Oprah provides the world with her list of the sexiest men alive. Not one of them is a poet or a pilot...
One member of the Roman Catholic Girls for Art, the Card's wife, is of two minds. This is because her ancestors were from Alsace-Lorraine. Being of two minds does run in the family as evidenced best when they emigrated to America : They all had both French and German passports. This also explains why the family chose to settle in Detroit. Back then, the French and German populations in Detroit lived across the street from one another. Now, some of you may have already noticed this curious mental tick in the Card's wife. One moment she is German and wants to rule the world. The next moment she is France and wants to sip wine and pass the cheese tray.
Senator Robert Byrd with Tony Snow in 2001:
Ex-Klansman Robert Byrd, the senior senator from West Virginia, casually used the phrase "white nigger" twice on national TV this weekend. Enraged civil rights groups organized a protest campaign against Sen. Byrd and demanded that he undergo sensitivity training ... not.
The RCBfA have come up with a new medium; film. Since Sgt. Fiendish did mention his Theresa fixation to me over the oysters in New York - or was it in front of the Rodin at the Met? - I thought before he heads up to the NYAC to report for his Friday night bottle washing duty, he'd enjoy some entertainment :
Respected Comrade Elk,
Capital idea moving our art appreciation into motion pictures suitable for RCBfA. Which means I get to mention on your blog, for the second time this month, La Contessa Teresa di Vincenzo. ("Teresa was a saint; I'm known as Tracy.")
Here's some sailor art for the Card's Wife.
One of the hallmarks of good blogging, besides fielding the sallies of United States Marine and Navy pilots, is to say things differently. So, continuing in Patum Peperium's never-ending quest to be a good blog, our former President Bill Clinton, who hopes to be married to our next President, Hillary Clinton, shall be affectionately known from this day forward as the Undead President.
If you want to get something done, you must do it yourself.
In Of Cow Creamers and Men, I related the tale of finding Boy Muclaster-Panero and his ideal mate's wedding gift of a cow creamer. Because I lack the technical knowledge to take photos and post them on the blog, I had arranged prior to the evening at The Oyster Bar to have Andrew Cusack take photos of Boy Mulcaster-Panero, his ideal mate and their cow creamer so that you could all see it. The Card's wife was to provide photographic back-up and forward her photos on to Andrew for him to post them. An unexpected delight was that the Bad Boy of The New Criterion also brought his camera to The Oyster Bar that night. Surely, it was not too much to think that between three intelligent and well-dressed photographers one would come up with a great shot of the Boy Mulcaster-Paneros and their cow creamer? It turns out it was.
First, it was Andrew Cusack who failed. He claims his camera had been disabled for months prior to that evening yet I have the distinct recollection od him taking pictures that night. More than that, as I handed the cow creamer over, the Boy Mulcaster-Paneros politely waited until Andrew was ready to open their gift. Then adding to Andrew's failure, he said was using the Card's wife camera. Yet the Card's wife camera picked up the Boy Mulcaster-Paneros opening their gift with Andrew taking a picture with another camera. My memory also has the Bad Boy taking photos of the cow creamer at that point so what camera was Andrew using? Add to this confusion has been a recalled memory. I have since remembered a camera falling at my feet as Andrew and I were saying goodbye in front of Grand Central Station that night. I even recall picking the camera up and saying "I hope it's not broken." and being assured by Andrew that the old thing was fine. The Card's wife did follow through with her part of the plan of forwarding all of her photos to Andrew so that he could post them. He chose to delete them instead.
Okay, here's a new lesson for the rest of you to learn: If you want to get something done and no one is interested in helping you or is afraid to, you turn to the United States Marine Corps. This is what they are trained to do and trained to do very well. The Card's wife, after getting no action from Andrew and answering Basil Seal's demand of showing photos of her and I first, got Basil to post some of her Oyster Bar photos. Basil even posted just the ones she told him too. Unfortunately, her photos lack a picture of the Boy Muclaster-Paneros with their cow creamer. But the Card's wife came through in a big way by providing photographic evidence that Andrew Cusack was taking photos that night, proving beyond a reasonable doubt that I have not lost my mind, yet.
