"…as long as I can be a woman in it."
— Marilyn Monroe
THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S HANDBOOK
Murder. Suspense. Sex.
And some handy household tips.
ORDER NOW, from
BN.com (99 cents)
l love this article, from the archives of the San Francisco Chronicle. Brings to mind one of my favorite Judy Garland classics, "The Trolley Song," from the musical, "Meet Me in St. Louis:"
Love this lyric: "I went to lose a jolly".
I'll just bet you did,
"Cable Car Nymph"
"San Francisco's Top 10 Sex Scandals"
Kevin Fagan, San Francisco Chronicle
Published 4:00 am, Thursday, May 28, 2009
It was supposed to be a routine trip on the Hyde Street cable car in 1964, the 29-year-old woman said. But when the car lurched and she was heaved against a pole, the collision "somehow unleashed emotions hidden deep in the dark closet of her mind," The Chronicle reported – and thus was born "The cable car nymphomaniac" who took a trip on the "Cable Car Named Desire."
The woman sued Muni for $500,000 six years later, saying her injuries had triggered an insatiable sexual desire that drove her to take 100 lovers, leaving her perpetually unsatisfied. Reporters left her name out of news accounts, to protect her privacy, referring to her instead by her nickname, or as "the buxom blonde" from Michigan.
She was awarded $50,000 by a jury, whose members said they hoped she would use it for counseling.
(c) 2009 San Francisco Chronicle
With my high starched collar
And my high topped shoes
And my hair
Piled high upon my head
I went to lose a jolly
Hour on the Trolley
And lost my heart instead
With his light brown derby
And his bright green tie
He was quite
The handsomest of men
I started to yen
So I counted to ten
Then I counted to ten again
Clang, clang, clang went the trolley
Ding, ding, ding went the bell
Zing, zing, zing went my heartstrings
From the moment I saw him I fell
Chug, chug, chug went the motor
Bump, bump, bump went the brake
Thump, thump, thump went my heartstrings
When he smiled I could feel the car shake
He tipped his hat
And took a seat
He said he hoped he hadn't
Stepped upon my feet
He asked my name
I held my breath
I couldn't speak because
He scared me half to death
Buzz, buzz, buzz went the buzzer
Plop, plop, plop went the wheels
Stop, stop, stop went my heartstrings
As he started to go
Then I started to know
How it feels
When the universe reels
The day was bright
The air was sweet
The smell of honeysuckle
Charmed you off your feet
You tried to sing
But couldn't squeak
In fact, you loved him
So you couldn't even speak
Buzz, buzz, buzz went the buzzer
Plop, plop, plop went the wheels
Stop, stop, stop went my heartstrings
As he started to leave
I took hold of his sleeve
With my handAnd as if it were planned
He stay on with me
And it was grand just to stand
With his hand holding mine
Till the end of the line
Clang, clang, clang went the trolley
Zing, zing, zing went my heart
Songwriters: HUGH MARTIN/BLANE, RALPH
Published byLyrics © EMI Music Publishing
The renowned burlesque dancer, Dixie Evans, died this weekend. She was known as burlesque's "Marilyn Monroe." Yes, the resemblance was uncanny! See for yourself. Here's how she built her act.
Take it off, take it all off,
August 10, 2013
Dixie Evans, Who Brought ‘Monroe’ to Burlesque Houses, Dies at 86
By MARGALIT FOX / New York Times
Dixie Evans, a popular stage performer billed as the “Marilyn Monroe of Burlesque” — the first two words in very large letters and the last two in very small ones — died on Aug. 3 in Las Vegas. She was 86.
Her death was announced on the Web site of the Burlesque Hall of Fame in Las Vegas, of which she was a former curator and director.
Ms. Evans was a marquee name at midcentury, mentioned in the same avid breath as Gypsy Rose Lee, Sally Rand and Lili St. Cyr. In later years, she was featured in newspaper articles and television programs about burlesque and appeared in the 2010 documentary “Behind the Burly Q.”
She was profiled in the 1996 book “Holding On: Dreamers, Visionaries, Eccentrics, and Other American Heroes,” by David Isay, with photographs by Harvey Wang.
