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| Stinky's new crush. |
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Glenn Ford Tribute!
Amongst the countless number of Stinky readers, likely climbing into the double digits, there is one fellow who goes by the moniker of "Unknown", a frequent commenter (twice), who seems to be fairly obsessed with Glenn Ford. Glenn Ford? you may ask incredulously. Stinky knows, hard to believe. And yet what is even more harder to believe is he is not the only one. Check out this Glenn Ford tribute, with glamor-puss pics of Ford with hairstyles ranging from long, greasy and cowlicky to short, greasy and cowlicky, accompanied by the delightful stylings of Kay Starr. Probably better than he deserves, but for some reason, it tickled Stinky.
On the other mitt, one could do worse than having a tribute sung by the delightful Kay Starr, the most awesomest singer of all times. In fact, when Stinky goes, in about seventy years, he would like to have a tribute just like this one afforded to Glenn. See what I did there?
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Zolapalooza!
When Uncle Dave gives me money for my birthday, he says it's an investment in his future, meaning that Stinky will be less likely to murder him in his sleep with a rusty machete. Oh, Uncle Dave, you're so amusing. Actually, Uncle Dave is a pretty nice guy who is relatively low on the list of people that Stinky is likely to horribly mutilate.
Ha. "Horribly mutilate". Is there another way to do it? But Stinky digresses.
For an adult, Uncle Dave is fairly tolerable, except when, Stinky assumes, he is trying to be funny. Like when he says stuff like, "Roseanne, bar the door" and "Do you know why exorcisms are legal? Because possession is nine-tenths of the law." Hilarious*. But Stinky is certain that Uncle Dave reads Stinky's blog, which is more than Stinky can say about his other friends and fambly members. In fact, Uncle Dave gave Stinky his first opportunity in the blogosphere, undoubtedly the finest piece of writing ever to grace Uncle Dave's blog, Born Under Pants, or whatever it is called.
So after reading Stinky's last blog entry, Uncle Dave said, "Nice to see you are finally reading The Classics, little man, and not wasting your time with the graphic novels and the hippity-hop music, or whatever people of your ilk and generation cotton to these days. By the bye, the passages you quoted seem to me a precursor to the final paragraph in Zola's Nana."
Well, that's Uncle Dave for you, using made-up words like "precursor" to make himself sound smart. He also said that Nana was a novel about a Parisian courtesan who meets a frighteningly nasty and disfiguring demise from smallpox, following a life of dissipation and moral turpitude. Yes, Uncle Dave tends to talk that way. But this made Stinky eager to read the book, especially after he looked up the word "courtesan".
For those of you who wish to commit yourselves to the preceding 400 pages, go right ahead. For those of you with busy schedules, like Stinky, the rest of the novel can wait. Here is the final paragraph describing the beautiful Nana's grisly end, which does not disappoint:
Nana was left alone with upturned face in the light cast by the candle. She was the fruit
of the charnel house, a heap of matter and blood, a shovelful of corrupted flesh thrown
down on the pillow. The pustules had invaded the whole of the face, so that each touched
its neighbor. Fading and sunken, they had assumed the grayish hue of mud; and on that
formless pulp, where the features had ceased to be traceable, they already resembled some
decaying damp from the grave. One eye, the left eye, had completely foundered among
bubbling purulence, and the other, which remained half open, looked like a deep, black
ruinous hole. The nose was still suppurating. Quite a reddish crust was peeling from one
of the cheeks, which it distorted into a horrible grin. And over this loathsome and gro-
tesque mask of death the hair, the beautiful hair, still blazed like sunlight and flowed down
in rippling gold. Venus was rotting. It seemed as though the poison she had assimilated
in the gutters and on the carrion tolerated by the roadside, the leaven with which she had
poisoned a whole people, had but now remounted to her face and turned it to corruption.
Most awesome paragraph of all times? Probably.
Thanks, Uncle Dave.
*Sarcasm
Ha. "Horribly mutilate". Is there another way to do it? But Stinky digresses.
