History

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What really happened to Starr Faithfull?

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70 summers ago, a beautiful young woman’s lifeless body washed up on the sugary sands of the Long Island beach town that I currently call home.   Her name was Starr Faithfull, and she was 25 years old.  What follows is what we know, and what we don’t know.

Long Beach, NY, is a small jewel of a city on a barrier island off Long Island’s South Shore.  It has wonderful restaurants, a state-of-the-art library, and a proudly diverse population.  Its cleanliness and proximity to New York City draw droves of tourists in the summer months, and even in the winter it bustles with activity.  There are flowers and trees everywhere you look. It’s the kind of place people dream about living in.  And people really come here for the miles of white sand and glittering waves.

70 years ago, things were slightly different.  Everything was new.  1920s Long Beach was just getting started as a fashionable beach community, with hundreds of Spanish Revival white stucco mansions and bungalows with red tile roofing, as required by the zoning code.  Grand hotels lined the boardwalk, and every type of amusement from golf, to tennis, to horseback riding was available.  Prohibition was largely a joke here, and it was a flapper’s paradise.  Starr must have enjoyed it – as much as she was able to.

But to really understand Starr, we have to go back still further – almost 100 years – to 1917, when she was just 11.  Unfortunately, by all accounts, Starr’s parents frequently left her in the care of her middle-aged cousin Andrew Peters, then mayor of Boston.  He later became a congressman and was quite famous, even serving as Woodrow Wilson’s Assistant Secretary Of The Treasury.  He would have been infamous if anyone suspected what he was doing to his 11 year old cousin.  He was giving her ether to break down her resistance to his molestation of her.

Like many children in this situation, Starr became withdrawn and reclusive.  She even tried dressing like a boy to divert his interest.  This failed and the molestation continued for years.

Upon being caught in 1924, Peters paid Starr’s family hush money to protect his career, and they took it.  That was it for Starr.  She began going to speakeasies and taking cruises to Europe – sometimes not really planning them, but just showing up on board to bon voyage party and simply staying when the ship left.  She continued to abuse inhalants and barbiturates.

On May 29, 1931, a drunken Starr was forcibly removed from the Franconia, screaming “Kill me!” and “Throw me overboard!” .  On June 5, 1931, her family saw her for the last time, and had reason to suspect that she had sneaked aboard the Mauretania, which was bound for the Bahamas.

On June 8, 1931, her body washed ashore on Long Beach.  She was wearing a black and white summer dress from Lord & Taylor with nothing underneath, and her body was badly bruised.

There were several suicidal notes written by Starr, and one was to a doctor on whom she had a crush.  There was also a diary detailing Starr’s wild life, including assignations with 19 men and a veiled reference to her cousin.  The primitive toxicology reports showed her liver to be full of Veronal, a powerful barbiturate.  Although initially suspicious, Nassau County detectives were inclined to leave the case there.

But Starr’s stepfather accused the Nassau County DA of dragging his heels for political capital. Back then, this was more than plausible. He produced – too late – the $20,000 check from Andrew Peters and the 1927 agreement to hold Peters harmless for molesting Starr when she was 11.  He accused various political figures of having Starr murdered.

Peters had a nervous breakdown at his office in Boston.  The New York Daily News uncovered that Mr. Faithfull was nearly broke and had gone to Boston to get more money from Peters a few days before Starr disappeared.   And the Nassau County Police Department held an inquest, which lasted 15 minutes and drew no conclusions.

We’ll never know what happened to this tragic young woman in her final moments.  But I hope she found peace.  When I’m out on the Atlantic at night and I see the lights of Long Beach come into view, I wonder which ship she was really on, who she was with, what her final thoughts were.  It’s easy to feel lonely at sea, even with so many people so close by.

Newspaper clippings here and here.

Among the non-fiction books dealing were her death are: “The Aspirin Age” by Morris Markey (1944); “The Girl on the Lonely Beach” by Fred Cook (1954); and “The Passing of Starr Faithfull” by Jonathan Goodman (1996). Her life has been the subject of fiction in a number of novels including: “Some Unknown Person” by Sandra Scoppettone (1977) and “The Memory Book of Starr Faithfull” by Gloria Vanderbilt (1994). On Broadway her life was dramatized in the play, “Courting Mae West” by Linda-Ann Loschiavo (2005).