Reflecting on her unlikely stardom in a 1992 interview with CNN, Ms. Evans said, “I was not that talented and I wasn’t that pretty.”
But her close-enough resemblance to Monroe — enhanced by a peroxide blond coiffure and the uncanny ability of Ms. Evans, who never met her subject, to mimic her speech and shimmy — ensured her success as a locus of transference.
“If you couldn’t meet the real Marilyn,” Ms. Evans told The New York Times in 1998, “you could come to the burlesque and meet me.”
Night after night from the early ’50s onward, at burlesque houses around the country, Ms. Evans took the stage in Monrovian garb and swung into musical numbers that recalled those in Monroe’s films. Unlike Monroe, she ended the numbers far more lightly attired than when she began.
She kept the act going for more than a decade, modifying it enough to mollify Monroe, who at once point threatened to sue. Wherever she played, she drew a devoted, even rarefied, following.
“Walter Cronkite used to come every year to see my act,” Ms. Evans told The Los Angeles Times in 1993.
Frank Sinatra was said to be a fan. So, too, was Joe DiMaggio, who was reported to have visited the show for consolation after his divorce from Monroe in 1954.
Then, in 1962, Monroe’s suicide rendered the act obsolete overnight. As Ms. Evans told The San Francisco Chronicle in 2002, “When she died, I died.”
She held a string of jobs, doing public relations for a hotel in the Bahamas and working as a nurse’s aide in California, before an abandoned goat ranch in a dusty Western town afforded her an improbable return to burlesque’s glittering glory.
Mary Lee Evans was born on Aug. 28, 1926, in Long Beach, Calif., to a well-to-do family. Her father, an oilman, died when she was a girl, and the family fortunes declined precipitously. Young Mary worked in the celery fields and during World War II was an airplane mechanic.
Dreaming of stardom, she began her stage career as a chorus girl in touring musicals. One night, in her late teens or early 20s, she found herself stranded in San Francisco between jobs with 50 cents in her pocket. She discovered that the local burlesque theater paid four times what she had been earning.
A few years later, when Ms. Evans was performing at a Minsky’s burlesque house in Newark, Harold Minsky, the son of the impresario Abraham Minsky, transformed her into Marilyn.
In the late 1980s, Ms. Evans learned that her friend Jennie Lee, a retired burlesque star, was terminally ill with cancer. Ms. Lee, who was living on a former goat ranch in the desert in Helendale, Calif., had created a de facto museum there from her old memorabilia.
Ms. Evans moved in to help care for her, assuming responsibility for the collection after Ms. Lee’s death in 1990. She expanded it into the Exotic World Burlesque Museum and Striptease Hall of Fame, whose holdings included Jennie Lee’s silver-sequined pasties, Gypsy Rose Lee’s wardrobe trunk, the cremated remains of the burlesque queen Sheri Champagne and — perhaps the collection’s most curious artifact — a photograph of Lili St. Cyr with Eleanor Roosevelt.
In 1991, Ms. Evans founded the Miss Exotic World pageant, an annual competition she liked to call the Olympics of burlesque.
In 2006 Ms. Evans moved the competition and the museum, now known as the Burlesque Hall of Fame, to Las Vegas, where she made her home from then on.
Ms. Evans’s marriage to Harry Braelow, a prizefighter, ended in divorce. Survivors include a sister, Betty, and many nieces and nephews.
For years in the 1950s, Ms. Evans was a fixture at the Place Pigalle, a burlesque house in Miami Beach. One night, she was arrested.
“Whenever it was election time in Miami, they’d raid the strip joints,” she told The Los Angeles Times in 2009. “I told the judge, ‘Your Honor, this is the same act you saw at the policemen’s show.’ ”
His Honor dropped the charges.
This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:
Correction: August 11, 2013
An earlier version of this obituary omitted a survivor, Ms. Evans’s sister, Betty.
(c) 2013 New York Times
Hey, if it happened to F. Scott Fitzgerald, it can happen to you.
One of America's most celebrated authors died penniless, his greatest opus, The Great Gatsby, nearly forgotten…
Except by Hollywood.
Since his death, his book, has been adapted for the screen an extraordinary five times.
It's also been an opera, a ballet, a musical, a straight play, and get this: two video games.