For an adult, Uncle Dave is fairly tolerable, except when, Stinky assumes, he is trying to be funny. Like when he says stuff like, "Roseanne, bar the door" and "Do you know why exorcisms are legal? Because possession is nine-tenths of the law." Hilarious*. But Stinky is certain that Uncle Dave reads Stinky's blog, which is more than Stinky can say about his other friends and fambly members. In fact, Uncle Dave gave Stinky his first opportunity in the blogosphere, undoubtedly the finest piece of writing ever to grace Uncle Dave's blog, Born Under Pants, or whatever it is called.
So after reading Stinky's last blog entry, Uncle Dave said, "Nice to see you are finally reading The Classics, little man, and not wasting your time with the graphic novels and the hippity-hop music, or whatever people of your ilk and generation cotton to these days. By the bye, the passages you quoted seem to me a precursor to the final paragraph in Zola's Nana."
Well, that's Uncle Dave for you, using made-up words like "precursor" to make himself sound smart. He also said that Nana was a novel about a Parisian courtesan who meets a frighteningly nasty and disfiguring demise from smallpox, following a life of dissipation and moral turpitude. Yes, Uncle Dave tends to talk that way. But this made Stinky eager to read the book, especially after he looked up the word "courtesan".
For those of you who wish to commit yourselves to the preceding 400 pages, go right ahead. For those of you with busy schedules, like Stinky, the rest of the novel can wait. Here is the final paragraph describing the beautiful Nana's grisly end, which does not disappoint:
Nana was left alone with upturned face in the light cast by the candle. She was the fruit
of the charnel house, a heap of matter and blood, a shovelful of corrupted flesh thrown
down on the pillow. The pustules had invaded the whole of the face, so that each touched
its neighbor. Fading and sunken, they had assumed the grayish hue of mud; and on that
formless pulp, where the features had ceased to be traceable, they already resembled some
decaying damp from the grave. One eye, the left eye, had completely foundered among
bubbling purulence, and the other, which remained half open, looked like a deep, black
ruinous hole. The nose was still suppurating. Quite a reddish crust was peeling from one
of the cheeks, which it distorted into a horrible grin. And over this loathsome and gro-
tesque mask of death the hair, the beautiful hair, still blazed like sunlight and flowed down
in rippling gold. Venus was rotting. It seemed as though the poison she had assimilated
in the gutters and on the carrion tolerated by the roadside, the leaven with which she had
poisoned a whole people, had but now remounted to her face and turned it to corruption.
Most awesome paragraph of all times? Probably.
Thanks, Uncle Dave.
*Sarcasm
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| Nana. But Uncle Dave says it's A Classic, Mom. |
Monday, August 15, 2016
J'accuse...! Emile Zola of Being Pretty Awesome!
Stinky's tired, so he's gonna let someone else do all the heavy lifting this time.
Here's another pretty good writer called Emile Zola. Stinky was impressed with these passages from Therese Raquin, published in 1867. Lazy horndog Laurent croaks his lover's husband by tossing him in the Seine. Then Laurent visits the Paris Morgue for several weeks, hoping to identify the discovered corpse:
One morning, he was seized with real terror. For some moments, he had been looking
at a corpse, taken from the water, that was small in build and atrociously disfigured.
The flesh of the drowned person was so soft and broken-up that the running water
washing it, carried it away bit by bit. The jet falling on the face bored a hole to the left
of the nose. And abruptly, the nose became flat, the lips were detached, showing the
white teeth. The head of the drowning man burst out laughing.
Several days later, Laurent sees Camille, the man he murdered:
Camille was hideous. He had been a fortnight in the water. His face still appeared firm
and rigid; the features were preserved, but the skin had taken a yellowish, muddy tint.
The thin, bony, and slightly tumefied head wore a grimace. It was a trifle inclined on
one side, with the hair sticking to the temples, and the lids raised, displaying the dull
globes of the eyes. The twisted lips were drawn to a corner of the mouth in an atro-
cious grin; and a piece of blackish tongue appeared between the white teeth. This head,
which looked tan and drawn out lengthwise, while preserving a human appearance,
had remained all the more frightful with pain and terror.
But wait, there's more:
The body seemed a mass of ruptured flesh; it had suffered horribly. You could feel that
the arms no longer held to their sockets; and the clavicles were piercing the skin of the
shoulders. The ribs formed black bands on the greenish chest; the left side, ripped open,
was gaping amidst dark red shreds. All the torso was in a state of putrefaction. The ex-
tended legs, although firmer, were daubed with dirty patches. The feet dangled down.