So, the fate of a photo of the Boy Muclaster-Paneros with their cow creamer was left to the Wild Card; the Bad Boy of the New Criterion. Well, Wild Cards and Bad Boys aren't a good match as they just cross each other out. He came up empty. There is not a photograph to be had, even for ready money, of the Boy Mulcaster-Paneros with their cow creamer.
So now the ball is back where it started; in my court. As you might recall, I had told you I found the Boy Muclaster-Panero's a 1765 or so John Schuppe cow creamer. Well, that was the truth but the words or so were the clue for the rest of you. The cow creamer is indeed a John Schuppe 1765 cow creamer. It was just made for the Boy Mulcasters-Paneros in June 2006 by a New Mexico silversmith who does solid sterling silver reproductions of museum pieces in 1/12 th scale for extremely posh dollhouses. The Boy Mulcasters-Panero's cow creamer sits at about 1/2" X 1/8" on their breakfast table. See. Mr. P thoughtfully included a magnifying glass with the cow creamer so that the Boy Mulcaster-Paneros could actually see their cow creamer. Here is the Bad Boy, magnifying glass in hand, looking at the cow creamer.
Basil Seal was right. It really is more of a cow thimble.
A feminist Muslim is as unattractive and manipulative as your standard Ivy League feminist. For someone who claims to want "to work towards dialogue" silencing ordinary Americans isn't the way to go about it. Here's a little advice for the ladyfolk at CAIR:
Car dealers have always been considered tasteless bozos and our freedom of speech ensures that they remain that way.
Thanks to littlegreefootballs.
Back in the days when I was an Episcopalian Sunday School teacher for middleschoolers, my little charges would often ask me how to go about picking out boyfriend. As our parish had not yet completely caved to the you-can-fall-in-love-with-anyone-and-God-will-honor-you-big-time load of tosh posing as new Christian revelation, these were always young ladies posing the question. The young gentlemen made a beeline to Mr. P for his wisdom on the female persuasion. Anyhoo, I would always issue the girls two standards while assuring them if they held to it, they would be happy women the rest of their lives:
1. Never date a boy who wears a smaller pants size than you.
2. Never date a boy who wears more make-up than you. And yes, hair products and moisturizer count as make-up.
After reading this, I've learned that my advice to my young ladies has stood the test of time and would have well served the young ladies of Georgian England if I had been around back then:
Brummell was the first "dandy" -- today he would be called a "metrosexual" -- a type memorably defined by the historian Thomas Carlyle: "Others dress to live, he lives to dress." An orphan but a rich one, he persuaded his trustee to buy him a commission in the 10th Light Dragoons, a cavalry regiment known as "the Prince of Wales's Own" because it had been created to satisfy the military daydreams of the obese "Prinny" (later George IV). The Prince was its Colonel-in-Chief, but since there could be no question of sending the heir to the throne into battle, it followed that his personal regiment would never see combat either. A commission in the 10th Light was a purely social cachet, an entree to aristocratic circles for ambitious commoners like Brummell. Stationed in the royal resort town of Brighton, their sole duty consisted of prancing around on state occasions wearing luscious uniforms inspired by Prinny's fantasies of himself as a warrior-king.
He wanted to look like a "hussar," a Hungarian word for the medieval tribesmen who hunted wolves on horseback and slung the pelts over their shoulders. The 10th Light swanked about in a half-on, half-off fur pelisse, miles of ropey braiding, real silver tassels hanging from the sleeves, a leopard-skin helmet with a fur crest, and skintight leather breeches worn without underwear to eliminate panty lines. To top off this fashion overstatement, the Dragoons still powdered their hair and wore it in a queue despite the tax on powder levied in 1795 to pay for the war with France.