In 1935, the famous American author John O’Hara wrote a novel on Starr but changed her name to Gloria to avoid being sued by the Faithfull family. In 1960, the novel was made into one of Hollywood’s most famous films, “Butterfield 8.” In this movie the Academy Award was given to Elizabeth Taylor for her portrayal of Starr Faithfull. – Derry Times

Top photo Wikipedia.

Life, Death and Violence: Dream On

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From WCRS Detroit and Public Snark International, this is Life, Death and Violence. Every week on our program we choose a theme and research a number of people and events that fit that theme. Today on Life, Death and Violence: Paradise. Imagine, for a moment, if you will, that paradise is exactly where you are right now, only much, much better. This is the land in which we will be traveling to today. Paradise though, is merely a dream, a hope, and, naturally we’ll be discussing the very nature of hopes and dreams today as well. I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I was about to be murdered in old Tiger Stadium, but, at the last minute, I was saved by this week’s Life, Death and Violence Crush Object™, Diana Rigg.

Diana entered from the visiting dugout, dressed, obviously, as Mrs. Emma Peel in a bright orange jumpsuit. She shot my attacker’s knife out of his hand and proceeded to dispatch him in a brief battle in hand to hand combat. Diana and I then rode out of Old Tiger Stadium on a beautiful white stallion which we rode across the pond and into Paris. 

It seemed like an instant, that ride, and I found myself transported from urban decay to a quiet little cafe in Montmarte drinking coffee delivered by our waiter, a centaur. The centaur began to tell a long story, which I will summarize in brief. His utopian home had been ravaged by humanoid goats and all the centaurs were forced into exile by the king of the goats, a potbellied pig named Phillip. Our waiter, Brian, then took my name and number when I asked if there was anything I could do to help and Diana and I each received a letter shortly after enlisting us as Generals in the Centaur Army. We went to Centauristan, kicked some goat butt, made delicious bacon out of Phillip and returned the land to the centaurs. Brian, for enlisting us who saved the nation, was named King and we all had a champagne toast in their golden palace. I woke up just as my gift from the centaurs, Joseph Gordon Levitt, leaned in to kiss me. I hate dreams. They always shatter.

Our show today, in four acts.

Act One: Trouble in Paradise: She was on top of the world, but found herself ready to snap.

Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams: The story of a writer who hit the big time and stayed there.

Act Three: The Death of Dreams: A disastrous failure shocks the nation.

Act Four: The Birth of Dreams: How one nation’s discovery changed the world, but was it for the worse?

Act One: Trouble in Paradise

The Carpenters: Top of the World

I remember, being a little kid in Metro Detroit, when I heard my first Carpenters song. I was, maybe, four, and having trouble going to sleep. I’d gone to sleep for a little bit, but had had a nightmare and was too afraid to try again. I called out for my mother around 1AM. She got me a glass of water and sang me “Close to You,” which calmed me down enough to fall back into the land of good dreams, where the impossible becomes possible and everything is made of rainbows. The next morning, I asked my mother to sing the song for me again, but, instead, she pulled out a vinyl copy of the Close to You album and played it for me while she got ready for work. At the time, she was working the afternoon shift at the local hospital, so my sister and I got to see her in the morning as our days were starting, which I really liked. I wasn’t in preschool at the time. I’d dropped out because the other kids were being mean to me and I had massive separation anxiety. Karen Carpenter’s voice reminded me of my mother, even though my mother didn’t sing nearly as well, so I played that record over and over and over again. We got rid of it a few years later when my parents switched from vinyl and tape over to compact disc, but it was fairly well worn anyways. Who knows how much longer it would have lasted.

