My longing is a knickerbocker turned inside out, a bowery boy’s cap of rain for when it doesn’t pour, no epithets rising. i won’t kill this flamingo named Myrna, give away her backstage secrets. On screen there are antagonists furrowed by her acquaintance, left blighted by a certain sadness, floating. Her persona is light and recursive and trenchant only with dominant leading men. THE SCENE SHIFTS: after the bank robbery, the traffic lights turn green and all the saw-tooth criminals get away. On the street, reflections of Myrna’s greasy heart. Beau Geste! Beau Geste!
The Middle Years: 1950-1958
Scurry, scurry, light, light. Myrna frames me kiss by kiss, indulgence and naughty knocking in the parking lot behind RKO. i gots three jacks on my back and in the corner of rude train stations, the wilting McCarthy Boys keep jabbing me for answers. make it quick, they say, ripping phonemes and quasi-lilts from the stepmothered tongue, they gotta catch a train to Boston, dontcha know? The question remains: when did Myrna go Trotsky-borsht side up? We slip away and gets married in CanCun and on our wedding night we does the troi melange: the Kan Kan Cream Puff Banana Twirl Right Up Your Favorite Star’s Ice Galactic Vagina. But i can’t keeps from wondering which case is classified as the Parmesian anomaly.
The Quasi-Philosophical Period Following Myrna’s First Divorce
Interim: Innovations in Panavision and the Temptation to Bollywood Logrolling
Myrna babysits, yes, babysits, for Seven Samauri with green teeth and brackish eyes
I’ve Heard that Myrna rubs fickle studio interns The Wrong Way
Myrna loves loves doing the Jitterbug with Suspicious men smitten with beady-eyed green bottled green greed,
The last words Myrna ever uttered on screen were: It is Love, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
The FIRST time Dick Powell laid eyes on Myrna Loy in an Oriental robe of pixie Confucians, he thought: Oh my God, I got a bad case of The Dropper Deader Den a Cucumber Bioxi Blues. From this , yeah, This One, came the idea for the 60’s sitcom–Betwixt
The Last Years: 1960 and Beyond Beyonce
Off screen we’re always thinking about how we looked on screen and my favorite line from myrna was “SAY JOE, SAVE THE MILKSHAKE FOR LATER, I DO HAVE A PLANE TO CATCH, YOU KNOW? Before the last airship crashed into Hollywood and made a mockery of every malinger, married john, autograph meta-analyst, i toirned outwards towards the blind audience, a sea of hunger that hungered me, embracing a mélange of my youthful parts that rhymed with fibs. Dropping to my knees the way they did in the best of the French Foreign Legion’s propaganda desert films, OH SO MELODRAMATIC-LIKE IN MY SURREPTITIOUS-LY DECKED OUT MOURNERS, i rubbed the salve from Myrna’s chicken-greasy autographs over me, as if this were true, as if the sum of me could be carried great distances in wicker baskets and i uttered three unforgettable truths to the members of the audience, which itself was shifting faceless at noon-day matinée discount shadow, my memory, a truffle in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, my love, the isosceles angle of an old raincoat.