Elaine - Sweet Nudes


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FREE NOVEL: THAT WOMAN

James Gandolfini said as much of a potential union with Stritch. I didn't realize they were so close, but it doesn't surprise me. As Baldwin leaves the hospital room, he mutters, "She stepped on my laugh line. Ensconced in her limo, she says everyone is so damned nice, it makes her uncomfortable and not a little suspicious. The consensus seems to be that Elaine Stritch is not easy. I know all about not easy as the daughter of a man who demands that his coffee cup be pre-heated, that his pancakes be well-done i. It's not a function of age; my father is what a professor of mine called a "high need husband," just as Stritch is a high need performer.

I'd say the same of my father. I didn't know that her marriage was such a happy one, nor that her husband was so dashing. Sadly, actor John Bay died of brain cancer at 53, after only thirteen years of marriage. Stritch was just 58 and she never found another husband or life partner. The documentary would not have been complete without Woody Allen, another Carlyle Hotel legend whose Monday night jazz show I tried but failed to see on my birthday.

Allen does not appear, but we learn of his note to Stritch before September. He explained that he wanted Stritch for the film but knew taking direction was not her long suit. If she felt unable to take heavy direction, Allen wrote, they should spare everyone the trouble. Stritch agreed and delivered a fine performance. Stritch contracted diabetes some years ago and it plays a significant role in her life.

I didn't realize that diabetes could result in aphasia or that it was so difficult to control with medication at that age. Remembering lyrics, even to songs she sung for decades, is trying. When Stritch brought her show to the legendary Town Hall in , she cut short one rehearsal, explaining it was making her more nervous and that she would either be fine on stage or she wouldn't.

She was. Or any of my limbs right now. It feels trippy. Last night a friend invited Josh and I to her house to watch a movie. Since we were nearby, we visted one of those magical Red Box things outside grocery stores where you can rent a DVD for one dolla.

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They had a really broad selection, everything from Milk to never-seen-the-light-of-day shitty horror movies. We decided on a movie that displayed a picture of a nearly naked lady holding two guns.

Jerry & George & Kramer & Elaine – Rolling Stone

We knew that it would be bad. I love bad movies. Too much remember the Showgirls party? However, it became apparent around fifteen minutes into the movie that Stiletto was unfortunately not a good bad movie, but a bad bad movie. And the difference you ask, between a good bad movie and a bad bad movie? Well, let me begin my thesis here:.

First of all, let me say that budget has nothing to do with it. Stiletto was clearly made for under a million with a rented camera, and it sucked. A good bad movie must take itself completely seriously.

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It must not be in on the joke and must be made with Oscar-winning intentions. For instance, the film Powder about an albino teenager with mystical powers.

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A good bad movie also must have an element of bizarre-ness that pushes it over-the-top. Fucking Oscar winners. Even the best Oscar winner of all times, The Silence of the Lambs , has some elements of good bad movie-making in it. So, sorry Stiletto. Right next to Kill Cruise starring Elizabeth Hurley.

So here it is folks! A poem for Nomi Malone, or Goddess, or Pollyanna. Whichever name you prefer. My Nomi!


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O Nomi! They rise to see your bells;. Know that—for you the Cheetah fills—for you they bring small bills;. For you they hoot and whistle loud—for you the rooms a-crowding;. My Nomi cannot answer, her lips are red and still;. Want to say something to us? Don't feel like you can post a comment?

No problem! You can get in contact with us here. By my count, the neurologists were evenly split as to whether or not he had a Parkinson's-like syndrome. Two were for, two were against. To recap: the first neurologist, consulted about his weird gait and what neurologists call postural instability, had ruled out Parkinson's after examining him carefully and ordering a CT scan. He'd offered no diagnosis, just said we'll see what's what after a while.

But as we waited for a while to come to pass, my guy fell at the cottage and suffered a serious concussion. The physicians who attended him at St. Michael's thought he'd fallen due to a drop in blood pressure after he sat in one place for too long, got up too fast, and boom, passed out, going down like a stone. The gait issues were not considered troubling. However, 18 months later, as these and other symptoms got worse, he was examined by a neurosurgeon at St.

On the basis of that CT scan and a physical exam, the neurosurgeon thought he might have normal pressure hydrocephalus but that could not be confirmed or ruled out without doing an MRI and possibly a spinal tap test. Two months later, another fall and another concussion brought him to the attention of the third neurologist, a neurology resident at St.

After doing the MRI, taking a careful history, doing a very thorough physical examination, and a Montreal Cognitive Assessment test, this charming young man said hey, you've got Parkinsonian syndrome! A senior neurologist with little interest in Parkinson's, or us concurred after my guy seemed to respond well to Sinamet which apparently meant that his brain was not producing enough dopamine. So: Sinamet was prescribed and my guy took ever increasing doses for almost two years during which he quickly, quickly declined.

Mike's where no neurologist saw him because, according to the internal medicine resident, too many cooks spoil the broth, he spent another month at a rehab hospital called Providence. There he began to slough off the dire effects of the blood pressure drug given to him at St. Mike's for high blood pressure-- caused by the Sinamet. While he was still undergoing rehab at Providence, he was examined by a fourth neurologist at Michael Garron Hospital.

Number four, contrary to number three and number two, said "I don't think you have Parkinson's or Parkinsonian syndrome. Without Sinamet, my guy immediately began to get better. Just before the second Sinamet test, I had managed, by virtue of begging, to get my guy moved to the top of the waiting list for one of the best movement disorder neurologists in the country.

Three weeks after he came home, off we went to see her.

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The movement disorder clinic is located at Baycrest, which is a hospital, a rehab center, an assisted living facility, as well as a research organization. It is due north from where we live, not all the way to North Bay, but well on its way. To get there, I had to get my guy onto the small stairlift installed on a short flight of steps from the main floor to the side door which opens flush with our driveway.

From there, I had to get him into a wheelchair and roll him to the curb so he, in his wheelchair, could be pushed into a special wheelchair taxi. Being a worrier, I'd made my guy practice getting on and off that short stairlift to make sure he could actually do it.

It was a much tighter squeeze than the big stairlift custom-made to fit the staircase to our second floor. He had to back on to this one which seemed to set off waves of anxiety because he could not actually see the chair behind him and he had to trust me when I said keep going, you won't fall. I'd tested it myself and discovered I'd have to hold his feet on the foot platform as the chair descended on its slide, because he couldn't.

And if he didn't, they would jam against the wall. To get this whole operation under way, I rolled his empty wheelchair out the back door, bumped it down the back steps and pushed it along the driveway to the side door. Then I ran back up the back steps, through the back door, and helped him position himself on the stairlift chair.

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Then I ran out the back door again, down the back stairs and over to the side door so I could hold his feet in the right position as the stairlift carried him down to the landing. Once there, he had to stand up, and, using handholds, walk out the door to the wheelchair. Piece of cake, right? The morning of the appointment, we got it done, but it took too long. We had to send the first wheelchair taxi away and call another after we'd made it to the curb.

Elaine - Sweet Nudes Elaine - Sweet Nudes
Elaine - Sweet Nudes Elaine - Sweet Nudes
Elaine - Sweet Nudes Elaine - Sweet Nudes
Elaine - Sweet Nudes Elaine - Sweet Nudes
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