The devastation felt when I found out Karen Carpenter had died before I was born was heartwrenching. I wasn’t blind. I understood from the copyright on the album that the record was released in 1970, but the girl on it looked so young. She couldn’t possibly be dead. People only die when they’re old. Such is the naivete of youth, I suppose. And when I found out she died because, as I understood it, her heart stopped, I was even more confused and all my mother would say was that Karen stopped eating. My mother doesn’t eat a lot, so I didn’t really understand that. Why had she stopped eating? Was she on a diet? Why would she be on a diet? She looked pretty. I was too young to understand media blitzkrieg, so I just sat there for years questioning what happened to Karen Carpenter.

Karen left my thoughts and my music collection for about a decade, until I found myself in New York City. It was big, scary, unknown. I felt alone. I didn’t know anybody. I was living with strangers I’d met on Craigslist and had planned to get an apartment with since they were moving out of theirs. After that plan fell through (which I find to be the worst thing to happen to me: a true 3br with a fireplace and a big kitchen, lots of light and in a pre-war building for 1400/month fully furnished was lost because one of the girls I was going to live with decided Bed Stuy was too dangerous for her and she’d find another apartment for 450/month elsewhere. As if, woman. I was too weak and insecure to find two other people to take the apartment with me and I ended up in a bedbug ridden hellhole in Sunset Park before moving into the dorms at Pratt Institute), Karen came back into my life. I was depressed and lonely, feeling the peak of my suicidal wishes. Rainy Days and Mondays, I decided, was what I’d kill myself to. It wasn’t a very happy time, until, I started re-listening to the happier music, going out and feeling better about myself. I can’t say that Karen Carpenter saved my life, but she did play a part in making me feel sane again, even if that sanity is still frequently challenged. I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful that even though I didn’t get the chance to ever see her live since she died before my birth, that at least there’s a recording of her voice in every record store across America. The voice of an angel ready to change another person’s life, ready to make the world seem full of hopes, dreams and possibilities yet again, even in our darkest hour.

The Carpenters: Close to You

 

Act Two: The Fulfillment of Dreams

Today is the deathday of famed comic book artist Hergé. I first wanted to start writing watching the adventures of his famed Parisian journalist, Tin Tin and his dog, snowy. Let’s watch some of it together.

That Tin-Tin! Always getting into some sort of misadventure. This must be what it’s like to work for the New York Times! Right?

Act Three: The Death of Dreams

I wasn’t born during the Challenger Incident. It predated me by three years, but I did feel a closeness to the incident once I’d found out that our middle school principal, the only principal I’ve ever liked, whose name was, and if I’m lying about this may the Flying Spaghetti Monster strike me dead, Dr. Freeze, was one of the runner-ups for the Teacher in Space program. Someone I knew could have been killed in a massive space-oriented explosion, which horrified me as a space-obsessed tween who’d gone to Space Camp a few years earlier. This event was revisited shortly after the attacks on 9/11, which, naturally, my awful middle school neglected to tell us about causing me to come home all happy-go-lucky because soccer practice was cancelled and I really didn’t want to go to soccer practice that day. My sister, in response, snarled at me viciously and directed my attention to the television. It felt weird to watch an explosion over and over and over again and I got the sense that this is what my parents were doing in ’86, not knowing that someone they would soon know was almost on that shuttle. This week wasn’t the 25th Anniversary of the explosion, that was a few months ago. Instead it contains an even sadder bit of emotional violence: The discovery of the crew cabin in the Atlantic Ocean.

Challenger Crew

These “what if” fascinations haunted me for quite some time, especially once the Columbia shuttle exploded on reentry. I kept thinking to myself. What would I do if someone I knew died in an explosion that was plastered all over national television? How would I react? I never came up with an answer, simply because I understood that I couldn’t empathize with anyone involved in such an incident if it didn’t happen to me. I could sympathize. I could say “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m here if you need me,” but I couldn’t say “I understand. It’s going to be okay,” because I didn’t understand, I didn’t know if it would be okay. Months later, I experienced my first death, that of my grandfather/puzzle partner. Even then, I still felt I couldn’t empathize with a death so sudden. My grandfather had been ill for months from lung cancer and we weren’t surprised when he finally passed. I think that, as crushed as she was, it was a bit of a relief for my grandmother. That year was very stressful in my family because of my grandfather’s rapidly deteriorating health, but if he had died in, say, a car crash, things would have been a lot different. The mourning would have lasted much longer, just as I’m certain that Christa McAuliffe’s family is still morning her loss, after that fireball in the sky, and having a record of her exact moment of death on hand has to be a surefire way to make it impossible to move on. For that reason, as easy as it may be to post, I’m opting to not post a video of the Challenger Disaster. I’m not going to promote the fetishization of death. All those disasters and space misadventures though did nothing to halt my love of space and desire to be an astronaut. That’s the responsibility of my complete hatred of Algebra 2 which led to my complete hate of Chemistry which led me into the arts.

