Birds do it, bees do it, we do it, too

Not like the film needs any more evidence on its side, but a comparison of the endings of The Roaring Twenties (1939) and Johnny Eager (1942) underscores even further just how hella queer the later film is. It did not miss me in 2016 that the last scene between Johnny Eager and Jeff Hartnett is as classically tragic-romantic as they come, but I had not understood how damn near it's an m/m re-run of the earlier finale, the heartbreakingly faithful woman cradling her shot-down lover as she tearfully tells the policeman who demands the identity of just another underworld casualty, "He used to be a big shot." Cf. Van Heflin's Jeff, crying as usual with the body of the man he loves in his arms, the ironically badged and uncomprehending beat cop standing by to hear the epitaph: "This guy could've climbed the highest mountain in the world if he'd just started up the right one." I continue to have no idea how that movie got made and to be so glad it did.

I have loved the pharyngeal jaws of the moral eel ever since learning about them in 2007. I love that the evolutionary biologist responsible has continued her research and I love her lab's dedication to moray filk.

spatch and I have just returned from an unplanned and satisfying visit to the Tipping Cow. I am slightly covered in key lime pie ice cream: I was warned it did not have enough structural integrity for a cone, but then I didn't expect it also to escape a cup. We have pints of buttermilk ice cream and earl grey lemon in the freezer. Rob had a chocolate malted. I regret nothing.