learned mausoleum derives from tomb of mausolus - provincial governor of the first persian empire - one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. now buried amongst "stunter's rest" graves of niagara's oakwood cemetery, annie edson taylor pushed the limits of cooper technology early in the first of six roosevelt administrations, zoidberg resembles second-term vice president fairbanks.
watched federico fellini's seven-nighted la dolce vita, bacchanalia punctuated by drunken naps and abrupt curtain closings. keaton's sherlock jr. plans recreation footstep by footstep, romans leave the schedule to the city and limit their preparation to pleading with one another to stay awake
remember the trees they felled to make room for her inside out botero sculptures on new york avenue, not only inspired by gaudi
read infant mortality eugene o'neill's long day's journey into night. a drunken family brawl before prohibition, over money, morphine, measles
he could hide behind a corkscrew
with irish blarney
tyrone: sorry i'm late. captain turner stopped to talk and once he starts gabbing you can't get away from him
jamie (without turning-dryly): you mean once he starts listening
leave it to you to have some of the stuff hidden, and prescriptions for more! i hope you'll lay in a good stock ahead so we'll never have another night like the one when you screamed for it, and ran out of the house in your nightdress half crazy, to try and throw yourself off the dock!
i can't imagine you a holy nun, ma'am. sure, you never darken the door of a church
he wears his pince-nez, and is playing solitare. he has taken off his coat and has on an old brown dressing gown
tyrone (disgustedly): ach! keep such sentiments to yourself. i shouldn't have given you that drink.
edmund: it did pack a wallop, all right. on you, too. (he grins with affectionate teasing) even if you've never missed a performance! (aggressively) well, what's wrong with being drunk? it's what we're after, isn't it? let's not kid each other, papa. not tonight. we know what we're trying to forget. (hurriedly) but let's not talk about it. it's no use now.
tyrone (dully): no. all we can do is try to be resigned-again.
edmund: or be so drunk you can forget. (he recites, and recites well, with bitter, ironical passion, the symons' translation of baudelaire's prose poem)
"be always drunken. nothing else matters: that is the only question. if you would not feel the horrible burden of time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.
drunken with what? with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. but be drunken.
and if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the green side of a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, of whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks, ask what hour it is; and the wind, wave, star, bird, clock, will answer you: 'it is the hour to be drunken! be drunken, if you would not be martyred slaves of time; be drunken continually! with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will.'"
(he grins at his father provocatively.)
tyrone (thickly humorous): i wouldn't worry about the virtue part of it, if i were you
i'm as drunk as a fiddler's bitch
i claim edwin booth never saw the day when he could give as good a performance as a trained seal. seals are intelligent and honest. they don't put up any bluffs about the art of acting. they admit they're just hams earning their daily fish