S Club 7: Reach For the Stars

Act Four: The Birth of Dreams

In 1938, Saudi Arabia discovered oil in its borders, launching the 20th Century Mideastern Oil Boom and creating a dependence on the region that, nearly a decade ago, led to war, yet again, over the black, golden syrup. I’m not an expert on Mideastern Affairs and I’m not going to pretend to be. We all know that our over-reliance on oil is bad for the future of the planet. I’m going to leave Act Four up for discussion in the comments. Would the world be any different if that level of oil was, say, discovered in Western Europe, or would we just be at war with the French instead (oh what an easy war that would be!?) Can tension ever be resolved so as to lighten the stress on our ever dwindling oil reserves? What is there to be done? Let’s talk oil.

Salt n Pepa: Let’s Talk About Oil Sex

Life, Death and Violence: A Study of February 26-27

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. What the hell is going on? This is what you’re saying. We know it’s what you’re saying because we can read your minds here at Life, Death and Violence, your #1 source for poor research and bad jokes about Joseph Gordon Levitt:

Joseph Gordon Levitt walked into a bar. He woke up a week later in the hospital.

JGL Immediately After He Walked Into That Bar

 

#Cracktalk has returned, but we lost a day, so we must make it up. We must avenge Friday by talking about Saturday and its holier than thou sister Sunday. Are you ready for the weekend? It’s basically over already, so, whatever. Who cares. Let’s get to it, little birds. Welcome to Video Weekends.

LIFE!

(If it was warmer, we’d take you to the zoo because that’s a weekend thing to do)
  • 272: Constantine the Great: He had a city named after him. Let’s hear about it:


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  • 1926: HM: He had amnesia and could learn new skills but not remember learning them. That’s weird. Here’s a skill we all can learn:


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  • 1928: Anatoli Filipchenko: Cosmonaut. Let’s learn about Apollo/Soyuz:


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  • 1932: Johnny Cash: He sang songs. Let’s listen:

 

DEATH!

(If it was summer, we’d go to the beach. It’s winter though and that’s a bummer)
  • 1892: Louis Vuitton: This dead guy’s stuff is liked by this living guy:


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  • 1993: Lillian Gish: Roll the tapes:


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  • 1998: Ted Schultz: Economist. Let’s learn about the economy:


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  • 2008: Dick Fletcher: We always preferred Weather Girls to Weathermen:


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VIOLENCE!

(If it was spring, we’d probably be cleaning)
  • You want violence?  Boom. Bang. Here:


 

OTHER NEAT THINGS THAT HAPPENED!

(Let’s just go to the arcade and play Dance Dance Revolution, okay? Meet you in 20)
  • 1815: Napoleon escapes Elba. Here’s why he was there:


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  • 1919: It’s official. The Grand Canyon is a national park. Here it is:


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  • 1974: People Magazine is published. Here’s our favorite People from 1974:


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  • 1986: The Senate starts televising debates. Here’s some early Senate footage:


 

 

We have an Oscar party to get ready for. Bye. See you on Monday for a real one of these.

