Magpie Tales: The Meat Ball

The latest installment of the Magpie Tales.

The currency of human flesh, the transactional ploy of youth as an expendable commodity.

The Meat Ball.

Thousands of miles away from the Hormel factory, the gutting of life playing out in the slaughterhouse fields where bayonets serve as meat cleavers to fulfill an insatiable hunger.  Spicy mustard gas offered as a relish for the human hamburgers on the icy banks of the River Somme.  Wine grapes scorched and junipers and oaks braised as well as service dogs and horses serving as further kindling for the infeno.

Courage discouraged in the death factory where the human cog is there only to make sure the wheel’s traction is steady.

The Meat Ball.  The dance of human slaughter that is accompanied by that of unwitting horses, cattle, sparrows, cornstalks and other perishable living being caught in the path.

A pound of flesh is a pound of flesh, and the order of the species has no prioritization in this chaotic dance.

Today, the guns silenced, the memories still shaping the continent where most countries do not have a death penalty and most citizens don’t own guns.  Those deaths, now nearly a century ago, inform the present.  Youth torched on the dance floor of the Meat Ball and those who survived passed on the lessons learned from the futility of the sacrifice.

Nickel, Silver and Grey

The exquisite nature of sufficiency.  Damned and blessed, deluded by the myth of scarcity and kidnapped by excess, pained by the purposeless pursuit of pleasure, liberated by the connection of shared acknowledgment of self-imposed isolation. we are a jerk and knowing that often they are correct.  A hero and a lecher of festering bravery that is molding but trying  to emerge.

Rise of the Pink Guard

Roll with Me Henry

No Flies on Gladys

When the delivery man finished installing her new Zenith console, he told Gladys, “And now you can live the life of ease and luxury just like those gals on Queen for a Day, Miss Brackverg.” Without taking a breath, she snapped back, “That’s Queen of the Universe to you, bud.”

Willow Manor Ball 2012: A Good Time Was Had By All

We are just back from the Willow Manor Ball in Dublin, Ohio, and what an event it was.

Though hosted in the U.S., Paris played an important part in it since that’s where hostess Tess had been earlier in the day to procure party favors, the finest of appetizers and guests.

Of course, she had no problem rounding up an impressive posse from the Left Bank.

It’s amazing how he circle encompasses so many eras and styles, Edith Piaf bringing her date Marcel Proust being just an example.

Just as Tess was having a lovely time, she suddenly realized it was nearly 3 p.m. and she needed to get back to the Manor in a flash and had no way of getting back in time.  Before panic could set in, who should drive by but Truman Capote in his enormous red Caddy with fins.   “Worry not,” he said as Tess hopped in and he demonstrated that those fins weren’t mere decorations but gave the car supersonic flying abilities that were three times faster than the Concorde that Tess and Tru flew on regularly back in the glory days of Studio 54.

Meanwhile at the Manor just before Tess returned, able butler Stevens received a call that perennial guest The Duchess of Alba had been spotted walking around disoriented in Monument Valley.  Apparently she was looking for a monument commemorating the reinstatement of King Juan Carlos, not aware that it wasn’t that kind of a monument valley.

In a stroke of luck, Pee Wee Herman happened to be driving by, having just dropped off Cowboy Curtis at his ranch.  Pee Wee is the last person we would have thought to show responsibility and compassion, and all were tremendously grateful for his rescue of our beloved Catalan Duchess

Back at the manor, all the preparations were in place as Tess waited outside for he guests to arrive.  The manor, not unlike Grey Gardens, reeks of old money charm.  It is admittedly a bit shabby around the edges, but that’s why we love it so.

And then the guests did arrive and are documented in our video posted earlier.  It’s hard to single out a favorite couple, but we must admit we were greatly impressed by Yoko Ono and Rip Taylor.  Has Yoko finally found someone who will mean as much to her as John?  We can’t say for sure, but it’s clear they have a strong bond as two of the era’s boldest performance artists.  They also took the opportunity to share the news that they are recording an album together called “Two MORE Virgins”.

Finally, we felt compelled to explain why Junk Thief was one of the few guests who did not come with a date.  Tess had strived very hard to have BIll Cunningham photograph the whole affair, but with so many fundraisers happening in Manhattan around the election season he was overbooked.  So Junk Thief — who like Bill always has a tux and camera available to cover an event when a last minute phone call beckons — was able to arrive and document the entire thing on film.

