“RKO clown “Toto” distributes cardboard Easter bunnies packed with lollipops from W.T. Grant Company. This event was held in the 2nd floor playroom at UW Children’s Orthopedic hospital, 436 N. Randall Street.” (1932)
They both look a little terrified…
The young man may have a premonition that his guts are going to get blown away in Korea…
The rabbit may sense that he/she’s soon going to be paraded around the gelatinous shoulders of some matron at a Syosset D.A.R. meeting…
Find the egg, or “Uncle Joe” will send you to the uranium mines…
Several Very Important People think they heard it, but none of them bothered to write it down.
Perhaps a dropout in the music…or maybe the dialog…or maybe the effects.
Nobody seems to know what reel the audio problem resides in (forget about the footage), and now the team of rabbit sound editors must work as long as it takes to isolate the alleged problem.
There will be no Passover…no Easter…
Worse yet, provisions in the Low-Budget Leporine Contract has these hares under the aegis of an any-eight-out-of-seven deal with no holiday overtime.
Much as I tried to gather terrifying images of winter holidays, it’s now my duty to add some for Easter, a celebration of sugar and dye…
04-04-12
Housecat “Pisa” returns to Earth safely this morning, no worse for the wear, but FAA issues citation against owners.
Grassley Holds Domestic Violence Victims Hostage To Lash Out At Gay Victims And Immigrants.
Grassley’s always been an astonishing dim-bulb.
Do my fellow Iowans keep putting him in office simply to attain visibility?
You name it, Grassley’s longstanding, blunderingly outspoken insensitivity to such “touchy-feely” issues as ANY form of human rights, healthcare, immigration, or ANY other minor matter is at least consistently boggling, and mildly entertaining.
I forgot about this…
“All you have to do is love everything that’s important in your life.”
Ray Bradbury, October 29, 2008
Ray Bradbury's Advice
Despondent Pisa In Cheap Foil Litter Box
On Valentine’s day, Venice’s lovelorn Orange Cats have a place to commemorate their heartbreak.
Bounced from one foster home to another, crooked-headed Pisa fends off waves of depression, alternating between a costly cocktail of feline antidepressants and kibbles, day in and day out.
Recently informed that he had no balls, Pisa now tangles with another maudlin arrow added to his quiver of despondency.
Budget cuts have forced his local feline group therapy session to close its doors, so now he keeps his mirth close to home, in a cheap and filthy litter box.
On Saturday, February 11, 2012, at 5:07PM, the first of many e-mails announcing Whitney Houston’s death began flooding my in-box, continue to the present, and bright headlines will surely plaster the tabloids for weeks to come.
My own last quarter of 2011 was laden with personal losses, and Ms. Houston’s sad demise made me contemplate the concept of “tragedy.”
Yeah, many will think me a cold cynic, insensitive to concentric circles of grievers ranging from Ms. Houston’s immediate family to a collective global sadness about the tragic demise of a truly gifted artist…
…to the highly-paid “expert” counselors, doctors and shrinks who shepherded Ms. Houston from one relapse to another…
…to the “friends” who made sure Whitney’s supply of prescribed and other anesthetic tonics was always at the ready…
…to the “grieving” industry that surely wept as Houston’s greatest hits collections skyrocketed to the top of the iTunes charts before the bathtub Houston died in was even drained…
Houston’s death wasn’t sudden, and I wondered where all the folks presently paralyzed with bereavement or otherwise “shocked” have been hiding while dozens of panic buttons were being desperately pushed, and red flags of deterioration littered Whitney’s precipitous spiral.
Indeed, the show must go on, and within hours of Houston’s death becoming “official,” Grammy executive producer Ken Ehrlich regaled CNN about the music awards show’s plan to honor Whitney, “but it will be something respectful.”
This translates to interns scrambling to edit the last-minute presentation to carefully avoid the abundance of Houston’s “dour and dazed” photos taken over the last decade.
Devastated Clive Davis
Clive Davis was so “devastated” that he couldn’t afford to cancel his annual pre-Grammy gala, repurposing it as a “remembrance” of the most-awarded female act of all time that he had discovered and – gee, ya think? – perhaps profited from.
At Davis’ Beverly Hills Hilton fete, grief-stricken luminaries grazed on room temperature surf and turf while Houston’s body lay in wait several floors below.
If your immediate grief is too overwhelming to watch the Grammy’s, you can wait until Valentine’s Day: 20th Century Fox is considering a Whitney tribute on Glee, surely to bolster ratings for an already in-the-can episode featuring Amber Riley singing Houston’s trademark ballad “I Will Always Love You.”
There is no question that Whitney Houston’s death is the loss of, as Ricky Gervais wrote, “An amazing talent & a tragic soul.”
What saddens and sickens me, however, is a global warm, fuzzy and opportunistic climate where a beautiful person with a god-given gift of good pipes deteriorates to a perpetually relapsing drug-and-booze-addicted train-wreck, caught in a loop of falling from grace until she finally dies in a tub, and she’s “suddenly” a tragedy.
Houston’s tragedy is a long-in-the-making but sudden spike of cyber/media grief frenzy that will disproportionately disappear like a bulb burning out on a theatre marquee.
After all, we’ve got the Oscars coming up – and who knows what the vast red-carpet potential of other “tragedies” might offer in terms of newer, shinier moments of sadness.
If there are tiers of tragedy, the most resonant is that Whitney Houston had to die to get the attention she had been crying out for for a long time.
paulpsoucek