Have to disagree with the
Old Fellow on his description of the Carrie-Ann Moss photo. To us, she rather looks like a tarted up harlot, strutting the aisles of a Blackpool music hall circa 1880. Perhaps not the most flattering description, but consider that she typically resembles a de-sexed technocratic Amazon from a sterile laboratory sometime in the near future. Frankly, we'll take tarted-up girlishness and painted Jezebels over pantsuits-wearing androgens. Today's celebrities are too often turning their sexuality into some kind of sharpened instrument, a razor-edged scalpel that intimidates rather than delights. But Ms. Moss reminds us that our grandfathers and their grandfathers knew a pretty lady was rather an actress in a low, bawdy farce, not a stainless-steel cog in a brutally efficent machine of lust-production. The whole business should be full of bangs on the head, tawdry-minded uncles hiding away in closets, nervous brides duped and terrified by overripe fruits they mistake for their groom's manhood, misunderstandings and pratfalls. Miss Moss's clownish, commedia boff make-up is a wink and pat on the back to the jolly frivolity of celebrity fornication.
Wags that we are, we declare, "Carry on, Carrie-Ann!"
