Better; worse? Better? Worse?

I had my head examined on Sunday. Specifically, the eyeball parts. I can’t tell you how much I hate my eyeball situation - I have one pair of frames I got online, which are stylin’ and cool and hip and fell apart in a lobby of a hotel in Southampton when I took them off to clean them because I had been weeping over my dog. A screw fell off and I was on my knees palpating a rug for a tiny piece of metal. I never found it.

Wore the glasses anyway, and they stayed together until the end of the trip, when the lens popped out in an airport in New York. I had a backup pair, of course - thin boring wire-rims that made me feel bland and anonymous. So when I get new glasses I’m going to get something BOLD. I don’t know. Blue frames. Clear frames. Horn-rimmed. All three. Shake it up! New look! New me!

Get a scooter! Change cars! Paint the office furniture! Redo the kitchen!

Better; worse? Better? Worse?

The exam was better than the last one, because the optometrical doctor seemed to know what she was doing. It’s frustrating, because they don’t tell you anything so you’re not influenced. Here’s what you want to hear:

This is what you have now. It’s number 1. Now I’m going to go stronger. This is number 2. Now I’m going to go stronger. This is number 3. We will continue until you can see the pipes hidden in the wall, and then I’ll back you off a little.

But no. It’s this: “this is one . . . and this is two. Two . . . and one.”

AND? What of it? You go from one option to the next, and it’s hard to tell if this is a trick option because it seems no better, but then the next one’s sharp, and then you go back and the previous one isn’t as bad as you thought. I know there’s a process to it all, but I wish they’d say “your series of choices led to believe that this is what you need,” or “that last choice made no sense,” or “the reason it seems worse is because it was too strong,” or something like that.

Then the drops, aka the stingy sticky juice. I could not focus on anything within six feet for two hours.

I guess it’s Spring now. The Oreos have switched over.

YELLOW CREME * SAME TASTE

In case you were worried that the Oreo had yellow flavor.

If you want another seasonal Oreo creme taste profile:

Peeps do not have a flavor. Peeps have a shape and a consistenct.

These heralds of spring was noted last week, but I didn’t want to spring it on you - hah! oh what fun we have here - until after DST had gone through its yearly shudder, and we had been hurled ahead in time an hour. I’ve noted for the last few weeks the difference in the amount and quality of light - a few months ago when I took Daughter to her Thursday meeting at the Walker Art Center, the light at 3:30 was wan and low, ready to pack it in. There’s something cowardly about the winter sun in the afternoon, like a frightened resident of an old west town who scurries indoors when Black Bart comes down the middle of the street, spurs jangling.

This might be the place where people argue about DST, but I’ve no time for the dispute. An extra hour of sunlight in summer is a precious thing. I mean, if you want to stop the spring-forward / fall-back now, and never fall back again, I’m fine with that. It’s the people who are content with a 7:00 sunset in late August that I don’t understand.

Better; worse? Better? Worse?

Better.

The Wild Party isn’t "The Wild Party," but people are supposed to think it is.

To explain: in 1928 Joseph March published a scandalous poem - a long, long peom - called “The Wild Party.” It was promptly banned in Boston, which assured its success. Supposedly it was the book that inspired William Burroughs to become a writer, but don’t blame the book for its side-effects.

Wikipedia, writing in a style designed to give you a migraine, says:

The poem tells the story of show people Queenie and her lover Burrs, who live in a decadent style that March depicts as unique to Hollywood, decide to have one of their parties, complete with illegal bathtub gin and the couple's colorful, eccentric and egocentric friends, but the party unfolds with more tumultuous goings-on than planned.

This is not that.

Why bring it up, then? Because that's what the movie's title exploits. the movie was written by Samuel Hoplins Adams, an investigative journalist who wrote saucy novels under the name “Warner Fabian.” His most famous was “Flaming Youth,” which dealt frankly with frankness. Basically, it had women with Drives.
The Wild Party concerns young women at college, and you know what that meant. Petting.

This one’s notable for Bow's first talkie role, but give her this: she brought all her silent skills to fine effect.

She’s only 24 here, but she seems about 30.

It's a talkie with interstitials - which shows they’re still thinking along the old lines.

So there’s a dance, and the girls dress thus:

Daring! Wikipedia on Bow:

The biggest misconception about Bow is that her career foundered with the coming of sound because her Brooklyn accent was too ugly.

About that voice: here's the opening scene in the girls' dorm.

She’s fine - but somehow demystifed. You want to imagine the voice, not hear it.

People expecting a sex romp probably weren’t expecting a lecture:

Of course, they fall in love. He can’t keep his face off hers. It's a nice little period piece, but you can tell the 20s are done . . .

And it'll only be two or three years before this image looks like a bygone era.

Wikipedia again:

She made several talkies, starting with The Wild Party, a big success that was directed by her friend and champion Dorothy Arzner. In truth, Bow’s physical and mental health issues (she had schizophrenia, like her mother) were exacerbated by the stresses of her fame, particularly the fallout from her notorious tell-all memoir in Photoplay and a lurid lawsuit brought by her former secretary.

I wonder if Bow vs. Brooks was the Ginger vs. Maryanne of its day.

That'll do. Interesting week ahead.