Meet a beauty with a whim of iron
Two of best actresses in Hollywood are Brooklyn-born redheads with tempers as fiery as their hair. One of them, Oscar-winning Susan Hayward, learned to control her emotional explosions and became rich and famous as a result.
The other, Cara Williams, is equally talented and equally beautiful. She might easily have become a reigning queen like Susan. Only Cara is a sex bomb with an awfully short fuse.
“Why do I flare up?” Cara asks, repeating an interviewer’s question. “I don’t know. It’s my natural reaction when someone rubs me the wrong way. I wish I had a nickel for every fight I’ve had since I came to Hollywood 17 years ago. Then I could retire.”
In an industry here girls are taught never to say no to a producer or director, the INSIDE STORY is that Cara is definitely unique. She has walked out on some of the mightiest movie moguls— and on parts that other actresses would have swapped body and soul to obtain.
Now 32, she has battled her way through two stormy marriages and scores of verbal duels with the top guns of Movieland. Because she never pulls punches, most Hollywood rahjahs would rather tangle with a tarantula than risk Cara’s wrath. Consequently, they reserve the choicest roles for dolls who are easier to handle.
“Cara would be a top star,” a famous director says, “If only she’d learn to button her lip.”
She inherited her flaming hair and disposition to match from her father, a newspaperman on the old Brooklyn Eagle. Her dad wrote a column on marriage and family life— but didn’t take his own advice. When Cara was a baby, her parents separated.
Her mother Florence Williams, obtained a job as manicurist in a barber shop next to Brooklyn’s famous Albee Theater. The theater manager and his wife were crazy about the pretty tot and frequently served as baby sitters while Flo was at work.
They would sometimes tie Cara to a seat in the back row of the movie house and leave her to watch the flicks. She learned to recognize all the famous movie stars almost before she could walk or talk.
Her favorite game was imitating the actors and the actresses she saw on the screen. By the time she had reached kindergarten, she was an expert mimic and her impersonations were the talk of the neighborhood.
“Cara would only have to see an actress once,” a Brooklyn neighbor recalls, “and she would have her voice and mannerisms down pat. If you closed your eyes during one of Cara’s acts, you would swear it was the actress herself talking.”
Flo wrote a Hollywood columnist about Cara’s talent. She asked for advice on whether she should try to get the little girl into the movies. The columnist replied with three little words: “Stay in Brooklyn.”
—from “Cara Williams: The Redhead Hollywood Can’t Handle,” by Ernest Frankheimer, INSIDE STORY, November 1961
Caz Dolowicz was born on Sands Street in 1923 and first saw The Ox-Bow Incident with Henry Morgan and others at the Albee Theater in 1943. More than anything in October 1961, fresh off his second divorce, Caz wanted to play horsey with Pete and Gladys.
"Juba Breakdown" is the first tune in Ellis' Thorough School for the Six or Seven- Stringed Banjo (PDF). It's a lot of fun to play.
Juba Breakdown (MP3) Juba Breakdown (Ogg Vorbis) Juba Breakdown (Ogg FLAC) Juba Breakdown (MP4 video)
This recording is 1:10 long. The tune would be a natural fit to connect segments in a larger piece like a radio play, so I have also clipped out shorter snippets to fit as needed:
Here's the sheet music for people who are inclined that way (I use the 1st banjo part):
I'm playing it in an anachronistic style, something along the lines of 1930s country, which it absolutely wasn't.
My recording is hereby in the public domain. Do whatever you want with it.
wishing you well, dear followers...
I was trying to think of something eloquent or comprehensive to post for the dawn of the new decade, but my brain is still a little flat-lined. For now, here's wishing you and your loved ones a glorious 2010 and beyond. May love guide us all.
* Previously, my post on a New Year's Eve in Tijuana.
Humans have 23 years to go
Global Extinction Awareness System starts the countdown for Homo sapiens.
PALO ALTO, CA — Based on the results of a year-long supercomputer simulation, the Global Extinction Awareness System (GEAS) has reset the "survival horizon" for Homo sapiens - the human race - from "indefinite" to 23 years.
This is the last blog post of 2009. If this post were written by another blogger, I would probably be telling you about how 2009 was the worst year in recent memory or I would probably be arguing in very persuasive language about how the noughts were the worst decade since the beginning of the Judeo-Christian calendar — a charge that I cannot guarantee for sure, since I was not alive when we started keeping tabs on the years. But I cannot do this. Because 2009 raped me. And as a rape victim, I am too ashamed to chronicle the specific details of 2009’s violent actions. This would be a classic he said/she said situation, were 2009 able to respond to my allegations. But because 2009 is not a person, and merely a year, it cannot defend itself from my rape charge.
The major ethical question here is whether I am (a) lying about 2009 raping me, (b) a bit too influenced by other excitable, finger-waving, end-of-the-year posts, essays, and articles, or (c) attempting, through some foolish and over-the-top catharsis, to find a disingenuous manner with which to accuse 2009 of rape. It may very well be a combination of two or three of these elements. Were I interested in attaching some end-of-the-year list to justify my rape allegation against the year (and the decade), you might more ably believe in my convictions.
