The girl I knew from 1990...

Back from a nice, long, blurry week. It's not the alcohol per se, more the structure of my days. No, rather the distinct lack of structure. It was the normality and routine of going to school that used to (and in a few, all too short months will again) regulate my posting. It was just a part of my habit. Post, go to school, check for comments in classes, reply, rinse and repeat. Then I graduated, moved home. Posting got harder. But still possible. I had hockey. It reminded me that it was Monday, time for the Crush of the Week. The COTW comment checking led to other postings, and so on.

Now I've played my last game of the season, and I'm fresh out of routines. It's oddly liberating to live as if you're on vacation in your hometown. And now that my friends have rejoined me, it's even better. Or I should say, worthwhile at all. It turns out there are things to do, just none that seem fun alone. But I digress (is it digressing when it's the topic I started on? In any case I'm digressing now)... on to the point of today's post (bolded in case you're skimming and don't want to read my two paragraph rant):

Hannah Roberts. The name probably doesn't mean anything to you, but it's one of my memories from living in Chicago. Actually I remember the first and last names of several of the people I went to Preschool with. (Peter Pan Preschool in fact, I wonder if this is the occasion that my personal rantings would be better left for...) And some that I enjoyed kindergarten with as well.

I was feeling a bit nostalgic for my original house in Naperville two days ago, so I decided to Google map it. For whatever reason, I remember the address of every house I've ever lived in, every phone number I could ever have been reached at, and quite a bit of other crap. My memory isn't quite photographic... but I do alright. So, seeing first house, I decided to "walk" to the places I remembered. I found Ellsworth, and then it struck me that there's a way I could casually get in touch with those people again. And that way was Facebook.

So, I searched for the people I remembered, minus those who were complete tools in kindergarten/preschool, and to my great surprise I was actually right, first try. I asked them if they went to the schools at the times that I did, and all of them had. I did narrow it down a bit. For instance the Hannah Roberts I knew wasn't black. Cross her off the list. Nor was she four years younger than me, etc. And I did bias the results to favor those still in the Chicago area, but it worked.

If you're of a demographic where you can still use Facebook, I suggest you look up people like this. It's pretty fun. And how often do you get to say "So... what have you been up to for the last 16 years? Do you still have that kick-ass black and white backpack? **Do jou take off your face and hands before you go to bed? And if so, are you some kinda robot? And if so, what kind of powers do you have? Do you use them for good, or for awesome? Would you like to join forces? I just happen to be the greatest criminal mind of our time.**"

- Scott

** Only actually sent once. Bonus points for her actually getting it.

The French loved me!

I'm not talking about Rob here either. I don't know how many of you have seen/read the Da Vinci Code, but I suggest you all go out and watch it. Not because I thought it was a great movie, but because it's the subject of today's post, and it'll just make it that much more interesting. I also suggest you get fitted with a catheter, because that's one loooooong movie*. But do see it, because I don't think you're reget it. Plus the Pope banned it, which makes it all the more desirable because it's now forbidden.

Anyway, much of the plot rests on these pyramids at the Louvre. I don't think I'm giving anything away by saying that, but they're featured prominently at the beginning and the end of the movie. Which made the movie even more enjoyable for me, as it strongly recalled memories of a time when I was solving a mystery in that very location. The mystery of: how-large-a-scene-I-can-make-without-actually-saying-anything. Turns out pretty large. And it involves those two underground pyramids that together form the fulcrum of the plot in the Da Vinci Code. Take a look (and click for the larger version of both).

Here's a small picture in case you don't know what it usually looks like. Can you guess what I did?

To the left of the shot: a tour group, in the center: myself, and in the right third: a horrified French boy**.

My expression is intentionally pained as at that moment I was calling to my friends for help. Yes I know that's saying something, but it was astonishing how fast I went from pretending to be stuck to actually being pinned between the two pyramids. It kind of hurt. By this time the crowd (sadly off camera), was getting a little too big and I was worried that I was going to draw the attention of some angry, uniformed, security personelle. So I forcibly removed my head from betwixt the two sharp points (not reccomended), and tried to blend. As I was 1.) just finished attracting attention to myself and 2.) dressed like the Jolly Green Giant's bastard son on vacation I failed extravagantly in my attempt.

In a way, I feel mine is the more important contribution to the lore surrounding the pyramids. I'm sure you can agree.

