The Squire of Pecker Wood, Friend of the Museum and our country correspondent, is a radio scanner fan. He sends this report, gleaned from the air, from the ice-bound woods of Tappahominy County, Virginia:
An elderly woman who had fallen and broken her leg called 911 a while ago. She lived alone, she said, and she'd hit her head at the same time, and she couldn't remember her name or the address. Not even the road. All she could recall was that she lived in a peach-colored house not far from the Ch----rs residence. The dispatcher was immediately swamped with half-a-dozen calls from firemen who knew the place, and the victim, immediately. One of them said it was her right leg that was broken.
"How do you know that?" the dispatcher asked.
"Because she broke the left one last time, and they cut if off."
The snow started coming down last evening while I was dining with the Norbeck-Wallingford sisters at our favorite Peruvian joint, La Flor de la Canela, formerly known as The Chicken Place. Very cozy, guzzling pisco sours and eating fried squid and tacu tacu steak as the snow came down. Somewhat treacherous, though, driving home in the Museum's 2CV. And looking out this morning - a winter wonderland, blah blah... trackless wilderness, yada yada... Someone has to shovel the walks, and Gus is nowhere to be found, of course, the wretch. Not that there are any visitors, since the Washington area infamously shuts down in any sort of winter storm event - the gift shop staff are dozing off, the wretches.
The best part of BaijuBawra (1952) is the climactic musical duel between Baiju, a handsome young singer, and Tansen, chief musical heart-throb at the court of the Emperor Akbar. But the sub-plots are many - Baiju's carrying a torch for Gauri, the pretty village girl (the great Meena Kumari in her first important role; later played Hannah in Yahudi and Niloufer in Halaku). And there's Roopmati (Kuldeep Kaur), a swashbuckling lady chieftain of dacoits who falls deeply for Baiju when he prevents her band from looting the home village by singing nicely to them. Movie dacoits seem to be highly susceptible, like the Pirates of Penzance, and totally unlike modern thuggish dacoits.
Since the Nevsky Vocal Ensemble hails from St. Petersburg, a little snow bothered them not at all - probably put them in the mood for their excellent set of Russian folksongs. Their concert on Sunday, part of Washington Grove's Mousetrap Concerts, was excellent; just the thing for a snowy afternoon. Also featured were sacred works and several contemporary Russian art songs. Above, the Nevskys - Natalie Kosareva (soprano), Anastasia Meshchanova (mezzo-soprano), Dmitri Shazhenik (tenor), and Sergei Shishkin (baritone and director).
Anastasia Meshchanova performs the most elegant curtsey ever seen in McCathran Hall.
Many thanks to those Friends of the Museum who have made Amazon.com purchases through one of our handy links - every purchase helps our outreach efforts. One FOM recently asked if the Museum is credited for a purchase made anywhere on the Amazon site, and not just one of the linked products - Yes - if you enter the Amazon site through one of our links, any purchase made during that session helps us out.
They sounded very fine - should be an excellent concert. Then it was back into the trackless wastes:
The Circle was a howling wilderness - everyone must be out panic shopping. I was menaced by a wild animal:
... The intrepid Cat Natasha, who won't let no stinking blizzard stand in the way of her afternoon walk. And so back to the carriage house for hot soup, a cigar, and maybe a nap.
I'm just getting around to posting some snaps of some of the festive scenes around Capitol Hill on the day before the Inauguration. Above, fences and a limo on First Street. Incarceration and ostentation seemd to be the twin motifs of the celebration, like a birthday party in a re-education camp.
Dennis at a memorable pig roast on West Gilgo Beach on Long Island some years back. Here's the Washington Post and the New York Times on Dennis (annoying registrations may be required).
A passage in the New Yorker article on Hayao Miyazaki cited below mentions a beloved anime character named Anapanman, who appears to be a bean paste stuffed bread roll - he fights for justice, of course. The article quotes an Anapanman fan web site - "To a non-Japanese person, the concept of a living bread superman who fights giant germs and feeds the hungry with pieces of his head may seem bizarre." Surely not - surely these are universal values that we can all relate to and value?
Alert readers will know that we occasionally mentionRichard Thompson and his insanely funny Richard's Poor Almanac, which appears weekly in the Washington Post. A collection, or compendium, or omnibus or vademecum has been published and is available here. I promise that you don't have to live inside the Beltway to larf out loud at entries like the Smithsonian's Dillinger Wing (now showing Splendors of Ypsilanti) or the lists of local restaurant closings - "Eurodonut" being shut down for finding Marmite in the jelly donuts, and the frequent tragic travails of "P.J. Piehole's Family Place". But that's not all! There's also a page of commemorative Richard Thompson stamps! Really, just click here (which also assists The Janus Museum's operating and slush fund) and buy a copy or two. You'll thank me.
And FOM Ed McDevitt, who earlier sent a lovely book for the Museum library, has also made a very generous monetary contribution to the Museum's operating fund, which will greatly assist us in our continuing outreach. If other patrons would like to help out, cash is always appreciated, or one can make one's next purchase on Amazon.com through one our convenient links, or by clicking on one of the annoying adverts, over there on the right hand column. But cash is good, too. We thank you.
I finally got to see a Max Linder film, Seven Years Bad Luck (1921) last evening. Born in France, Max was a hugely influential silent film comedian, called "the great master" by Chaplin. We especially enjoyed the film's cat content. Also, this scene:
I swear that this is not turning into a dreamblog, despite evidence to the contrary. But the other night, I dreamed that I had dinner at the White House with Franklin Pierce (1804-1869). How lame is that? I couldn't dream about saving JFK from Dallas, or telling Lincoln that Our American Cousin is a stinker, don't bother to see it... No, I dream of a president somewhat more obscure than Millard Fillmore. And in my dream, he asked me where he could obtain a portrait of Honoré de Balzac - maybe he was thinking of this picture). I told him to talk to Joseph Henry over at the Smithsonian. I forget what we had for dinner - probably this, with my luck.
Further on Cold Comfort Farm, my colleague Martha Norbeck-Wallingford suggests this fascinating essay by Reggie Oliver. I'll read it after my headache moderates slightly.