But I prefer to operate in the present and learn from past mistakes. If 2009 did rape me, I will certainly do my best to ensure that future years will not violate me. But were any of us really violated? And why do we all insist on putting the blame on any one year? Wikipedia informs me that “projection is always seen as a defense mechanism that occurs when a person’s own unacceptable or threatening feelings are repressed and then attributed to someone else.” Is it fair to project our more difficult emotions onto a single year?
There are a few absolute projections that I can make right now. But I can say that the next post I write will be in 2010. I am not sure if 2010 will rape me. It’s just too early to tell. Now that I have begun to ruminate upon 2009, I am not sure if the year actually raped me. Yes, there was a struggle. But it’s not as if 2009 was some strange year who picked me up in a bar. We knew 2009. And it is said that most rape victims suffer not from the despicable actions of strangers, but from people they know. But 2009 is not a person. It is a year. And we have something that 2009 does not, which is the ability to exist longer than 365 days. So is all this negative self-reflection (or, this post’s reflection of other self-reflections from other blogs) the result of not being able to confront the glorious prospects of the present?
Perhaps. But irrespective of these difficult questions and inside one earnest sentence devoid of satirical intentions, I do wish everyone a very happy new year!
What can I say?
Thanks for a great year, everyone! See you in 2010 …
Okay, I’m cheating, and hardcore FFO-heads will probably sue my ass, but this is my party so I’ll do what I want … gotta give this week’s FFO 2nd Place Medal to my favorite music video of the year:
This video is like the elixir of eternal life for me.
Friday Face-Offs!!! WINNING VIDEO IS NEXT!!!
This song really starts rocking at 0:23. I can’t decide what I think of the vocalist’s style, but I looove the beat. Sometime around 3:00, the tambourine player basically goes into Keith Moon mode with those insane triplets.
Video’s not bad, either …
Friday Face-Offs! Two more videos if it kills me!
From “Whaddya know?” to “Ya don’t say,” the 2000s will be remembered as the decade when catchphrases were king.
Here are the TOP TEN CATCHPHRASES OF THE DECADE:
10. Ya don’t say!
9. Are you for real?
8. If something does or doesn’t happen, the terrorists will win!
7. I’ll believe it when I see it!
6. Fuhgeddaboutit!
5. No way!
4. TIE: You gotta be kiddin’ me!/Pimpin’ ain’t easy!
3. Tell me about it!
2. Did you like that movie or what?
1. It’s all good!
LOL, is this guy feeling it very hard? LET’S DO THIS.
In the comments to this video, haters are saying this guy looks like Stephen Hawking when he sings. Then another commenter says this: “Awesome cover. Btw, screw everyone else, I love the head bob. Real emotion is music is what it’s all about.”
Is there anything more invigorating than a youtube commenter telling a video’s poster to ignore the haters? ANSWER: NO.
I also like the very, very end of this video, because he puts down his guitar and then for a split second it looks like he’s debating whether to smash it against the wall.
Friday Face-Offs! “Real emotion is music is what it’s all about.”
Blind Willie McTell -- Dying Crapshooter's Blues (MP3)
SJI sez:I recently received an email from an enthusiastic Porter Grainger fan. In fact, his first comment was to point out that "Dyin' Crapshooter's Blues" actually made it onto piano rolls! Readers of this blog - and of the book - will know that the composer of "Dyin' Crapshooter's Blues" was Porter Grainger. Grainger was one of those souls who disappeared almost completely from public consciousness, even though he left a significant mark on the music of the 1920s.
Versus --
Essay on Blind Willie McTell on Pseudopodium blog:
[Blind Willie] McTell himself said of his most strikingly original composition, "Dying Crapshooter's Blues" (1.9MB MP3): "I had to steal music from every which way you could get it to get it to fit." Although the criminal's mock testament has a history ranging from Villon to "Streets of Laredo" and "St. James Infirmary," McTell's three years of tinkering resulted in a structure part recitation, part theater -- a three-act pop opera complete with opening fanfare.
If I was in high school, no doubt the Mountain Goats would be my favorite band. Are you kidding? All that heart-on-shirtsleeve over-emoting, all the lyrics about drinking Scotch and playing video games? In the words of one of the decade’s greatest catchphrases, “Fuhgeddaboutit.”
Stop-motion animation? Check. Multi-track vocal harmonies? Check. Extended shots of high school building? Check. This video couldn’t be more awesomely high school if it came with a diploma.
I’m pleased to finally reveal the project Matthew Battles and I have been working on for a long time, a comic exploration of the public spat between Arthur Conan Doyle and Houdini, up now at BarnesAndNoble.com.
