Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Cosby ain't the Jell-o Pudding Guy, the Brown Hornet, or Cliff Huxtable.

The incomparable Beverly Johnson, dubbed the 'first black supermodel'.

Seriously, folks, how many more women need to step forward for us to believe that Cosby is not the Huxtable-like man we all thought he was thanks to his hit 80s TV show?  For all the scumbag opinion-writing jerks out there: take a good look at the recent picture above.  Ms. Johnson is neither 'old' nor 'ugly'.  Given, too, that she has not asked for financial compensation, she is not 'gold digging'.  Remember that she and numerous other women who have come forward are doing so not with an eye toward receiving money, but, simply, to be heard.  They feel that they are finally be able to tell the truth.  It is simply their wish to be believed. 

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Weather wimps we are not.

To the knucklehead-transplants living in my home state of California and currently making weak jokes about how the storms, flash floods and mudslides were nothing more than 'a little rain', I say, 'fuck off'.

I ran across this 'har har' photo on my FB feed--


Now try these images on for size and keep on chuckling...

Flooding in No. Cal.

Mudslides in So. Cal.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Paris in Winter...


George Washington storming Paris.

I am fairly cold, but not the only one slogging her way through town, gloves and scarf firmly on hands and head.  The bonus of visiting Paris in Winter is that I don't have to share my favorite places with the world.  It would seem that the smarter folk have stayed home.  Either that or they are visiting other sites.  

Front

Back

Scratch what I said, I was just walking past the Picasso Museum at ten am this morning and saw a line down the block of coat-wearing art fans waiting patiently to be let in.  I think I'll skip it this time.

There were a few toughies trouping through Pere Lachais when I was there.  God bless 'em as it was freezing.  Finding the grave of 'Gyyym Morrrisson' was on the minds of some.   I did not have the heart to tell them that ole Jim had his head stone moved to keep over-zealous fans from burning weed in his honor and dumping roaches and empty booze bottles around his final resting place.

If only it gave off heat.

The Musée d'Orsay, always a must-see, did not have throngs in front of it when I arrived around 4.30 in the afternoon.  Getting past security, like at an airport, was something that I had not expected.  Things had changed since I last visited in 2005.  At least the man looking through my hand bag was pleasant.  Smiling, he offered me a tray on which I was to put my keys and loose pocket change.  All this just to see some post-Impressionists.