We don’t like to reveal too many of our trade secrets, but we thought we’d share the above photo from behind the scenes.   Tess and others seemed to be charmed by the appearance of the video’s director, Mr. Hand.  Like Hitchcock, he likes to make  a brief cameo in all of his films.  One has took watch closely in the video, but Mr. Hand is there among all the festivities.

Willow Manor Ball 2012 Coverage

It’s now quite late in the Eastern Time Zone where the Junk Thief team is at theWillow Manor Ball.  We’ll give a fuller account in the morning but thought you might enjoy this live coverage of the big event. Peewee Herman and the Duchess of Alba, Yoko Ono and Rip Taylor, Lady Tess and Truman Capote. Clearly the couples this year are quite regal.

Check in here to see who else was at the ball.

Magpie Tales: The Providential Eye

We are dropping the robe for the sake of art for this installment of The Magpie Tales

“Have you ever seen the naked lady on the dollar bill?” asked the opening line of Phyllis Houghton Scroggins Motsenbacher’s 1923 memoir The Naked I: The Adventures of America’s Leading Figure and Vision Model.  “Look closely, and you will see her, albeit not in full view.  You see, dear readers, the eye is I.”

Born into the prestigious Houghton family of Providence in 1866 — part of the rarely discussed post-Civil War baby boom — Phyllis was an outstanding scholar, the top of her class at Radcliffe, having studied in Rome during her senior year as she completed her degree in Latin.  It was while in Rome as she admired the statuary and paintings celebrating the human form, and the concept of being a figure model entered her imagination.  This was not a professional “respectable” women pursued, and the eastern academic community was still scandalized by the 1886 incident at the Pennsylvania Academy of Art involving Thomas Eakins and his figure models.  It was not unusual for female figure models to cover their faces with masks.

Not Phyllis.  Headstrong and independent, she gave no thought to soiling the Houghton family name and threw caution and modesty to the wind whenever she reported to painting or drawing classes and let he robe drop to her floor.   But much to her disappointment, as the dressed and the students passed by and thanked her they always said, “You have such gorgeous eyes.”   No comments on her silken hair that she brushed 101 strokes each morning and night, no compliments on her porcelain complexion that she nurtured with milk and honey baths four nights a week, no remarks on he supple, graceful breasts.

So it was with some trepidation when she responded to an ad in the Providence Examiner calling for models for The Eye of Providence.   There was also an interview on page 3 with London-born U.S. Chief Engraver Charles E. Barber who was  leading this search.  “I felt it important that the Eye of Providence be represented by one of this fine city’s natives,” Barber claimed.  Thus we will be extending the search for five weeks until we fine one to represent this iconic symbol that will endure for generations. ”

When Phyllis appeared the third day of interviews, Barber let out a gasp and said that the search was complete.   Phyllis was given the job on the spot and was asked to report the next morning at 7 a.m sharp.  Barber had decided to paint the image of the eye himself, and Phyllis felt honored that a man of such influence would be capturing the image of he right eye for eternity.  Out of instinct, upon arriving at the studio she removed all of her clothing and sat motionless on the stool placed near a large, opaque window as Barber approached his canvas.  What she was not prepared for was he then let his smock drop to the ground and stood just inches away from her stark naked as her regarded he eyes studiously and began dipping a bit of ocher.

Phyllis took a deep breath, trying to be professional but finally protested, “Mr. Barber, is this really appropriate?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, “I plan to burnish and blend the ocher with sienna so it won’t appear too harsh.'”

“No, Mr. Barber, what I meant is….”  She stumbled, for the first time a bit embarrassed.  “What I meant…is it appropriate for you to be nude.  You are a married man of respectability and responsibility.  What would Mrs. Barber think?”

“Oh, she never comes to the studio. And I feel that if I am asking you to be nude, it is only appropriate for me to do the same.  No one else will be joining us, and we will keep this completely professional.”

The sessions continued for seven more days.  Each morning, they both disrobed, and by the fourth day the weather had changed and the studio was quite chilly, adding to Phyllis discomfort.   While Barber never touched her, he made her feel very ill at ease, and she felt that the final painting of her eye suffered because of it.  It looked strained, lacked the sparkle that typically gained such admiration in other sessions.

On the last day when the work was complete and they both put on their clothes, Barber gave her a weak handshake and thank you and then mumbled, “Oh, I almost forgot about your payment.”  He placed a single silver dollar in her hand, one he had designed in 1884.