This was a really fun project to do, not the least reason that Matthew is a terrific writer, and it was easy to shape images around his words. This was one of the first times I’ve been strictly the artist, instead of the artist-writer-auteur of a comic, and I really enjoyed it; it some ways, it allowed me to focus on the graphics more, witout worrying about the prose. I still love writing, but I may pursue this more. It’s also the first time I applied this vintage-collage style to comics, and I think it works well, Barnes And Noble’s apparent technical limitations notwithstanding (no Flash? Come on, guys.) I think it works well, and it’s also something I’ll exploring more. Max Ernst, eat your heart out. No, not literally, you weirdo.
This is the most depressing video of all time– since when did they start using CGI on Dr. Who??? If it ain’t a monster made out of rubber and duct tape, or a space ship made out of old BBC shipping containers and sparkle paint, it has no business being on Dr. Who.
Anyway, life is all about accepting change and living with disappointment and growing and whatnot, so I guess I need to make peace with the fact that Tom Baker isn’t Dr. Who anymore if it kills me.
Friday Face-Offs!!! Ex-term-in-ate … Ex-term-in-ate …
Object No. 21 of 50 — Significant Objects v2
[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Jason Reich, has ended. Original price: $1.99. Final price: $41.00. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds of this auction to 826 National.]
It had been gifted ironically, natch. His friend had spotted it at the mall, and wasn’t it awful? The grotesque smile and bizarre skyward eyeroll. And what was up with those pants? “You’d think someone qualified for this award would be smart enough to buy pants that fit,” his friend said, and they both cracked up. He accepted the statuette with glee, proudly installing it on his shelf in a place of honor between the train whistle sound effects CD and the circa-1971 Zion National Park mug bearing someone else’s name. World’s Best Father. Looking at it, you had to laugh. All those pathetic, Precious Moments-collecting, pewter angel-buying nitwits who actually shopped for gifts at Hallmark Gifts and sincerely treasured this kind of crap. Hilarious.
—–
She hadn’t taken it well when he finally pulled the plug. But what was he supposed to do? It was a big thing, to still not be sure about her after fourteen months. Sure, he’d had his fun over the years. Actresses, college girls, flat-out lunatics. Relationships stamped with obvious expiration dates. With her, it had been about something greater, at least until the doubts started to set in. He knew, in that way you just know things, that it was time. “You can’t be serious,” she snapped. “I mean, literally, you’re incapable of it. You expect to be taken seriously when your place is crammed with junk like this?” She was angrily waving something, a figurine, some gag gift a now-forgotten high school buddy had given him years ago and that he’d never had the heart to throw away. He held it dumbly as she collected the last of her toiletries, admiring again the character’s endearing grin, the appealing splash of color on its lapel. The little man on the pedestal was a doofus, no doubt, but he certainly looked happy, and what was wrong with that?
—–
Something clattered to the floor upstairs and he rose from the kitchen table to investigate, finally abandoning the crossword puzzle at this, the third interruption. From the door of the spare bedroom, he could see his four-year-old leaning against the dresser, trying not to cry. The older one, his son, stood quietly over the fallen object: a small statue, long ago placed on a high shelf, out of sight. He picked it up. The figure, with its bemused eyeroll, seemed to empathize. Kids, right? “Go play somewhere else, guys,” he said. “Mom’ll be home soon and we’ll eat.” They padded out, and he gently scratched the back of his daughter’s neck as she passed him, giving her the chills, eliciting a giggle. He moved to replace the figurine on its perch, then paused, enjoying the weight of it in his palm. The thing was so goofy. Looking at it, you had to laugh.
Okay, basically this dude is the ultimate bad-ass. He keeps pushing through this song (which is supposed to be completely emotionally shattering) in spite of everybody ignoring him and talking and chattering every which way and thereby passively stripping the song of much of its power. I used to perform acoustic-guitar songs at open mics*, and if this guy is anything like me, he’s probably distracted from his performance by thoughts like: “What am I doing, why is everyone ignoring me, why am I such a failure, why does everyone hate me, I wish I was dead.”
True, he bails eventually, but he gave it the ol’ college try, so he earns a 7th Place Friday Face-Offs medal!
By the way, do you think the camera man was pretty happy at (0:16)? What is she picking up, census forms? LOL, “the government wants to know how many people live at this coffeehouse.”
(*Don’t hate the playa, hate the game)
“I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me.” Basically 2009 was so insane, it has led me to post Friday Face-Offs on a Thursday! I really should call this “Thursday Face-Offs,” except that New Year’s Eve is kinda like an honorary Friday.
Anyway, let’s get things poppin’ with our first contestant! Check out the banging harmonies and adorable cockney(?) accents exhibited hereunder:
NICE! They totally shred the line about feasting and dancing in Jerusalem (2:44). By the way, where is this concert taking place? In an operating room in the fanciest, most exclusive Beverly Hills hospital? Because if that’s true, somebody needs to maybe clean that operating room a little before the next surgery.
FRIDAY FACE-OFFS! I am gonna make it to the next video if it kills me!