- Scott

* Odd that I could sit through all three Lord of the Rings movies and be completly rapt with attention pointing out when the movie cribs a line directly from the books, but three-ish hours of a mystery that's more or less solved in the first half hour (even if you didn't read it) makes me antsy.

** I knew he was French because I heard him speaking (in French), to an adult (mom?), about what a ridiculous sight he had just seen (presumably). Unless the kid is named Bean, it's his first language.

The Me Team.

"In 2006 a crack commando unit... well actually it was just one guy going commando... was sent to prision by a debt collection agency for a crime he didn't commit. This man promptly talked his way through the situation, but was chased by the rogue collection agency to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the kneebreakers, he survives as a soldier of fortune. GameCube, XBOX, PS2, and the next generation. If you have a problem, no walkthrough can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire the Me Team."

It's true. I'm getting Me Team T-shirts and everything. The other part is true too. I moved from Springfield in a hurry. I left forwarding addresses for everybody that should have needed one and I had the Springfield post office forward stuff to my new address. Inexplicably, months after I paid my final bill, returned my digital cable box/remote, and canceled my cable/internet, what should arrive at my house but a bill. For $35.00. "Umm.... what the hell?" Was my first thought. I looked through it and apparently there were a few days before they acutally did shut off my cable, and I was being charged for them. Nevermind that I had been living somewhere else by the time they got around to shutting it off.

I could see that my best option was to just pay the bill. Which I did. About two weeks ago. Sadly, yesterday, I get a letter from the "We'll take your credit out to the woodshed and rape it repeatedly, and if that doesn't work we'll break your friggin' kneecaps and not give you any pizza" collection agency. Great. I decided I would call them too and make them understand how charming and not at fault I am. As it turns out, they were prepared for this. It's nigh impossible to talk to a human being. However, at every pause they offer to take down your credit card number and have done with it right there. I haven't gotten through to them, so these shady bastards are still after me. Damn it. I never even had a late movie rental before this.

Oh well, I'm going to go price a few black vans.

- Scott

She's got motion, motion, motion. A Crush Potion (for me).

How influential are the commentators on my blog? Do I put stock in your words, or are you just the frosting on the delicious word cake I bake each week? Good questions. Well apparently the answer for today is that I do. Because I hadn't planned to do Kristin Kreuk this week, but after Rob said it, it was like telling me not to think of the elephant. I was flipping through the Rolodex of Fine Women I keep in my head, just above the Lazy Susan of Excuses for Breaking Things (Ex. "Clearly I saved someone's life. Such flimsy construction... the next person to hang from this gutter might not have been so agile. I could easily see them breaking their necks. You're welcome."), and though the rolodex is full of other women it kept sticking on her. So, thanks to that implanted suggestion, here we are. I hope you're happy, punk.

I intend to bang out another post today, so let's get down to business:

Name: Kristin Nicole Kreuk. (Note: her middle name is only probably Nicole. I don't know what it really is, but in the english speaking world female middle names are usually "Ann" or "Nicole". I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt here.)

Why we care: How about the absolutely impossible feat of playing a half-asian version of Lana Lang (who is supposed to be a xenophobic, midwestern, red headed cheerleader), without one negative word from Superman fanboi's the internet over, she's also really hot. In fact those two are explicitly related as the producers couldn't have gotten away taking such a blatant dump on the chest of the original cannon without inserting such a lovely girl. Not to mention her lovely cameo in EuroTrip, which despite the fact that the movie itself is of questionable cinematic value, has never not made me laugh heartily when I watch it.

Scott... he's just so swell: Thanks. Although never say "swell" again. Who are you the Beev? (Editors note: No. No I am not.) Anyway, I decided that Kristin, like LaLa, is one of those girls who can't truly be captured by still photography. I wonder if anyone really can. Anyway what she really needs is what she's got. Motion, motion, motion. Check it out. Though I reccomend you mute the voice over guy, who sounds like he's desperately trying to hold in a bong hit, and just listen to the dulcet voices of Allison Mack (worthy of her own Crush of the Week) and Kristin Kreuk.

- Scott

"I'll gladly post Tuesday, for a week off today"

Not really. I hope to post tonight. But there are suddenly no less than 35 people vying for my attention in town. Whisking me away from my home on adventures like some collective version of Gandalf. But don't think I'm out of idea, just steam --by the time I crash down on my bed anyway. Also I don't usually post under the influence. And lots of mead has flown my way this week. When former teachers are bartending, you just have to show up and order fufu drinks don't you?