Life, Death and Violence: A Study of February 18

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It’s Freaky Friday here on your favorite column about the past: Life, Death and Violence! What makes Freaky Friday different from any other day? It’s freaky! Like Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan switching bodies or Jimmy Johns’ delivery service, history just went insane today. Like, L. Ron Hubbard insane, so TGIF and let’s get through this together, step by step.*

LIFE! (Good idea: Anti-folk. Bad idea: Breaking up The Beatles)

  • 1516: Queen Mary I of England: You’d think that as Catholics we’d be super into Mary since she reinstated Catholicism after the hedonistic, Protestant rein of Henry VIII. You’d be wrong. Why? Because.
  • 1848: Louis Comfort Tiffany: Celebrities! They’re just like yesterday’s celebrities! What with the giving their kids weird names. At least the guy who founded Tiffany and Co. had the good sense to give his child an embarrassing middle name as opposed to a first name where everyone can see it and all. Lou was into glass blowing as opposed to silver, like his daddy, and, like any great artist from money, he spent a few years in Brooklyn honing his craft and drinking craft beer. He’s noted for redecorating the White House while not in the Important Political Role that is first ladydom. Glass! This is our favorite kind of glass:

We’re pretty sure Tiffany’s was involved in the creation of this rare type of glass.

  • 1906: Hans Asperger: FUCK YOU BITCH. YOU’RE A FUCKING CHILD. I’m sorry, that was my asperger’s.** WHORE
  • 1933: Yoko Ono***: The noted visionary, performance artist, destroyer of bands and media personality turns 78 today. Scream for Yoko! Scream for life! Scream for freedom! Scream for the future! Scream for Bungalow Bill! Just Scream! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Yoko Loves You. We Love You Back Yoko and We’ve Written You a Haiku

Japanese Lady
Screaming Like a Wild Banshee
Babies Are Children

Yoko, Ann Liv Young has something to say to you****


 

  • 1968: Molly Ringwald: She’s no Yoko, but the 80s teen dream stole our hearts and made us feel good about being a ginger. Funny lady!
  • 1980: Regina Spektor: Regina, we need to talk. We love you. Soviet Kitsch is one of our favorite albums, but you’ve been shafted, girl. It’s Yoko’s day. We’re sorry. It’s not you. It’s us.


 

DEATH! (Yoko didn’t die today, so she can’t hog death, too. Sorry Yoko!)

Sorry Martin Luther and Kublai Khan! Someone else died today and we need to share some stories. There’s a joke we like to tell people that gets the occasional laugh: We’re sorry that we’re having such trouble with this piece x, but, you know, we’re young, tortured gay artists with ADD, you know, just like:

  • 1564: Michelangelo: Michelangelo Buonarotti is, hands down, our favorite artist in the entirety of art history, and it’s not just because of his work which is beyond spectacular. The sculptor (and don’t you dare call him a painter. He signed the Sistine Chapel “Michelangelo, Sculptor”) was the driving force behind the Italian Renaissance and, as he got older, Italian Mannerism. We really encourage everyone to read as much as they can about Michelangelo, but we’d like to share a story about a man, his mother, and a leg.

Everyone knows Michelangelo’s Pieta. A serene sculpture housed in St. Peter’s Basilica, reluctantly signed only because it was being attributed to other artists.  A critic of the day declared it a travesty, his main point that Mary looked far too young to be the mother of a thirty-three year old man. She looked to be in her twenties, he said. Michelangelo’s response? Virgins don’t age.

However, Michelangelo constructed a second Pieta that is far less known and, like many of his works (actually, all of his works with the exception of the Roman Pieta), is unfinished (yes, David and Moses are unfinished. We’ll get to that. Hold tight). This Pieta is a little unconventional as it is agreed upon by the art community to be a Pieta, but the composition is more similar to the Descent From the Cross. It is therefore occasionally referred to as The Deposition

Please take a second to think about what is wrong with this sculpture. Go on, we can wait. We’re just going to listen to a little Yoko while you do so.


 

Ready? Good. If you answered, Jesus is missing a leg, you’re correct, but before we get to why Jesus is missing a leg, it’s noteworthy to point out that the figure of Nicodemus (possibly Joseph of Arimathea) is widely thought to be a self-portrait. Michelangelo has inserted himself into the scene as the man who would prepare Jesus for burial. We think that reeks of egoism, but we’re pretty egotistical ourselves so it just gives us another reason to compare ourselves to Michelangelo despite zero sculpting ability.

