White mad eyes roll on sweaty skin over
Sigmund Freud's new black fibre optic beard.
A jury pool wants to be your lover--
Government dating services are weird.
Scarecrow's shredded documents have vanished.
They functioned as his liver and kidneys.
Digested telegrams are now tarnished.
His guts known to would-be Antigones.
Flax flowers awe the soul of a minotaur.
Now suddenly sleeping, he falls downhill.
A new country's across the valley moor.
He strolls through the heath barely by his will.
Sanitised glass goblets are sparkly clean.
Alcoholic Santa's simple, not mean.
I got some Taco Bell for lunch last night out of respect for the recent death of the restaurant chain's founder. Since then, my stomach's been lecturing me on why I shouldn't be so sentimental. Oy.
Last night I watched my favourite Vincente Minnelli film, Meet Me in St. Louis. A beautiful, thoroughly engaging film--you become very quickly involved in the Smith family's dramas, they're a charming group of vivid characters. I love the surprisingly earthy dialogue for a 1944 film, from the little girl talking about blood spurting from a poor guy being torn apart by horses, to the young man, having been beaten and bitten by Judy Garland, comparing the experience to gym class, only "more fun with a girl."
And, gods, is the full might of MGM ever on display here, with every insignificant item on screen full of intricate, beautiful details. Look at the window in the bathroom seen for less than a minute in the entire movie;
I loved the wallpaper in the dining room that almost seemed to glow;
The yellow drapes turned gold by afternoon sunlight;
Coming with TCM's bundle of four musicals also including Easter Parade, The Band Wagon, and Singin' in the Rain, this edition of Meet Me in St. Louis still has an absolutely gorgeous, pristine picture.
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