Anyway, I do have some partially completed posts out there. And two of them took a left turn to serious (as much so as I can muster) introspection. Bulleted list of what's to come (possibly tonight, they'll have the date started on them when I post, so it'll appear to have posted from a couple of days ago.

• Bathrooms. Public/private.
  
• Questioning my own thinking. I'm at the age where I start to realize when I seriously inspect my motives how old some of my assumptions are. When the last time you gave any thought to an issue you were 15, maybe it's time to go over it again.
  
• Capture the Flag. Too awesome.
  
• Getting busted by the man. And laughing my way through it.
  
• Art School Confidential, my opinions.
  

See? Content! Sorry I've gotten so summer'd up. I'll get back to posting... after the skiing. See you then kids.

- Scott

In the tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki crush...

If you know what the title is referencing, God have mercy on your soul for the clossal amount of time you've spent in quasi-rides at themeparks. Apparently my muscular, if bruised, thigh wasn't the comment generator I had anticipated. But looking back, I can understand why. I mean laying eyes on the thing is like looking into the open Arc of the Covenant. It'll melt your face... with lust. And it's hard to type in that condition. Not to mention the immeadiate need for reconstructive plastic surgery. Just be thankful your entire body didn't melt.

Something that I'm thankful for is Podcasting. Specifically video podcasting, which is where our Crush o' the Week comes from. (What I have to incorporate a gimmick into the title every week?) If you've got a heart that aches, weary from the weight of the world, a soul that can't find its redemption, and a desire for swank tiki bar settings and a lovely woman wiggling around in them, then I have the remedy. Her name is... in the ingredients section.

Name: She's actress Beatrice Fastwater. And children matter to her. But she's also known as Lala. The saucy minx that shimmys in the intro to the "hhwhildly successful, popular, popular podcast known as Tiki Bar TV."

Her Crush Worthy Charms: Besides all of the obvious*, such as her being really hot, or existing in that aether between being just a pretty, grinning, airhead and... well not. The way she plays it hasn't annoyed me yet, as ditsy girls often will. In fact, it's charming as hell! Anyway, besides those things, she represents, according to Wikipedia, "the mythical attractive lush."

And she built the Drinkbot. "An automatic robot, based on science!" To see her grin as she says even the most ridiculous of lines... ah. But I digress. Anyway, she built the Drinkbot, which though it was innocent enough at first, quickly became obsessed with the human concept of love. And as such is clearly the origin of the entire Cylon robotic faction. But Lala is still darling, if you don't believe me watch it for yourself below.

Scott's Gifts of Delicious Lala: Not only can you watch the lithe form of Lala dancing her lascivious lambada of lust, you can also click on the woefully tiny picture of the Tiki Goddess to see a delightfully full sized collage from several episodes. I'm a prince among robots I tell you. Enjoy the movie.

- Scott

* Which I go on to state regardless of having just called them obvious.

Slappers and Thigh High's

Here's a line I deleted from Monday's post: "A cold steak covering the puck shaped bruise on my leg, I bravely return to complete my duty, and indeed, my promise of posting Lucy Liu comparison shots." I don't need your sympathy. Unless it includes sympathy makeouts. In which case, I'm all for (some of) your sympathies.

It wouldn't have been an entirely accurate quote anyway. It was several steaks. Because when you're this hot, they cook themselves, baby. At least, when they're in contact with my bare flesh. It's kind of inconvenient, but I keep some seasonings nearby and enjoy a nice leg-steak dinner.

Anyway I just thought I should share with you the extent of my daring, my dedication to my team, and all-around manliness by showing you what I willingly dove in front of to prevent a goal. I don't recall who shot it, but they have one hell of a slapper*. Pics below.

Fortunately, my legs are removable for easy photography. Seriously, that gam looks a bit disembodied. And look at that bruise. Do you see anything odd about it? Any certain detail that seems unlikely? Well, how about a closer look.

My sexy leg in 16:9. Click for a larger, if blurrier, shot.