Can you increase the odds that your book will find its way onto the silver screen?
Is a novel an alternative route to get your screenplay into the hands of producers?
The answer to both these questions is a resounding yes. To find out how, join me in Los Angeles on Saturday, June 1, 2013, where I'll giving a workshop with the incomparably divine Laurie Scheer at Pitchfest called, "Adapting your Screenplay as a Book" .
Details are below.
It'll be worth it,
Photo: Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan
in Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby
|Adapting Your Screenplay as a Book|
|4:30pm – 6:00pm – Academy Five|
|with Josie Brown & Laurie Scheer|
|So, you’ve pitched your screenplay and a few agents have said, “I could sell that idea if it were a novel.” Know that you’re not alone. So, what should you do? Josie Brown, best-selling novelist and Laurie Scheer, d-girl extraordinaire and publishing mentor, guide you through a workshop presentation that includes in-class exercises, tangible examples, and an extensive Q&A segment to help you determine how your screenplay will look as a book. With the majority of studio projects being produced from existing properties and franchises (books, comics, games, apps, etc.), adapting your screenplay into book form is an option many screenwriters have found success doing—and many others are considering it. Before you begin the process of writing prose vs. script, there are a few elements you need to know.|
Click below to see a trailer from the movie, THE GREAT GATSBY
Memorial Day weekend means you'll have plenty of time to catch up on your reading. So what are you waiting for? Download a FREE copy of THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S HANDBOOK.
In this scene, my heroine, Donna Stone, is on the hunt for a large shipment of stolen plutonium. A hot lead sends her to a posh Beverly Hills art gallery. Just because the owner is sleazy doesn't mean he has anything to hide–
Or does he?
Donna finds out–the hard way.
Speaking of works of art, here's another angry housewife painting from one of my favorite artists, Kelly Reemtsen. You can catch her work here on her website, and also at Skidmore Contemporary Art in Santa Monica, David Klein Gallery in Birmingham Michigan, or DeBuck Gallery, in New York.
The subject is wearing the perfect frock for a the start of summer, don't you think? And who'd a thunk an ax would make such an eye-catching accessory?
TGI Holiday Weekend,
“It’s a Larkaro,” Armand Fronsdal hisses in my
ear. “Arresting, is it not?”
Yep, that’s exactly how I’d describe an art
installation made up of a video projector playing a short film in which three
big-breasted nymphs cavort in the woods. But hey, what do I know from art?
One thing I do know: this man’s breath leaves a
lot to be desired.
But when I turn to face him, I’ve already set my
lips into a come-hither pout. “I’m looking for something a bit more… je ne sais quoi? Ah! Romantique.”
Having one-upped his Lounge Lizardeese with my
high school French has scored me major points with this jerk. He crooks a
finger at me to follow him.
He is too tall and too slight: think Ichabod
Crane in Goth. If his ponytail is supposed to cover up the fact that he’s got a
bald spot, he’s failed miserably. He’s wearing more eyeliner than me, which is
saying a lot, because I laid it on thick this morning.
Albeit no thicker than the crap he’s laying on
me now. “Has ma’amselle been complimented for her resemblance to John Singer
Sargent’s magnificent painting of Mrs. Waldorf Astor?”
I shrug. While it is flattering, we both know
it’s a stretch. Edvard Munch’s The Scream,
“Ah, well, perhaps we shall find some petit amusement, oui?” I murmur. Playing
the bored art patroness has meant dressing up in a shiny ass-grazing red
leather dress that zips up the front, black fishnet stockings that end in
four-inch Louboutin thigh-high boots, and a veiled chapeau perched atop my
French twist. What with the tightness of the dress and the tiny heels of the
shoes, keeping up with his long strides is a bitch.
The gallery is really a warehouse broken up into
several rooms. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the one farthest to the back of
the building. One wall is made up of medieval pitchforks in a lattice pattern.
Near another, a seven-foot hot pink and purple polka-dot penis rises, thick and
proud, among two humongous blue balls.
The center installation is made up of abstract
mirrored balls of varying sizes, hung from the ceiling. They are dripping some
substance the color of blood.
If this is his idea of romantic, I’m guessing he
doesn’t go on many dates.
he purrs in an accent as bad as mine.
