A serendipitous click led me to another Rigg man, an art critic no less, so you know he's right:
Winckelmann ate books – old books, rare and irreplaceable. She sniffed the shelves and, having found a volume from the days when animal glue was used in binding, turned her head on one side and delicately removed it with her front teeth. There the delicacy ended in the mound of cloth and paper shredded.
At seven stone [98 pounds] when she first came, she was big and boisterous in her affection. When Miss Mabel, Diana Rigg’s Jack Russell bitch, came to stay instead of going into kennels while her owner was holidaying, they were mad with pleasure.
Miss Mabel was small enough to run under Winck as though she were a bridge; in their chase, Winck ran into the back of my knees and felled me like a log – and there I lay, helpless with laughter, flat on my back at Diana’s feet, where perhaps all men should be.
Named for Katie-Bar-The-Door, the Katies are "alternate Oscars"—who should have been nominated, who should have won—but really they're just an excuse to write a history of the movies from the Silent Era to the present day.
To see a list of nominees and winners by decade, as well as links to my essays about them, click the highlighted links:
Remember: There are no wrong answers, only movies you haven't seen yet.
The Silent Oscars
And don't forget to check out the Silent Oscars—my year-by-year choices for best picture, director and all four acting categories for the pre-Oscar years, 1902-1927.
Look at me—Joe College, with a touch of arthritis. Are my eyes really brown? Uh, no, they're green. Would we have the nerve to dive into the icy water and save a person from drowning? That's a key question. I, of course, can't swim, so I never have to face it. Say, haven't you anything better to do than to keep popping in here early every morning and asking a lot of fool questions?
4 comments:
Man, so once again Diana Rigg gets tripped up by a fickle public. Dang!
Preach it, Who! Like you, I am a Diana Rigg man.
A serendipitous click led me to another Rigg man, an art critic no less, so you know he's right:
Winckelmann ate books – old books, rare and irreplaceable. She sniffed the shelves and, having found a volume from the days when animal glue was used in binding, turned her head on one side and delicately removed it with her front teeth. There the delicacy ended in the mound of cloth and paper shredded.
At seven stone [98 pounds] when she first came, she was big and boisterous in her affection. When Miss Mabel, Diana Rigg’s Jack Russell bitch, came to stay instead of going into kennels while her owner was holidaying, they were mad with pleasure.
Miss Mabel was small enough to run under Winck as though she were a bridge; in their chase, Winck ran into the back of my knees and felled me like a log – and there I lay, helpless with laughter, flat on my back at Diana’s feet, where perhaps all men should be.
and there I lay, helpless with laughter, flat on my back at Diana’s feet, where perhaps all men should be.
Damn straight, although I'd probably be making a low moaning sound vaguely like "humina humina humina" ...
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