Imagine opening up whatever people used for Kindles back then, and reading this!
And please don't tell Stinky's mom he is reading this. She is overly-protective after Stinky was diagnosed with something called "walking night-terrors", and she considers Stinky enough of a danger when he is awake.
Here's another pretty good writer called Emile Zola. Stinky was impressed with these passages from Therese Raquin, published in 1867. Lazy horndog Laurent croaks his lover's husband by tossing him in the Seine. Then Laurent visits the Paris Morgue for several weeks, hoping to identify the discovered corpse:
One morning, he was seized with real terror. For some moments, he had been looking
at a corpse, taken from the water, that was small in build and atrociously disfigured.
The flesh of the drowned person was so soft and broken-up that the running water
washing it, carried it away bit by bit. The jet falling on the face bored a hole to the left
of the nose. And abruptly, the nose became flat, the lips were detached, showing the
white teeth. The head of the drowning man burst out laughing.
Several days later, Laurent sees Camille, the man he murdered:
Camille was hideous. He had been a fortnight in the water. His face still appeared firm
and rigid; the features were preserved, but the skin had taken a yellowish, muddy tint.
The thin, bony, and slightly tumefied head wore a grimace. It was a trifle inclined on
one side, with the hair sticking to the temples, and the lids raised, displaying the dull
globes of the eyes. The twisted lips were drawn to a corner of the mouth in an atro-
cious grin; and a piece of blackish tongue appeared between the white teeth. This head,
which looked tan and drawn out lengthwise, while preserving a human appearance,
had remained all the more frightful with pain and terror.
But wait, there's more:
The body seemed a mass of ruptured flesh; it had suffered horribly. You could feel that
the arms no longer held to their sockets; and the clavicles were piercing the skin of the
shoulders. The ribs formed black bands on the greenish chest; the left side, ripped open,
was gaping amidst dark red shreds. All the torso was in a state of putrefaction. The ex-
tended legs, although firmer, were daubed with dirty patches. The feet dangled down.
Imagine opening up whatever people used for Kindles back then, and reading this!
And please don't tell Stinky's mom he is reading this. She is overly-protective after Stinky was diagnosed with something called "walking night-terrors", and she considers Stinky enough of a danger when he is awake.
 |
| Reasonable facsimile of Emile Zola. |
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
F**ck Glenn Ford! We'll replace HIM!*
Stinky's heart soared when he recently discovered the glorious Eleanor Powell, and his heart sank even more rapidly when he discovered she was married 15 years to the soul-sucking barnacle known as Glenn Ford. So naturally Stinky was eager to read Peter Ford's biography of his famous philandering father, Mr. Glenn Ford, ready for a great big plate of steamy, creamy, salacious dirt.
Stinky was fairly disappointed. Peter Ford threw Stinky a curve and wrote, if not a dutiful, a respectful and measured biography of his aloof and frequently estranged pappy. Not what Stinky had in mind. As Stinky's old man says, "If you can't deliver the goods, don't get off the pot." And very little goods were delivered.
Plugging his book in a television interview, Peter Ford said, rather proudly, according to his dad's diary, he counted 143 affairs. Pretty good by Stinky standards, but not exactly earth-shattering by world-renown celebrity millionaire heartthrob standards, especially over a sixty year span. Stinky's calculator is not working now, but if one could do the math, that comes out to fewer than two a month.
Apparently, Glenn Ford started off as a not-very-good ladies man. First, he declined the advances of Jack London's seventy-something-year old widow (which would have made for an impressive entry in the ol' diary, if you ask Stinky) and he resisted the charms of Bette Davis, even after she presented her copious bosoms. He pleaded fidelity to his loving wife. Stinky's guessing that's the only time that happened.
Only twice does Glenn Ford win Stinky's sympathy: Hope Lange and her sister ridicule Ford as being hopelessly old-fashioned because he once wore a dressing gown with padded shoulders, and those final 15 years of pills, alcohol, illnesses, jealousies, suspicions, and thieving "caregivers" are very sad. Not a way Stinky wants to go. Except maybe for the pills.