Anyways, why is Jesus missing a leg? If you notice, it seems that the leg was draped over Mary’s thigh (his mother; Mary Magdalene is to his right (viewer’s left) and was sculpted by Tiberio Calcagni, not Michelangelo). Back in the 16th century, this particular position was considered heavily erotic and quite salacious. Upon recognizing that this is what he sculpted, Michelangelo started smashing the work, believing it to be evidence of potential incestuous lust for his own mother until he was held back by his assistants. They were able to mostly fix it, but not the leg. Michelangelo, even after his violent outburst, continued to labor over it until he discovered an impurity in the marble that had gone unnoticed. He gave the work to his servant who then sold it to a man who had it finished by Calcagni. Michelangelo worked on this piece for eight years.

As we had mentioned earlier, David was left incomplete by Michelangelo (it was later finished by some terrible curator whose name we forget). Michelangelo purchased the marble for David from another sculptor who had started work on a piece, but then decided he didn’t want to finish it. Michelangelo left a spot on the top of David’s head unfinished to honor that sculptor, until, as we mentioned, a curator noticed the rough patch and decided to finish it for Michelangelo.

Moses the sculpture is complete, but it’s part of a much larger mausoleum that was meant to sit in the center of St. Peter’s. Therefore, the artistic community considers it an unfinished work. It is currently housed at San Pietro in Vincoli where it is placed at the entirely wrong perspective. Both David and Moses are meant to be placed on high so that their grandeur can be felt. When placed on the ground, they look disproportionate and long.

VIOLENCE! (Good idea: Making love. Bad idea: Making War)

  • 1846: Sic Semper Tyrannis! Peasants killed a lot of people in Poland while protesting serfdom. Serfdom was abolished two years later. See, Poland? Egypt does it peacefully and gets what they want in three weeks. Violence is not the answer! Make love, not war! Look at Joseph*****! In your fields! Calling for peace! Make love with him, not war!

  • 1878: SHOOT EM UP! ZING! BANG! POW! John Tunstall was murdered by Jessie Evans sparking the Lincoln County Wars in New Mexico. Jessie Evans disappeared two years later.
  • 1983: Once again, we have a wackily named massacre. Today! The Wah Mee Who Me? Massacre in Seattle. Thirteen people died and one guy got seriously injured (but was able to testify in the high-profile trial) by three guys wanting to rob an illegal casino in Chinatown. SHOOT EM UP! BANG! POW! CLINK! CLANK! DUN DUN! PRISON!
  • 1991: The IRA bombed Paddington Station and Victoria Station in London. Our favorite glass was not pleased.

OTHER NEAT THINGS THAT HAPPENED! (Good idea: Fighting Nazis. Bad Idea: Praising Xenu)

  • 1861: Italy unifies and some guy named Victor declares himself King! No documents remain regarding his position on bunga bunga.
  • 1943: The Gestapo begins arrests on members of the White Rose Movement, a group of non-violent/intellectual students who opposed The Third Reich. They were executed some time later and are now regarded as heroes of the Nazi Resistance.
  • 1954: The first Church of Scientology opens in LA, begins their quest in recruiting fabulous celebrities in order to further their cause of letting the world know about Xenu and aliens and volcanoes and whatever it is that those crazies believe in.
  • 1972: California repeals the death penalty!
  • 1972: California reinstates the death penalty months later when putting it to the voters! California, repealing bad things and putting them back in place so as to maintain the status quo since (at least) 1972.

It’s been a fun week, cats, kittens and honey badgers! We’ll see you on Monday, and remember: YOKO! YOKO! YOKO! YOKO! Four for you Glen Yoko! You go Glen Yoko!

*We once had a dream where we were on a bridge with the cast of Step By Step and then we met a witch and the witch turned everyone in the cast to wax one by one. It was really scary. We were, like, seven and had accidentally slept on the Jafar side of our pillowcase instead of the Aladdin side which was totally the good dream side. CURSE YOU JAFAR!