Brummell spent five comic-opera years in the 10th Light, resigning his commission in 1799 when he reached his majority and came into his inheritance, but the experience served his purpose. He had met the Prince and built a friendship with him on the marshy foundations of wish-fulfillment; the tall, superbly built Brummell was the man Prinny wanted to look like, and Prinny was the ultimate aristocrat that Brummell wanted to live like. It was a dangerously insubstantial structure, held together by their mutual obsession with clothes...
Life did not turn out well for the great coxcomb:
...His present biographer, Ian Kelly, says that Brummell's was "a fractured personality, rebuilt in masquerade in the mirror of other people's expectations of him." This could apply to any of today's neurotic celebrities but Brummell differed from them in a most refreshing way: he never came to believe his own propaganda. Rather, he saw through his host of acolytes and sycophants and dismissed them with genial contempt. "It is folly that is the making of me," he told the Duchess of York, one of the few people he really liked. "If the world is so silly as to admire my absurdities, you and I may know better, but what does that signify?"
He was so elusive that posterity has never even been sure of his sexual orientation. Kelly disagrees with historians who claim he was gay or bisexual. The sudden quarrels that flared up between him and the Prince had a quality of bitchiness that suggests a tendril or two of subconscious homoeroticism, but it is generally agreed that the Prince was straight to a fault.
He was close to the bisexual Lord Byron but he was also ten years older, and Byron liked late-adolescent page boys (he made Lady Caroline Lamb dress as one).
He never married, and as far as is known, never fathered any illegitimate children as men of his class routinely did, but he died of syphilis, so if he was not gay he presumably caught it from a woman. Who? Where does an "emotionally unavailable heterosexual," as Kelly calls him, turn when he wants sex? To prostitutes, obviously, but Kelly thinks he also might have had affairs with the upper-class courtesans of the day, as well as adventurous older women like Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, an ancestress of the late Princess Diana.
I disagree. He probably resented sex because, like the perfectly groomed female fashion plate, he hated to get messed up. He could only let loose with women who didn't matter.
He was also a compulsive gambler, a virtual guarantee of a low sex drive. He would bet on anything, even the progress of George III's insanity. Despite his heavy losses he was safe from his creditors as long as he remained friends with the Prince, but his self-destructive streak caused a final break between them. One night at a ball, the Prince, who by now was Prince Regent and so overweight that he resembled a featherbed, greeted Lord Alvaney but ignored Brummell. "Alvaney," asked the Beau in a loud voice, "who's your fat friend?" His bitchy lese majesty ruined him. He escaped England one step ahead of his creditors and spent the last 25 years of his life in France.
IAN KELLY HAS PRODUCED such an evocative portrait of a man and an age that we almost sneeze whenever Brummell takes snuff from the elegant little boxes he designed. His simple opening sentence -- "On June 7, 1778, a fair-haired boy was born in Downing Street, London" -- is as effective as Brummell's less-is-more sartorial taste, so that it sticks in the mind and infuses a tragic story with qualities of purity and pathos that shine through even in the passages describing his terrible death.
The syphilis attacked his muscles, causing stroke-like spasms that pulled his mouth permanently open; when he spooned up his soup it spilled back out again, until the manager of his little French hotel told him he was disgusting the other patrons and asked him not to use the dining room. His spinal nerves gave way, causing a stumbling, zigzag walk that people assumed was drunkenness. All his mucous membranes became ulcerated and his tongue swelled up and turned black.
The British Consul in Calais arranged for him to be placed in an insane asylum in Caen. Large tumors formed on his scrotum. He became incontinent and fouled his room so often that the staff, unable to bear touching him, hosed him down from a distance. And at the end, "the brain itself shrank away from the insides of the skull and granulated."
That the perfection of manly grace could come to this makes a superbly entertaining book one with a moral as well.
How utterly foul. Metrosexuals, consider yourselves warned.
Or, The Celebration of Unadorned Female in the Officer's Mess
Two recent inquires to Patum Peperium are the inspiration for this post:
Mr. P wrote: "How Catholicism fits in here I'm not quite sure." I take this remark as a hint that there is not enought "RC," and too much "B," in RCBA. It is a little harsh, considering some of the legitimate Art posted by the bloggers currently flying the RCBA banner, but the point is being made in Mr. P's usual clear way...