Perhaps because Glenn Ford was so enigmatic to his son the biography seems rather superficial. Stinky gathered some mildly interesting trivia, but not much more. Actor Louis Calhern was a lifetime friend, dating back to Glenn's teenage theater days. Ford once tried LSD, but was not especially impressed in a therapeutic way. He hosted parties with intellectuals Isherwood, Huxley, and such. He was a Roosevelt Democrat who morphed into a Nixon Republican. And director Richard Brooks was responsible for Ford's extremely unflattering hairstyle, perhaps the worst of any major Hollywood star.
Ford was a major Hollywood star, probably underappreciated, with half a dozen, maybe more, excellent performances on his resume. And that ain't nothing at which to sneeze.
Which would not be easy for Stinky to admit, were it not for Stinky's magnanimous and generous nature, considering Ford's careless and repeated infidelities to the angelic Eleanor Powell.
And then, thinking he could not love her more, Stinky discovers Eleanor Powell was a huge Fats Waller fan.
*What Frank Capra reportedly said when he learned that Ford wanted to replace leading lady Shirley Jones with then-girlfriend Hope Lange.
Stinky was fairly disappointed. Peter Ford threw Stinky a curve and wrote, if not a dutiful, a respectful and measured biography of his aloof and frequently estranged pappy. Not what Stinky had in mind. As Stinky's old man says, "If you can't deliver the goods, don't get off the pot." And very little goods were delivered.
Plugging his book in a television interview, Peter Ford said, rather proudly, according to his dad's diary, he counted 143 affairs. Pretty good by Stinky standards, but not exactly earth-shattering by world-renown celebrity millionaire heartthrob standards, especially over a sixty year span. Stinky's calculator is not working now, but if one could do the math, that comes out to fewer than two a month.
Apparently, Glenn Ford started off as a not-very-good ladies man. First, he declined the advances of Jack London's seventy-something-year old widow (which would have made for an impressive entry in the ol' diary, if you ask Stinky) and he resisted the charms of Bette Davis, even after she presented her copious bosoms. He pleaded fidelity to his loving wife. Stinky's guessing that's the only time that happened.
Only twice does Glenn Ford win Stinky's sympathy: Hope Lange and her sister ridicule Ford as being hopelessly old-fashioned because he once wore a dressing gown with padded shoulders, and those final 15 years of pills, alcohol, illnesses, jealousies, suspicions, and thieving "caregivers" are very sad. Not a way Stinky wants to go. Except maybe for the pills.
Perhaps because Glenn Ford was so enigmatic to his son the biography seems rather superficial. Stinky gathered some mildly interesting trivia, but not much more. Actor Louis Calhern was a lifetime friend, dating back to Glenn's teenage theater days. Ford once tried LSD, but was not especially impressed in a therapeutic way. He hosted parties with intellectuals Isherwood, Huxley, and such. He was a Roosevelt Democrat who morphed into a Nixon Republican. And director Richard Brooks was responsible for Ford's extremely unflattering hairstyle, perhaps the worst of any major Hollywood star.
Ford was a major Hollywood star, probably underappreciated, with half a dozen, maybe more, excellent performances on his resume. And that ain't nothing at which to sneeze.
Which would not be easy for Stinky to admit, were it not for Stinky's magnanimous and generous nature, considering Ford's careless and repeated infidelities to the angelic Eleanor Powell.
And then, thinking he could not love her more, Stinky discovers Eleanor Powell was a huge Fats Waller fan.
 | ||||
| I know this post is about Glenn Ford, but who cares? |
*What Frank Capra reportedly said when he learned that Ford wanted to replace leading lady Shirley Jones with then-girlfriend Hope Lange.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Eleanor Powell's Best Dancing Partner. And It's Not Fred Astaire
First, the bad news: Ladies, Stinky is off the market. Yes, it's true, and to say so out loud and break so many hearts seems like a clear violation of the Eight Amendment of the Constitution, but it has to be said. So there it is.
Fortunately, the little lady never reads anything Stinky writes, so Stinky can keep posting the same content, unfettered by the fear of raising the ball-and-chain's wrath, jealousies, insecurities, or picadillios. Not that she has any, the little minx. I'm just sayin'.
Par example, if she were to find out that Stinky has a new crush, she would probably go off the deep end and let her l'il pea-pickin' jealous heart get the best of her. But fortunately, for all concerned, namely Stinky Fitzwizzle hisself, there is no worries of her finding out, what with her being occupied with the binge-watching of Real Housewives of Gary, Indiana. Whew.
