the others to control the artistic vision. He was ignored. In a brief
time, The Rolling Stones became known as the world’s greatest rock band.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Brian Jones was the
first international pop star to embrace – what became known as – <i>world music</i> with his production of the
record </span><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Jones_Presents_the_Pipes_of_Pan_at_Joujouka">Brian
Jones Presents the Pipes of Pan at Joujouka<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">.</span></a></i> Released in
1971, it failed to sell. World music went on to explode in the 1980s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He met and lived with actress/model
<a href="http://60spop.blogspot.com/2017/06/all-yesterdays-parties-anita-pallenberg.html">Anita
Pallenberg</a>. (It’s been said she was the only woman he ever loved). She left
him for Keith Richards whom she left for Mick Jagger, kind of…</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CXEbRRdaafTT_V2Is1nCmJe2BUmoS3NdBpefjhKLvxh4-sm8AY0SXoHOC1sD9KdCShqx43ocF5anXokTg153G4j8fyA-dzI9oJ2inQhHyONR50hOuWc2BXo6ZF9HQoFt5EyCY-O3QHMn/s1600/two+j%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CXEbRRdaafTT_V2Is1nCmJe2BUmoS3NdBpefjhKLvxh4-sm8AY0SXoHOC1sD9KdCShqx43ocF5anXokTg153G4j8fyA-dzI9oJ2inQhHyONR50hOuWc2BXo6ZF9HQoFt5EyCY-O3QHMn/s200/two+j%2527s.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two J's: soon gone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was the only Stone to
appear on a Beatles song, performing a great, meandering sax solo for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTE8qB91Lv0">You Know My Name (Look Up
the Number</a>). He also played on Baby You’re a Rich Man. He never received
credit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he died, he owed debts
amounting to over 200,000 pounds – which was finally cleared in 1982. Today, his
sister receives about $21,000 annually in royalties. Sir Mick Jagger is worth
about$360-million dollars.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-icz-ufoTdrnmmpadTh4bRW5SgCZ9mT85mRNVBDAIZAelmqVRZmvhXiVhJ8C2xM7P4jJvhKcmns51D71gKUKiGaPc6WjcszTafsEY7vULqH76QdEzgyXIXUAj3ITunQcXOZWGMtRFgSyi/s1600/sunglasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="720" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-icz-ufoTdrnmmpadTh4bRW5SgCZ9mT85mRNVBDAIZAelmqVRZmvhXiVhJ8C2xM7P4jJvhKcmns51D71gKUKiGaPc6WjcszTafsEY7vULqH76QdEzgyXIXUAj3ITunQcXOZWGMtRFgSyi/s200/sunglasses.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jones: The coolest Stone of all</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s likely that he was <a href="https://www.mojo4music.com/articles/15989/brian-jones-it-was-murder">drowned
in his pool</a> by a handyman whom he had just fired. Due to Brian’s lifestyle,
the suspicion was never pursued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was the first big rock
star to be admitted into the <a href="http://60spop.blogspot.com/2009/02/come-on-duddy-light-my-fire.html">’27 Club’</a>,
followed by the three J’s - Jimi, Janis and Jim. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Appropriately, the sad soundtrack of Brian Jones’ life is his beloved Blues:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Born under a bad sign</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Been down since I could crawl</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If it wasn't for bad luck</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know I wouldn't have no luck at all</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> - </span></span><!--[endif]-->Albert King</i><o:p></o:p></div>
I. M. Clarkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04332257501421262132noreply@blogger.com