The girl who admired Frank Bender

This past weekend I stopped into the Mutter Museum to see a bust by renowned forensic sculptor Frank Bender.  I had just finished reading The Girl With The Crooked Nose, which describes Bender's ability to create eerily accurate faces from the skulls of nameless victims of violence.  Bender, who died last summer at the age of 70, also helped nab several fugitives from justice by making age-progression busts based on photographs. 

The bust I viewed is of a young woman later identified as Rosella Atkinson, whose skeletal remains were found on the edge of a Philadelphia football field.  Bender nicknamed her "The Girl With Hope" and depicted her almost exactly as she looks in a photograph, with her proudly raised chin.  (Long before The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series, Bender identified his subjects with "girl" nicknames that he felt identified some key characteristic about them.  He once explained that the term "girl" wasn't dismissive, but was instead a way of acknowledging how tragically short the lives of many of the women he tried to identify were.)  Atkinson, whose killer confessed to her murder years later, was identified by family members who saw her bust on display at the museum.

The news this week that Philadelphia's unsolved murder rate is scandalously high added even more poignancy to the loss of Bender.  Fortunately, the members of the Vidocq Society, master criminologists who welcomed Bender into the fold, remain on the job. 

The Year of the Wasp

Looks like my people are back in for 2012.

Comedienne Alexandra ('Just call me Ali') Wentworth has a memoir coming out that promises to be as zany and entertaining as she is.  I own—and cherish--her WASP Cookbook, a blue velvet-clad homage to preppy culinary classics.  (And I just saw that, much like a blue chip stock, the book has appreciated nicely in value since I bought it years ago, with the cheapest used copy going for $42 on Amazon. )

I’m also excited to see the forthcoming film Damsels in Distress by Whit Stillman, the Woody Allen of the Wasp set.  Stillman is famed for 1990's Metropolitan, about the lives of privileged Upper East Siders attending deb balls over the winter holidays.  He will be live chatting during a screening of the film on Constellation.com on January 12.

I just finished the second memoir by an actress who made her debut (so to speak) in that film, Isabel Gillies, better known for her role as Detective Stabler’s wife Kathy on Law & Order: SVU.  In A Year and Six Seconds, Gillies describes how she moved back to New York to rebuild her life following a devastating divorce.  Gillies writes easily and candidly about her fairly cushy upbringing, which in many ways mirrored that of her Metropolitan character.

Could a Waspy reality TV show be far behind?  I’m envisioning an elderly couple clad in 40-year old matching tweed suits (bought in London, but of course) getting ready for a cocktail party; they learn that they don’t have enough Goldfish to fill all of the little engraved silver bowls.  Imagine the drama!

Occupy this space...

I read that the most common blog post was something along the lines of "I haven't posted in a while..."

Well, I haven't posted in a while.  (Obviously.)  I've had my hands full with another writing project, and I'm happy to report that it's going quite well. 

I could also and quite conveniently blame the holidays.  All those family members vying for attention.

Speaking of family, I learned that, in addition to inventing the telegraph, my busy Vail ancestors also created the original bathroom indicator.  Amazing, right?

Hmm.  Maybe we could manufacture an "Occupied" indicator for Wall Street?

Fall at the house of Poe

I finally stopped by the Edgar Allan Poe house this past weekend.  Run by the National Park Service, the house was inhabited by Poe and his wife (and cousin) Virginia, along with Virginia's mother (also known as Poe's aunt) for six years, during which he wrote many of his most famous stories.

The Poe house is located in what, according to the Park Service, is the “now defunct” neighborhood of Spring Garden. The Spring Garden Civic Association might tend to disagree. I just attended a meeting of the association two weeks ago, where I was reliably informed that I live in Spring Garden, not--as I have been claiming for the past many months--Fairmount.

Whatever the neighborhood is called, it is still a bit edgy down Poe's way, as perhaps befits the author of chilling tales. The house itself is almost barren other than the front rooms. But I spied a stuffed orangutan in one room. The tour guide asked if we knew why our cuddly simian friend was there.  Little Miss English Major promptly answered, “Because he was the murderer in 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue'!” (This really isn’t a spoiler since the orangutan isn’t the point of the tale, which is known as the first detective story.)

Downstairs in the creepy basement was a stuffed black cat.  Apparently Poe wrote the tale of the same name while living in the house, using the basement for inspiration.  (Actual spoiler - the cat drops a dime on the killer.  This is why I don't trust felines.)

