rosalind russell

Rosalind Russell is in three movies I love: Auntie Mame, The Trouble With Angels, and His Girl Friday, in which last movie she says,

"Now, get this, you double-crossing chimpanzee: There ain't going to be any interview and there ain't going to be any story. And that certified check of yours is leaving with me in twenty minutes. I wouldn't cover the burning of Rome for you if they were just lighting it up. If I ever lay my two eyes on you again, I'm gonna walk right up to you and hammer on that monkeyed skull of yours 'til it rings like a Chinese gong!"

I love Rosalind Russell.

Unfortunately, like many things and people I love--beginning with Hector Berlioz and ending with the dog we had before Sophie, the sweet and servile Jake--she is dead.

---

3 a.m. - I woke up with a crippling sense of failure. Failure! The day hadn't even begun also there was no decent reason to be awake yet let alone feel like a failure. Then that steady drip from rain overflow began outside the window--like a drill, drilling into the brain, through tender tissues and nerves, one of those noises you can't ignore. So I spent the next hour feeling pathetic quietly under my blankets, my face smooshed in by the surrounding pillows.

So thank God for the rest of the day that rose up to greet me like a deer among the cabbages. I was busy straight through until 4:30 pm with interviews and meetings and beat-covering. I got a few story leads to take up my future. I stepped forth and Made Contact. Again, I say, thank God. I still feel a bit like the end of my graduation term, all ragged and emotional and more like a train wreck victim, but I have not made it to 22 years for nothing. Swagger on, my soul, swagger on. Drink tea and be merry. Think of the exercise ball you bought on sale at Fred Meyers today and how it's going to strengthen your core and make you like Amelia Earhart except alive and not lost at sea in a plane forever while the salt pickles your kidneys.