See that odd crosshatching pattern inside the bruise? Through my thick hockey socks (thigh highs, with garters... I feel so naughty in them) and through my hockey pants, the puck hit hard enough to leave the imprint of the grips on its sides. These grips:

So you can imagine how hard it had to hit for those to have any effect. It was my first game since I'd been promoted to the good line, and I was all about being hardcore so after it happened, and after my initial reaction of clapping my hand against it, I just kept on skating. Sadly we lost 10-3. But even so, I stopped the goal when we were at 2-2. It still counts as helpful/awesome. And reguardless, you all get a nice photoshoot of my legs. Don't think I don't know what keeps you comming back. Come for the raw sex appeal, stay for the stories.

- Scott


* English slang for whore. Good to know.

Speaker for the Dead, err Class

Ok. I'd like to apologize for that last post. The one that started out with swearing and proceeded to liberally scatter four, and sometimes five, letter words throughout. I'll tear back the veil of secrecy around the post for a moment and reveal that I was angry. Hard to believe I know, but trust me. Despite my cool exterior, my polite prose, and the calm way in which I expressed myself, I was somewhat dissatisfied with the overall situation.

So dissatisfied in fact, that I decided that I would go the route of 60 seconds of garbage, then an abrupt "Godblessamerica, thankyou." And walk off stage. However as I read what I had written, I couldn't stand saying it aloud. And I ended up thinking of all the people it would dissapoint. So I rewrote it, incorporating verbatim a few of their demands, but also enough tom foolery that I could stomach it. However I did make my feelings known in an email, after a pissy call from the "Useless Appendix" woman demanding she see my speech. I meant to say it to her, but she wouldn't answer her phone. Here's what I wrote.

After much stress given the small amount of time I had to rewrite an entire speech, I've completed a new one. Its somewhat shorter, but I think it's more "we" centric. Oops. Let me rephrase. "We" think it's more "we" centric. Designed by committee.

Anyway I don't have anymore time to work on it. I need to relax. This is my graduation day. Oh no, I've just been my centric. Oh well. I guess I'm just human after all. If this speech is not to your liking I suggest you get someone else. I'll not be writing it again.

- Scott

And so I was ready to give the speech. I thought of listing the things that wouldn't be in this speech, but I was given a marvelous introduction by one of my former professors, and all the anger dissipated. By the time he finished all I could think was "Hunh, apparently I'm a hell of a guy."

So I went up and did the speech I'm posting in the comments. But I prefaced it with this:

"I'd like to thank Mr. Frye for that lovely introduction. And for not sharing as much as he could have." At this point I gestured to the woman providing a sign language translation of everything said on the microphone. "And the translator for being here. Because not only is it very considerate, but I get to see my words." I paused a second to let her almost finish with that sentence (although I was more or less guessing) and then continued "Those are my words."

"Watch her hands." Pause. "Awesome." Imitating her: "This means awesome." All the while she's giving me disgusted looks. But you can't expect me not to enjoy that kind of thing.

For Ro's sake I'll post the speech and my final comment on it in the comments section. How delightfully named it turns out to be.

- Scott

"If Darwin has anything to shout about, the Crushes will survive us all without any doubt."

"The world today seems absolutely crackers,
with nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high,
there's fools and idiots sitting on the triggers,
it's depressing, and its senseless, and that's why...

I like Chinese."

It's true. I do. Besides that whole "they're still commies" bit, it's a lovely country that's contributed alot. The food, the karate, about 5% of the dialog in Firefly, and most importantly, this post's Crush of the Most Honorable Xing Qi. (Which means "week" for the Chinese impaired. And also for those too slow to spot a pattern in my bolded bolded text within this segment.)

Abrupt and harsh transistion to bulleted points in 3... 2.. 1.

Name: Lucy Liu.

Deserving of this honor... why?: I didn't like Lucy Liu. At all. She was loud, bitchy, and far too hard assed to interest me. Like a less hated Michelle Rodriguez. (I'm considering doing anti-crushes on weeks when I'm just not feeling it. And she would be the first on a very long list.) The only parts she ever plays are those of the fem fatale. "I know karate, I'm here to eat with chop sticks and kick ass... and I'm all out of chop sticks." That's her part more or less. Then we're treated to an hour and a half of a 90 pound woman suspended on wires, blatantly disreguarding Newtonian Physics.

And worse, if her character isn't Shaolin trained, we get to hear her deliver alternately aloof or oughtright bitchy lines. Her track record as an assassin, dominatrix (I can't be tied down with a girl that wants me tied up...), and all around hardcore man hating shrew. However, thanks to a delightful little movie called Lucky Number Slevin, if you'll forgive the horrible pun, I changed my mind.

