01.10.12 Lather Up





Somehow - and I’m still not clear on the details - I came home with two shampoos, lotions, and soaps from the hotel. Must have put them in my shaving kit, thinking “these will come in handy when we have house guests.” Yes, that’s it. Totally unplanned. Actually, no; I was thinking “I wonder if rich people take the complimentary shampoos, too.” Because they’re so cute. So useful. So different! If the scent is something you like, well, take it home . . . and never use it, because they’re set aside for guests.

Also wonder if the cleaning staff rolls their eyes - oh, sure, you went through a whole bar of soap, didn’t you. In a day. Okay. Here’s another, lather boy.

Good thing people took soap in the old days, because it means we have mementoes like this:

The Barringer Hotels: learn more here, as they say. Or just skip to the Flickr photo here, see its startlingly blunt and unwelcoming design. It was bought by the city of Charlotte, turned into an old-folks home, and is vacant today.

Then there’s the Brown Palace in Denver:


Harry Truman stayed here; I’m guessing this design hails from the era when he might have lathered up.


I've more of these, and will deploy them in another venue. Anyway: All the shampoos smell differently, too. I remember when there were just a few basic smells, it seems - Prell-smell was the most basic, and you couldn’t quite figure out what it was supposed to smell like, other than “shampoo.” Wella Balsam changed everything, and everyone bought it so they could smell like Farrah Fawcett was presumed to smell like. Now everything has “notes” intended to connote Freshness and Cleanliness, which distinguishes them from previous shampoos that smelled of barn and hog-hoof, I guess.

I was going to note that I didn’t steal shampoos from the last Millennium hotel in which I slumbered and bathed, but I can’t remember where that was. Either memory is failing at a catastrophic rate or I’ve just stayed in so many places the last year the world is starting to blur. Which would be okay. Making up for a few decades of sitting home.

Okay, this is killing me. Where was I when I stayed at a Millennium? Ah: Los Angeles. Didn’t like the room much either, but once again I was there a few days alone, after which I feel as if my previous life was an illusion, or has come to an abrupt end for reasons I don’t entirely yet grasp. So it’s grand to be home, but also disconcerting; feel like a dog who comes back home after he’s been in the kennel for a week. Of course the week before I go, the attitude is “yes! A break from the stultifying grip of routine!” and the moment I’m back, it’s “yes! Routine, and more iron-fisted than ever!”

Didn’t take towels, because that’s wrong. Even if it was right, and you were encouraged to steal them, I wouldn’t; they were almost capable of drawing blood. Useful for sanding down uneven spots, though.

Half-watched a movie tonight called "The Unguarded Hour" - suitable stuff for engaging a portion of your brain on one screen while doing something on another. A very Young Loretta, early role. Nothing that would require a B&W World entry, except for this:



The social column unexpectedly breaks into news about the Sugar Inudstry Reorganization! I love dummy copy, and remembered I had some examples I don't think I'd posted before. So:



Let us zoom in:




I wonder if people in the movie theaters scanned the headlines then peered at the body copy to give themselves a good laugh, and feel slightly superior to the producers who thought they were such slow readers they'd never know. Really, it presumes that everyone reads out loud and puts their finger in the air to point to each word in the headline and sound it out.


Well, yes, this is a smaller installment than yesterday, but that's inevitable. But we have almost 20 pages of matches in the museum, here, and a Comic Sins, here. Still catching up. Now if you'll excuse me, I have the hideousness of Rewriting to perform, and as usual, that means "oh, just write the whole damned thing over again." See you around.


(Oh: On the plane I finished “Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull story,” a movie starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. Not household names in America, although I think Coogan’s been in a few films stateside, where I’m sure his talents were wasted. A movie you hate to recommend to anyone, because they’ll come back and say “so . . . really? That?” which means that they didn’t get it at all, and now regard your recommendations with grave doubts. It’s one of those twisted, nested, po-mo things - a movie about people making a movie, with the movie they’re making is a commentary on the one we’re seeing, and vice versa. Sounds quite twee and tiresome, I know. I thought it was hilarious and brilliant and loved the whole thing, especially since everyone plays themselves: Steve Coogan is Steve Coogan, albeit a distracted, unhappy, petty version of himself. (It’s the old dodge: deflect criticism by playing a version of yourself that’s 115% worse than you fear you really are.) It feels like a documentary - sorry, mockumentary - but it doesn’t have the additional level of someone filming the filming, so you’re not quite sure what you’re watching, aside from some people attempting to make a movie out of Tristram Shandy. As I said, I loved it, but your mileage, etc.)



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