Thursday, August 9, 2012
March, Joseph Moncure
Spiegelman, Art (drawings)
The Wild Party
I guess this should have been filed under "M" for March, but then it really wouldn't exist if it weren't for Art Spiegelman. You could argue it either way. Spiegelman is the headliner, so I'll call it his book. It was given to me as a gift on my 27th birthday, with the following inscription:
26 October 1995
Now that you're in your late twenties I thought you might need this to remind you of days gone by.
I am pretty sure that I have spoken about R. in some detail on this blog. She was a friend from the end of college until a little while after I arrived in Buffalo, when many of my old college friendships simultaneously came to abrupt ends, often with much drama.
This one was no exception to that qualification. It ended with a couple of teary phone calls and a very final, thudding email that send what was once a lovely friendship spiraling into the past.
I am sure I wrote about this before, but I can't recall in what entry, so if you really want to know more, you'll have to dig through the blog in search of R. (and also T., another figure in the story).
Ah, there, I've done it for you. Two entries immediately appeared when I searched for "R."
from The Wild Party
Queenie was a blonde, and her age stood still,
And she danced twice a day in Vaudeville.
Lips like coals aglow.
Her face was a tinted mask of snow.
What a back she had!
Her legs were built to drive men mad.
And she did.
She would skid.
But sooner or later they bored her:
Sixteen a year was her order.
They might be blackguards;
They might be curs;
They might be actors, sports, chauffeurs–
She never inquired
Of the men she desired
About their social status or wealth:
She was only concerned with their health.
There was little she hadn't been through.
And she liked her lovers violent, and vicious:
Queenie was sexually ambitious.
Now you know.
A fascinating woman, as they go.