The producers must have been out of their minds. They gave her a role that didn't fit either of the parts Asian women are allowed to portray. They are, of course, as follows:

1.) The Me So Horny!!! Some like to call this one the China Doll, but I prefer this term. If you're the publisher of a scholarly journal, feel free to adopt it. Pretty self explanitory. Submissive, exotic, randy. That's it.

2.) The Dragon Lady. Equally randy, but also deadly. She might play the Me So Horny part, but only so she can kill or maim you.

Instead of these types, she just played a hot girl who lives next door. They didn't even saddle her with the obilgatory Super Asian Name, like three of her previous characters O-Ren Ishii, Jin Ping, and Ling Woo. She was just Lindsey. And she was quirky, and nice, and hot. The way I likes em. So for taking that role, she gets to be the crush of the week.

Scott Bonus:

For future reference,

. .

On the left, Bitchy Lucy. Note the chain and leather pants. Not to mention the "I'm going to kick you in the balls and then say something annoying in the flattest voice imaginable" face.

On the right, "Oh, honey you're so brave. Despite that they broke your nose I'll still sleep with you to make you feel better. By the way, when did you steal Doug Funny's wardrobe?" Clearly the nice version.


- Scott

Censored.

Those motherfucking c*#ts! Ok, let's do a little experiment. Say you're a college I've attended for a few years and graduation is comming up. You ask me to be the speaker. You give me no parameters for what to say or how to say it. When I ask I receive the stock answer "I'm sure whatever you come up with will be fine." Having asked me who you've known for a few years, you should know what to expect. Alright then. I'll do it.

A certain uniform pressure from everone expecting you to write something good causes the speech in question becomes a bitch to write. The desire to write something that lives up to the *ahem* high level of professionalism demonstrated daily at the Wonder Blog, along with a delightful speech by Stephen Colbert spuring you on, you put in a week's worth of thinking and writing. Mostly in panicked spurts. When you watch TV, you feel guilty. When you order a grappling hook off the internet, you think you should have spent that time working on your speech. Even simple pleasures like getting drunk in the afternoon seem somehow irresponsible in light of the work you're not doing.

So when you finally get the speech done they inform you, haughtily, that they want to approve your speech before you do it. ...Fine. You drive to the school, drop off a few copies, and then relax. It's done. Or so you think. About four hours later you get a call from a nay-saying hag from the school, one whose job has never been made clear to me. She seems to be a appendix, serving no beneficial purpose to the school, but having the ability to become inflamed and ruin everyone's fun. She is a joyless, gossip of a woman, who passive aggressively demands thinsg as she hides behind the mantle of corporate office speak. For instance, one of her criticisms was that she "knows I'm a very 'I' oriented person" but I "need to have some 'we' oriented thoughts in this speech. You were selected to represent your class." To which I considered replying: "Ok, I'll get wasted and show up half an hour late bitching about how much I hate this college. That would be as representative as I can possibly imagine."

So, the day before graduation two *deleted* ...let's say... women, are asking me to rewrite my entire speech. I have a plan. What I'm going to do is... On second thought, I shouldn't talk about it beforehand. I don't want to be shut down (again) before I have a mic in front of me. Too many people read this blog. But I'll tell you what the new speech can't include.

• Any reference, sarcastic or otherwise, to "Galactic Lord Xenu"
• No speculation on whether or not Tom Cruise has yet purchased an "anti-psychologist playpen" for his daughter.
• Speech must not start with "what up?"
• If possible remove any references to your being chosen as graduation speaker as a "serious error in judgement"
• "Other personal ranting on Peter Pan primary school that would be better left for a separate occasion." (And just when the fuck might that be?)
• No "shout outs" to "peeps" (even as a light hearted reference to why I had a hard time writing the speech)
  
• No including the word "drunk"
  
• No referencing what your future plans are. (Even if it is used as an example within the "be flexible" thesis of the speech).
• No having any jokes of any kind. After all, as I was informed by the shrill purposeless harpy "I just want you to know that very important people from Chicago will be at this graduation, and you need to think about how you want to present yourself to them." (And I would care about this... why. They aren't important to me in the least. If you were banking on my reverance you're greatly overdrawn.)
  

Now they give me some parameters. Here's a paragraph of the kind of propagandic bullshit I'm supposed to (but have no intention to) write.