Phyllis looked down and then finally muttered, “Oh…”

“Is it not enough?  I have a couple of quarters I could add.  You were such a cooperative model.”

“No, no.  This is fine.”  She left and decided to put the whole incident behind her. But as the days passed and she let her mind wander, her anger and sense of betrayal grew.  Finally she went to the Examiner and shared her story.

“An eye for an eye, it is written in the Bible,” she was quoted, “but when is it appropriate for a dollar for an eye?”  She recounted the details of the entire sessions, scandalizing all of Providence and resulting in threats of libel from Mrs. Barber.

Phyllis left Providence and had a brief career on the stage as a member of the Floradora Girls where ads promised a chance to see America’s most famous naked lady.   As the scandal wore down, she pursued gigs as a model for eyeglass companies, though she had perfect vision.  But many companies capitalized on the idea of the Eye of Providence wearing their frames.

Phyllis never let he academic pursuits squander, and in 1917 she returned to Radcliffe where she taught literature and hosted Edith Wharton on many occasions.  Though by now she had regained the respectability worth of the Houghton name despite a series of brief and stormy marriages, she and Edith shared a number of randy stories from their youth over tea and Brattenburg cake.

Magpie Tale: Return to Badger Island

Can you guess what Arston brought to the fair in this week’s Magpie Tale?

Arston Coobaugh returned to the cottage where he grew up at the end of Branston Road last summer after more than 35 years in Chicago.  We had heard stories about battles between him and his sister Dorenda and brother Murkin over the house that had been left to him outright in his mother’s will.  But apparently that had all been settled.

Folks on our side of the island were always a bit suspicious about Arston and watched the house closely.  The lights were on all night, every last lamp, overhead    chandelier and indirect light seemed to be blazing as he tooled away until the wee hours, and then he could be seen roaming the house at dawn, turning off each lamp.

That cottage was a the far north end of the island, a few 100 yards from the land bridge that was built in 1937 by the WPA and, technically, turned the island into a peninsula now that the 700 yards across the lake had been filled.  But to us it would always be Badger Island.

Many of the people on the island said that it got its name from the Coobaughs and not the omnivorous weasels that no one could remember ever seeing on the island, even though there was no shortage of skunks, opossums and raccoons.  All of the Coobaugh with their long snouts and grayish complexions resembled badgers in appearance and demeanor.

Even Arston’s mother was a nocturnal, solitary woman, staying up into the wee hours of the night making praline and fudge that she would sell at the Branston Township Faire each Thursday.  Late in life she took to making artisan soaps made from anise seed, honey and orange zest.  She even designed the labels with an etching of an Arvelian Crane and the word COOBAUGH in ornate script, as if it were the call of this ornithological oddity unique to the western shore of Verden County.

So what, everyone asked, was Arston doing up in that cottage in the wee hours?  Though he could be seen going to and from the property around dusk a few times a week, he hardly ever interacted with anyone in the village.  So imagine the surprise that morning in late May of this year when he drove up to the Branston Township Faire with a few dozen orange crates filled with products that bore the name “Coobaugh” but contained something that no one in the village was prepared to believe would come out of that familiar cottage that was so embedded into the fabric of the island.a

Magpie Tales: Sick Sturla

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alternate title for this Magpie Tale could have been “The Dutch Are Different”

“You are sick, Sturla!  You are a very sick, sick woman.”

Indeed she was, and she was often a subject of Jan Steen’s paintings.  It all began when, at age 11, Sturla posed playing a flute for “Children Teaching a Cat to Dance” that documented the dark, cruel nature of Dutch childhood, their desire to anthropomorphize animals and was a precursor for the poker playing dog painting of the late 19th century that tipped a hat to the kidney colored hues of 16th and `17th century Dutch masters.

Sturla was a particularly cruel child, tormenting both pets and other children.  At Halloween she would dress up as Mr. Orgen’s dead wife and would sneak into his bedroom where she called to him in a low whisper in the wee hours of the night.  The poor man rose groggy and not sure if it was a dream or the ghost of his beloved Elda coming back to him.

At age 28, after two failed marriages, Sturla married a shipping merchant and relocated to Batavia where she was initially entranced by the tropical heat.  But one year later, after three bouts of malaria, the gig was up, and she died three days shy of her 30th birthday.  Only her dutiful hairdresser came to mourn at her graveside service.  That evening a group of cats arrived and used the freshly dug ground as a litter box.