Boy, Stinky certainly does love Eleanor Powell, as who does not? Although Stinky is a rough-and-tumble, rootin'-tootin', off-the-hip-shootin' he-man, he sure does enjoy him some toe-tapping terpischoring. He gets a little tingly when he sees her dance, but since discretion is the better part of Valerie, he will say nothing else.
Here is a number with the delightful Ms. Powell tapping her little tootsies off with a very special partner. I'm guessing it took at least a couple hours to prefect this routine.
Enjoy.
Fortunately, the little lady never reads anything Stinky writes, so Stinky can keep posting the same content, unfettered by the fear of raising the ball-and-chain's wrath, jealousies, insecurities, or picadillios. Not that she has any, the little minx. I'm just sayin'.
Par example, if she were to find out that Stinky has a new crush, she would probably go off the deep end and let her l'il pea-pickin' jealous heart get the best of her. But fortunately, for all concerned, namely Stinky Fitzwizzle hisself, there is no worries of her finding out, what with her being occupied with the binge-watching of Real Housewives of Gary, Indiana. Whew.
Boy, Stinky certainly does love Eleanor Powell, as who does not? Although Stinky is a rough-and-tumble, rootin'-tootin', off-the-hip-shootin' he-man, he sure does enjoy him some toe-tapping terpischoring. He gets a little tingly when he sees her dance, but since discretion is the better part of Valerie, he will say nothing else.
Here is a number with the delightful Ms. Powell tapping her little tootsies off with a very special partner. I'm guessing it took at least a couple hours to prefect this routine.
Enjoy.
 |
| Stinky's new crush. Don't tell the ball-and-chain. |
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Oh, that Uncle Tim!
I asked Uncle Tim why he likes NASCAR so much, and he said it's because he's always been a racist.
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| Uncle Tim in the middle. |
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
History!
No, not the boring kind in the classroom that you can never remember, but the genuinely important kind that directly involves yours truly, Stinky Fitzwizzle. Stinky, who keeps close tabs on the vast number of visitors to his blog, is proud to announce that he has reached an important milestone. Modesty prevents me from revealing the exact number of website visitors; suffice it to say that the number has many, many digits. Greater than three. So congratulations to all of you out there who have enjoyed me over the years.
It seems like such a short time ago this blog was started and history began its inexorable ascent into greatness, if I may turn a beautiful phrase. Perhaps thanks should be given to Uncle Dave, who inspired me to write a blog. Likely this is the first time "inspired" and "Uncle Dave" have appeared together in the same sentence, but leave us give credit where credit is due. If I had not stumbled across Uncle Dave's blog, Born Under Saturn, whatever that means, I never would have said, "Sheesh! If Uncle Dave can write a blog, anyone can!" And so I did.
Thanks also to Uncle Dave for giving Stinky the opportunity to write his first movie review for Born Under the Sink, or whatever Uncle Dave's blog is called, and allowing Stinky's first steps toward inevitable immortality.
Perhaps I should make a correction. The phrase, "ascent into greatness" may not be apt because it seems to imply a progression or an improvement, and we all know that improvement upon perfection is not possible.
Lastly, many thanks to all those little people in the dark. Or in the light. Wherever.
It seems like such a short time ago this blog was started and history began its inexorable ascent into greatness, if I may turn a beautiful phrase. Perhaps thanks should be given to Uncle Dave, who inspired me to write a blog. Likely this is the first time "inspired" and "Uncle Dave" have appeared together in the same sentence, but leave us give credit where credit is due. If I had not stumbled across Uncle Dave's blog, Born Under Saturn, whatever that means, I never would have said, "Sheesh! If Uncle Dave can write a blog, anyone can!" And so I did.
Thanks also to Uncle Dave for giving Stinky the opportunity to write his first movie review for Born Under the Sink, or whatever Uncle Dave's blog is called, and allowing Stinky's first steps toward inevitable immortality.
Perhaps I should make a correction. The phrase, "ascent into greatness" may not be apt because it seems to imply a progression or an improvement, and we all know that improvement upon perfection is not possible.
Lastly, many thanks to all those little people in the dark. Or in the light. Wherever.
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