Every inch of it, you say?
Every inch of it, you say?
While recently reading Men’s Journal (or Men’s Health, I can never keep them straight), I came across an article about taking on a bird as a pet. This seems less like something the readers of MJ (or MH) would actually want and more like something that got pitched and then written because something else fell through. Regardless. I started contemplating what life with a bird would be like.
This led to some Googling and craigslist searching. (Warning: Don’t search on craigslist for pets because your heart will break.) And that led me to investigating parakeets, which eventually led me to the discovery of the concept of “false friends.”
False friends are a little bit like folk etymology, except this time it’s word in two different languages that look or sound similar and mean very different things. Parakeet means parakeet in English, but peroquet means parrot in French. The best example is probably the one in the photo (the child is saying, “Mama, that one, that one, that one!”), but aren’t words fun?
Here’s the thing: The reason billions of people haven’t starved to death is thanks to German scientist Fritz Haber and the Haber-Bosch Process, which basically allows large-scale fertilizers to exist. He won the Nobel Prize!
But he also pioneered chemical warfare, deriding those who called it inhumane by pointing out that death is death, no matter what horse it rides in on.
His wife Clara may have disagreed; shortly after Haber personally oversaw the deployment of chlorine gas at Ypres (which saw 67,000 deaths), Clara and Fritz argued and she shot herself in the head with his gun. Their 13-year-old son, Hermann, heard the shots and found her. (Hermann would later commit suicide after WWII and the death of his youngest daughter; his oldest daughter would do likewise.)
And just as Haber saw no difference between modes of death, the Nazis saw no difference between Jews, whether they had served their country during the Great War or not. Presuming himself safe from persecution after converting to Christianity, Haber was stunned when he was ordered to dismiss all Jewish employees. He was dead by January 1934.
Allegedly, some of Haber’s extended family would be killed in concentration camps, courtesy of chemicals that had been developed at his lab.
Let’s all take a moment to watch Lena Horne own the stage in her solo show, shall we?
Sure, the First Ladies get the biopics, the memoirs, and the biographies—but that doesn’t mean, especially when it comes to national politics, that they’re the only interesting ladies in D.C. There are, after all, the Second Ladies. (Maybe we never hear about them because “Second Ladies” sounds so… sinister.)
For instance, there was Judy Agnew. Oh Lord, poor Judy Agnew. She was content just being a homemaker for Spiro while he was governor of Maryland, then she got caught up in Nixon’s whirlwind just as it stopped being fun and started being felonious. Not that she was political. When someone asked her what she was doing as Second Lady,s he replied, “Trying to keep the ashtrays clean.”
And when a news report went out saying that… Well, no. Let me just quote it straight from her New York Times obituary:
During the 1968 presidential campaign, after newspapers reported that she had scandalized Maryland society by serving martinis in peanut butter jars, she went on television to rebut the accusation, displaying her shining crystal glasses.
Does anyone have that footage?
I don’t really think I need to add commentary, do I?
As a little girl, future Miss Universe Dorothy Dell was violently attacked by a dog in Mississippi. She only survived because her father killed the dog to save her.
In July 1931, Ziegfeld Showgirl Dorothy was invited to a party on vaudevillian Harry Richman’s yacht, Chevalier II. She declined; another showgirl took her place; the yacht exploded; the alternate showgirl was killed.
In August 1931, Dorothy was severely injured in an automobile accident. She spent two months recovering and almost died when she contracted influenza.
Then she broke a leg, and spent the next several months singing torch songs on the stage from a stool.
On June 7, 1934, Dorothy said, “You know, they say deaths go in cycles of three. First it was Lilyan Tashman, then Lew Cody. I wonder who’ll be next?” Continue reading
I have been told for months that I need to listen to Karina Longworth’s podcast You Must Remember This. “But,” I was warned, “you may be a little jealous. She covers a lot of your favorites.”
“Oh, I’m sure I”ll be fine,” I said smugly. “My podcast would be about people like Gloria Grahame.”
“She did it.”
“Oh, that was such a good episode!” Continue reading
I’ve been revisiting some of my favorite gallant leading ladies these days. Chief among them is, of course, Elizabeth Taylor. Say what you will about her life, her appetites (for men, jewels, food), and her talent, but she lived life with a gusto that few of us could hope to match. Remember when Montgomery Clift crashed his car outside her house, and she saved his life by reaching down into his throat and pulling out the front teeth he was choking on? And how, outside the hospital in a cab with an unconscious Monty on her lap, she responded to the cab driver’s insistence that he be paid the $10 fare by throwing a $10,000 diamond ring at him?
But these are told and retold stories. The one I want to tell today is Lana Turner’s. Continue reading