There were no clocks in Isabelle’s black and hot-pink powder-puff bedroom, just piles of clothes, heaps of books, stacks of weapons, a vanity overflowing with sparkling makeup, used brushes, and open drawers spilling lacy slips, sheer tights, and feather boas. It had a certain backstage-at-La-Cage-aux-Folles design aesthetic, but over the past two weeks Clary had spent enough time among the glittering mess to have begun to find it comforting.
Throughout everything, in fact, Isabelle had been her staunchest defender.
Hey yall sorry i havent been posting lately, i’ve been going through Some Stuff ™ that i don’t really want to get into but GOOD NEWS: i got a cactus.
“Pink Powder Puff Cactus: …a soft-bodied dark green freely clustering globular plant, with a few hooked centrals and lots of silky hair-like spines and lovely pink flowers. Native to Mexico, protect from frost, provide bright light, hardy to 32F; to 6″ tall. Water thoroughly when soil is dry.” –The description on the pot from Home Depot.
Rudy flexing his muscles and proving his manhood in August of 1926 on the roof of the Ambassador Hotel in NYC.
After Rudy challenged the Tribune’s anonymous writer (Pink Powder Puff Affair) to a boxing match, the New York Evening Journal boxing writer, Frank O'Neill, volunteered to fight in his place. Rudy won the bout.
The editorial used the story to protest against the feminization of American men, and blamed the talcum powder which had appeared in an upscale hotel washroom on Rudy and his films. The piece infuriated him and he challenged the writer to a boxing match since dueling was illegal. The challenge was answered. Shortly afterward, Rudy met with journalist H.L. Mencken for advice on how best to deal with the incident. Mencken advised Rudy to let the dreadful farce roll along to exhaustion, but Rudy insisted on that the editorial was infamous. Mencken found Rudy to be likable and gentlemanly and wrote sympathetically about him in an article published in the Baltimore Sun a week after Rudys death. It was not the trifling Chicago episode that was riding him, it was the whole grotesque futility of his life. Had he achieved, out of nothing, a vast and dizzy success? Then that success was hollow as well as vast—a colossal and preposterous nothing. The thing, at the start, had only bewildered him, but in those last days it was revolting him. It was making him afraid - Here he was, a young man who was living daily the dream of millions of other men, the one who had wealth and fame. And here he was, very unhappy indeed.