I whisper as I stare up at the mirrored balls.
“This is my private atelier,” he hisses proudly.
“Everything in here is my own creation. If this piece speaks to you, I’m sure
we can come up with some arrangement: say, forty thou? That’s a third off the
“Such a steal. Almost wholesale.” I tilt my
head. Unconsciously I straighten the seams of my stockings. In truth, I am
taking aim with the toe of my right bootie. It is loaded with truth serum. The
sooner I take this guy down, the better. This place gives me a bad case of the
creeps, and I want out of here fast—
Ah, darn! His cell phone just buzzed. I wave him
off as he excuses himself to answer it.
In one of the mirrored balls hanging from the
ceiling, I see that he is almost at the door when he freezes. His back
straightens. Then slowly he turns around.
He has a wary look on his face. He doesn’t think
I see him as he plucks one of the pitchforks from the wall. And steps up behind
But I’m too quick for him, swinging the largest
of the mirrored balls toward his skull.
It knocks him down but not out. The pitchfork
skitters on the slippery floor. As I lunge for it, he grabs my ankle, and I
Damn. These. Heels…
Copyright © 2011 by Josie Brown. Published in May 2011 by Signal Press. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.
Buy it from FREE
Of course, none of the women of Mad Men (January Jones' Betty, Christina Hendricks' Joan, and Elisabeth Moss' Peggy) are serial monogamists. They may have started out that way, but life and loss made them jaded, when it came to love.
The chords — and the percussion, too — of the song "Serial Monogamist," by Andree Belle, reminds me of the kind of music coming out of the 1960s, with that smoky vamp-and-dance jazz-salsa feel to it. Don't you agree?
I love this illustration for Mad Men. It's the type of illustration you'd find for ads from that mid-60s era.
Notice that Don Draper is both coming and going. I like that the artist has captured his duplicity, his wanderlust, and the fact that there are other Don Drapers out there.
There are other Don Drapers inside of Don Draper.
I also hate the fact that this is the last season of Mad Men. I'm sure the show's actors realize it's a career high for them, thanks to all the elements that make a show great: the direction, the period detail via set design and costumes, and of course the writing. Writer-Producer Matthew Weiner has created an ensemble of characters who faults and foibles ring true as the catapault through life in an era some of us remember all too nostalgically. Six years ago, as watched the first episode with my son, I remember him commenting, “Wow, the men were really cruel to the women who worked with them.”
Yes, to a great extent, barbaric.
Truly, it set the tone of what was to come.
We love these characters,and we also hate them.
In other words, we feel for them.
It's why it's great television, and why it's sublime storytelling.
Check out the show's creator, Matthew Weiner, discussing the latest episode (9, “The Better Half”).
To celebrate the launch of
The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide,
I'm giving away a $100 gift card to the bookstore of your choice!
In many ways, San Francisco is a wonderland. One locale in the city that is always on parade is Golden Gate Park, which runs three miles east to west, and half a mile north to south. Its 1,017 acres make it 20 percent larger than New York's Central Park.
Our park ends at the Ocean, so I'd say that's another wonderful advantage. It's far side ends in the Haight, which is why it was once a hippy haven ("Once"? Frankly, it still is. Everything changes, and stays the same).
We'll park at one end, and meander through it, down to the other. In the meantime, we'll pass the archery field, the Frisbee Golf grove, merry-go-rounds, drumming circles, roller blade dancers, both The DeYoung Fine Arts Museum and the California Academy of Sciences, the first home of the San Francisco 49ers (Kezar Stadium) and several lakes (Stowe, for rowers; Spreckels, for those who are running their minature yachts, or sailing their miniature sail boats), not to mention a herd of buffalos. groves of picnickers, and a windmill or two.
Our own favorite passtime is discovering the wooded nooks and crannies; serene groves where one can lose oneself in a good book, while lolling on a blanket, or sprawling on one of the many benches that you'll come across.
The park was concieved in the 1870s, and hosted several public expositions, of which some of its historic buildings remain (the flower conservatory,and its renowned Japanese Tea Garden are but two).
Now, go out and discover something new,
Below, the architecturally renowned California Academy of Sciences