"Make them feel good about what they have learned at RMC--professionalism, real world skills, team work, and whatever--and confident that they can and will succeed and that it will be more important than ever that they give something back, be it to the college, their community, or society at large. "

In short. F that noise. If I even half believed any part of the above I'd have likely written it in the first place. Instead I wrote a brief bit of well wishery that wouldn't have been as boring or stereotypical as what they'd have me do now. As a result, I'm going to keep my comments breif. As in, 60 seconds of the most generic "we" based drivel I can come up with. Then sit back down. Thanks alot assholes.

- Scott

The gAy-Team.

Driving back from the hockey game last night was really my inspiration for the Crush o' the Week, odd though it may sound. I've been watching a lot of film noir lately (which translated as "black films" equally applies to my collection of Waynes Brothers movies) and I couldn't help recogonizing that I was basically driving through a scene. Big car, morally flexible driver, an environment that looks like it just stopped raining, an abundance of fog, and well placed lights casting sharply constasted shadows through the fog.

It was such a good setup I had to monologue a little. Casting about for a topic I settled on locker room taboos. You see, I had just come from a locker room. Post hockey game, lots of guys like to take showers. This is fine. However what's not as fine is just dropping trou and marching bare assed around the room to the shower.

In my high school days, showering after a game carried with it the same prerequisite as plans formulated by rag-tag special ops groups; the almighty distraction. Maybe someone sets off a MacGyvered together flash bomb, fakes a sudden case of pancreatitis, or announces to the room at large that they are gay and at this moment have decided to come out of the closet. During the beating, you slip (with boxers and a towel covering your genitals) to the shower.

Is this too much to ask? I've got about four guys on my team who will just remove all their clothes and saunter languidly to the showers. AND THEY SOMETIMES STOP FOR CONVERSATION! I'm all for nudity. But it has to fall into one of two categories. 1.) Comic, as in my ongoing appearances at people's homes buck naked. Or 2.) Sexy. As in my ongoing appearances at people's homes buck naked. This falls into neither category. In fact, if I cared to categorize it, it would fall under Horrible Nudity Crossing My Field Of Vision As I Lay Witty Comments About Our Opponents On The Rest Of The Team.

In short. Please be ashamed of your body. Thanks.

- Scott

I should be allowed to share my crushes, I should be allowed to crush...

"And I should be allowed to blurt the merest lusting if by random whim one occured to me..."

Happily this is the case. And I have a lovely forum in which to blurt it. Today's Crush of the Smoky Film-Noir Week came to me unexpectedly, like a Tarintino Romantic Comedy. I was at a flick. V for Vendetta. The masked hero punches a few buttons on a juke box and all of a sudden I was surrounded by a fog of sultry female vocals. At that point she was all smoky lyrics floating from the theater speakers, but I knew what she must look like. And she didn't dissapoint. Curves that would make Picasso reconsider his cubist period, and legs that seem to flirt independently of their owner. I could tell she was trouble. The kind you wake up as a speed bump for. Not to mention she had been dead for six years. But I digress...

The dame's details:

Name: Julie London

Her feminine wiles: She was married to the guy from Dragnet. The stiff one. Dark hair. How did a guy like that end up with a girl like her? Jazz music. Helping guys get laid since the early 20th century. She's also got a wide repertoire of songs that are delightful to listen to when you're drunk and in a smoke filled piano bar. One of these songs is the most blantly sexual, without true overt references I've ever heard in my life. Excerpt:

Go slow, oooooh honey, take it easy on the curves;
When love is slow, oooooh honey, what a tonic for my nerves.
Go slow, oooooh honey, we've got such a lot of time;
When love is slow, oooooh honey, how the mercury does climb.

My manly response: If it's a bit odd that I'm crushing on a woman who was born in the 20's so be it. It should be noted however, that I'm really after Julie London circa the late 1940's to early 50's. Its the kind of thing you wish Dr. Who was a close personal friend for. Still, it's nice that I can look at the entire arc of her life and see how long that beauty of hers lingered. It wasn't gone in a puff of Hollywood's demands for conformity (Hilary Duff... I'm looking at you...). And she was a good looking broad long into her middle age. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to drink some scotch and listen to Cry Me A River. The Julie London version. Once I'm sloshed I'll go run over that Justin Timberlake taint for naming a song the same thing.

- Scott