**We do not have Asperger’s and as SixThirty noted, that was actually Tourette’s. This is why we don’t study psychology.

***WE LOVE YOU YOKO

****We were at that taping of Ann Liv Young’s Mermaid show and it was wild. That was the fifth time that they had to start over for the scene due to technical hiccups with the sound and the sheer animalistic tension and anger emanating from Ann Liv (performing as Sherry) was just exquisite. We were stunned, but we may just have a disaster fetish. She yelled at Claudia Larocco of the NYTimes for whispering to a friend during a break. It was phenomenal. A week later, she hit our friend in the head at the Party That Dare Not Speak Its Name with a ceramic necklace that was meant for Penny Arcade.

*****LaZiguezon: Hop on the JGL Bandwagon

Authors Note: I’m going to separate myself from the editorial ‘we’ here. I’d just like to thank everyone who’s read this feature in its inaugural week, especially those of you who have been so effusive in your praise for it. I wasn’t really over at Crosstalk because I never felt witty enough to be there (I was starred, but only because of a contest) and so it’s really great to be here with all these funny people, being able to write something that people seem to like. You’re all super and I’m really glad I was introduced to this amazing community. See you Monday. I refuse to put this much effort in seven days a week. xox

Life, Death and Violence: A Study of February 14

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Happy Singles Awareness Day everyone! Not all of us can be lucky enough to spend it flirting with our Facebook fiancées who live across the pond (I know. I’m so lucky!), but we can all be lucky enough to do some book-learnin’ so that we can be smart enough to land that lucky lad (or lass) to share a bottle of Johnny Walker Green next year, when the holiday will magically transform into St. Valentine’s Day™. (Note: Before I snagged  an author account about a half hour ago, I had posted a briefer today in history in the Morning Open Thread. There will be minor overlap because some important stuff did happen today, but I’m going to try my best to make this as fresh as those amazing grapes you get at the Union Square Farmer’s Market in August (i.e. PURDY FRESH))

IT’S ALIVE! (When life rises from the ashes of a placenta)

Beloved dwarfish king mayor of NYC turned 69 today! BAWM CHICKA WOW WOW.  I’ve sent a large pepperoni pizza, a sprite and a pack of cigarettes to his apartment and arranged for a crew of Irishmen to follow him around tonight waving, waving with all the wave they have! If I still lived in New York, I’d totally go smoke in the park even though I quit because, seriously, 14$ for a pack of Luckies!? Outrageous!

You know who else was born today? Pat O’Brien, but also, someone named JoJo Starbuck. That has to be, like, my favorite name ever. It’s amazing on so many levels. Plus she looks like a lot of fun (she’s 60). Evidence:

To round out the life portion of our programme (now that we have politics and athletics), Italian Baroque composer Francesco Cavalli was born several hundred years back. A piece from an opera of his is at the top of this post.

OH MY GOD!? HE’S DEAD!? HE’S DEAD!? WHAT!?

Just kidding. It was actually the ornithologist James Bond is named after. You only live twice, Mister Bond. Once as a mild-mannered birdwatcher, and again as a sexy, sexy, sexxxy spy. What I’m saying here is that Daniel Craig is hot and can I please have him for Singles Awareness Day?

Today’s Dead Saints are Cyril and Valentine. That crazy Russian writing was invented by Cyril and his bro Method Man Methodius.

VIOLENCE (Won’t someone please think of the children!?)

Nothing violent today happened except for some Prohibitionist Chicago gang wars. That’s boring. Except, well, I guess, not, because seven people died due to Al Capone and Bugs Bunny Moran not being able to be friends.

OTHER STUFF THAT HAPPENED THAT’S KIND OF COOL

  • Eli Gray woke up late and lost his patent for the talky phonograph to Alex Bell.
  • The Importance of Being Earnest opened and Oscar Wilde’s career began it’s tragic descent thanks to the libel case against his lover’s father that was initiated in the weeks after the opening.
  • Today is the 30th anniversary of the Stardust Disaster in which 48 people were killed in a fire at a Dublin discotheque after they found that all the main fire exits were chained and padlocked.

So that’s today in history, everyone, I’ll see you tomorrow when it’s socially acceptable to be a single person again and I won’t have to leave the house with a grocery bag over my head so as to hide the shame.