Over the River (and through the turnstile)

Here's a little trivia to start your Turkey Day.  Which beloved holiday is celebrated in these famous lines?

Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we'll go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the nose
And bites the toes
As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,
[I understand, you know this part, but just wait.]
To have a first-rate play,
Hear the bells ring,
Ting-a-ling-ding,
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Huh.  I was kind of stumped, too.  I swear we always sang "Christmas Day."  And for that matter, it's always been "grandmother's" house.  Who is this "grandfather" guy?  He doesn't sound as though he would make very good pies. 

You know me, I had to do some research.  Lydia Marie Child was an abolitionist, women's rights pioneer, and friend of Sarah Josepha Hale, who is credited with establishing Thanksgiving as a national holiday.  Child wrote the lines in 1844.  (Turns out her grandfather's house still stands, and it's a beauty.)  And I'm not crazy (regarding this, anyway); the poem was later adapted into the more familiar Christmas carol version. 

As for me, no sleigh today, just a SEPTA train.  But I'm pretty sure some good pie awaits at the end of the line.

Happy Thanksgiving!

What do WASPs Say After Sex?

I thought that might get your attention.

The answer, according to a rather dated paperback of the same name I picked up at my favorite used bookstore the other day: "Thank you very much. I'm sorry. That won't happen again."

I didn't claim it was a funny book.  (And I'm not telling you the real answer.)

A far better satirical look at Wasps can be found in William Hamilton's Anti-Social Register, which I found at the same store. (I suspect the two books may have been longtime shelf-mates and were donated together.)  Hamilton is best known for his New Yorker cartoons featuring uptight bankers and other patrician types.  Though my edition of the book dates from 1977, and the cover (pictured at right) features a couple of freakish late hippies, many of the punchlines have stood up well to the test of time. 

For example, in light of the current accounting scandal engulfing camera and medical imaging giant Olympus, this one is amusing. The caption reads, "In examining our books, Mr. Matthews promises to use generally accepted accounting principles, if you know what I mean."

And then there's this one: "I guess people are just going to have to tighten their belts and fall back on their trust funds for awhile."

(I suppose that could also be labeled "What do Wasps say in a recession?")





Some Komments on Kim K

While walking in the city the other day I saw a sign on a small beauty parlor: "Have your makeup done like Kim Kardashian!"  I half expected to see a sign on a neighboring church along the lines of, “Get married here like Kim Kardashian!” Followed, of course, by a sign at an attorney’s office: "Get divorced after 10 weeks like Kim Kardashian!"

Eric Felten, the Wall Street Journal columnist on whom I have a writer crush (the man knows his classic cocktails and writes frequently about the importance of having a functioning moral compass... swoon) managed the nearly-impossible task this weekend of adding a touch of class to the chatter about the reality TV star's marital woes. Felten writes, "The divorce was a given. But jumping right to it showed a disregard for the craft of reality TV. Where were the nightclub screaming matches? Where were the inevitable infidelities that would have pushed the tawdry plotline along to its natural conclusion?"

For a certain type of woman, marriage has always been a career move of sorts. In fact, I just read an article that mentions one of the ultimate gold-diggers of our time, Pamela Digby Churchill Hayward Harriman.  Her life story provides an interesting contrast to Kim K's shenanigans. Sure, Harriman busted up a marriage or two on her way to the top, but she gave back once she became the Grande Dame of the Democratic party. (If you believe that helping to put Bill Clinton in the White House was a form of public service.)

Assimilation used to be the goal of barbarians at the cultural gates. Now, in the age of Kardashian & Kompany, the Kulture is bending to fit the arrivistes.  Is that an elitist statement? Well, we aren’t all terrific actors or painters or singers. I’d like to be able to do even one of those things well, but I don't imagine I could without a lot of effort and more than a modicum of innate talent.  (Heck, even Pamela Harriman probably put in her Gladwellian 10,000 hours of listening soulfully to rich older men before she became Pamela Harriman.)  But it appears that with some skillfully-applied eye makeup and a Bravo TV show (and let's not forget the sex tape that started it all), you can have a wedding that nets $18 million, followed by what will presumably be an even more lucrative (and public) divorce.

Hmm. Maybe I should step into that beauty parlor next time I'm in the neighborhood.