Mrs. P, do you think you could manage roast guinea fowl with stuffing as the entree for the Annual Regimental Do of the Imperial Flying Corps?
Sqn. Ld. A.K.B. Cusack, the Earl Albatross, Viscount Herringbone, Baron Bisquick, Hereditary Keeper of St. Hepplethwaite's Fingernail, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Misplaced Spaghetti Spoon
Mr. Peperium, if I may blow his horn for a moment, is quite the Art fancier himself. His late mother was an artist of some local repute. Among her possessions that are now his, are her large studies of the classic nude. As many of these studies were done during WWII, the models are are not feminist ideals but masculine ones. The poses are very feminine with downcast eyes or heads and often with the model's 1940's high heels placed exactly where the model herself had left them; tucked behind her feet. For many years, the best of these classic nudes adorned the walls of the Peperium home. The arrival of Little Bertie caused them to be taken down and put away until he is enough of a boy to appreciate the classic nude in its proper Roman Catholic context.
Placing art in its proper context is what separates the Roman Catholic Boys For Art from all the other Boys for Art. Roman Catholic Boys understand the female form was meant to be appreciated otherwise God would not have made it so gosh darn attractive. Since being Roman Catholic is a higher calling than being a Pagan, or, these days a Protestant, smart and devout Roman Catholic boys have over the centuries worked out ways to appreciate the unadorned female while keeping within the teachings of the church. Marriage without birth control is the best and most preferable way as it allows for the full harvest of the individual Roman Catholic Boy For Art's appreciation and understanding of the classic nude. Art in a Church-approved museum with church-approved artists is another.
One of the earlier smart and devout Roman Catholic Boys for Art was a Florentine painter named Botticelli. Botticelli came of age at a very intellectually stimulating time for Catholics, indeed all Christians as the Reformation had not taken place yet. Platonic ideals and ideas were being infused with Christian ideas and truths. This is known as NeoPlatonism. Botticelli himself got into the NeoPlatonism fusion act with his depiction of The Birth of Venus. The Roman mythological goddess of love, Venus, was, before her NeoPlatonic fusion, the Greek goodess of love, Aphrodite. In Botticelli's The Birth of Venus , Venus is seen full-born and riding ashore in an open scallop shell with a Flying Roman Catholic Boys for Art ariel escort. On the shoreline is a waiting Roman Catholic Girl for Art, armed and ready to shield her from the Protestants and Pagans incorrectly oggling at Venus' glory. Botticelli's, The Birth of Venus, a theme so central and appropriate for the religion without birth control, has inspired millions of Roman Catholic Boys for Art to fly straight and make lots of children as well as generated both an aesthetic and savory respect for the lowly bottomfeeder among bottomfeeders; the scallop. Also, the delicious little, twisted ring of stuffed pasta, the tortellini, came about because of a very fortunate encounter a very naughty Roman Catholic Boy Chef for Art had with the goddess of love herself:
As one legend goes, Venus and Jupiter were to meet one night. After Venus had checked into the inn, she waited for him on the bed. The chef found out, went to her room and peeked through the keyhole, where he saw her lying only partially covered on her back. Overcome at seeing her navel, the chef was so inspired that he created a stuffed pasta resembling her navel..
So to to keep traditions alive, as well as remind to the Roman Catholic Boys for Art what they're flying for, the menu for the First Annual Regimental Do of the Imperial Flying Corps shall be drawn largely from Botticelli's, The Birth of Venus:
Proscuitto slices over very ripe melon
Warm Scallops on the Half Shell scented with Rosemary and Bacon
Tortellini Bellybuttons with Pink Shrimp and Cream
Pan-Roasted Breast of Guinea Fowl On A Bed of Wild Rice
Carrots Curls glazed with Onions
Broad Beans with Curly Endive
Monte Bianco: Pureed Chestnut and Chocolate Mound
With food like this who has time for loop-de-loops?