All good things must end – CHM, part IV.

In a comment to my Holocaust Day post, commenter/internet buddy absurdbeats wrote “The history matters—the actual history, the actual lives and deaths of millions of human beings. Not the mythification and weaponization of history, but the actuality of it. The actual horror of it.” Truer words have never been spoke.

In something of that spirit, and following in the rather formidable footprints of Ta-Nehisi Coates, I’ve decided to mark Confederate History Month — by learning and blogging about a handful of real Southern heroes about whom I had never heard until TNC mentioned them (so far, we’ve learned about General George Henry Thomas, Elizabeth Van Lew, and Robert Smalls, if you want to catch up!). Today being the last day of CHM, we look at the last hero I took up back when TNC threw their names out: Andre Cailloux.

Andre Cailloux

Born into slavery on a Louisiana plantation in 1825, Andre Cailloux’s owner moved his family to New Orleans when Cailloux was five years old. There he worked in a cigar factory as a teenager, and at 21 was manumitted, “for reasons unknown.”

Cailloux fairly quickly came to establish himself as a respected member of New Orleans’s business community, well-known and well-regarded. Married to a former slave, Felicie Coulon, he adopted her son and together they raised another four children, sending two of them to a Black-run school. He bought property and opened his own shop, was known as a boxer and a horseman, and was apparently bi-lingual, as he is known to have encouraged the men who later served under him in both English and French — and he reportedly liked to refer to himself as “the blackest man in New Orleans” (!). Stephen Ochs, author of A Black Patriot and a White Priest: André Cailloux and Claude Paschal Maistre in Civil War New Orleans, told the New Orleans Times-Picayune that Cailloux “was prosperous compared to other free blacks in the country…. But he was not a wealthy man. He was a hardworking artisan who was one sickness away from losing everything.”

When the Civil War broke out in 1861, the state of Louisiana formed the Louisiana Native Guards, a militia of people of color that was intended for show rather than as an actual fighting unit within the Confederate Army. Apparently many Black men who joined did so for fear of reprisals, but when New Orleans fell to Union forces in September 1862, a reconstituted Native Guards was mustered into the Union Army, with many joining gladly. Cailloux was among their number, and was made a captain. Stephen Ochs writes that he “proved an effective recruiter”:

Like the other black officers, he welcomed both free people of color and runaway slaves into the ranks, both groups apparently sharing a common agenda of freedom and liberation and recognizing that military service would enhance their claims to greater equality. Respected in his community, polished in manners, athletic, and charismatic, the thirty-eight year-old Cailloux exuded confidence and authority and cut a dashing figure that debunked the stereotype of black servility and inferiority.

The efforts of all the Black officers were, unsurprisingly, met by the active resistance of many in New Orleans’s white community and from white soldiers, many of whom refused to obey their Black superior officers.

In May 1863, the Louisiana Native Guards were assigned to the Union troops already engaged in efforts to wrest the Mississippi River’s Port Hudson from Confederate control. The battle was desperate, not least because the rebel forces held the high ground, but Captain Cailloux is reported to have worked his lines methodically, calming his soldiers, before leading them in a screaming, and frankly kamikaze, charge: “En avant, mes enfants! Follow me!”

Quickly shot in his left arm, Cailloux continued to plunge into the fray, his right arm holding his sword aloft as he continued to shout direction and encouragement to those behind him. Another shot hit him in the head, however, and he fell dead on the spot.

Along with many of those who fell alongside him, Cailloux’s body lay in the field in which he died for 41 days before he was brought back to New Orleans for burial — but

[it was a funeral] that put the city on the front page of newspapers across the United States. It was a funeral with all the trimmings—a marching band playing solemn airs, a horse-drawn caisson with drapes and tassels, an eloquent eulogy. Thousands of people lined the downtown streets for a mile, mostly black, many of them wearing crepe rosettes and holding tiny American flags.

Joseph Logsdon, a historian at the University of New Orleans, told the Times-Picayune that

The fall of Post Hudson in most people’s minds signaled a major turning point in the war. It showed that blacks were not just docile recipients of these favors of Father Abraham [Lincoln] but they were active participants in their own liberation and the defeat of slave-holders.

To Cailloux biographer Ochs, it only makes sense that Cailloux was at the very forefront of that turning-point:

He presented a formidable figure, a very martial figure…. This was a guy who commanded a lot of physical respect—and social respect, too. He strikes me as a very decent man, brave and honorable…. His behavior on the battlefield was not surprising to me. He had shown leadership and initiative throughout his life.

*****

The South produced many heroes in those horrible years, many men and women who did whatever they could to advance freedom and preserve the Union. I don’t know exactly what was in the minds of those who first proposed a “Confederate History Month” (indeed, I’d rather not think too much about it), but I know the most important piece of that history: The Confederacy failed — and in great part because of the efforts of Southern patriots like General George Henry Smalls, Elizabeth Van Lew, Robert Smalls, and Andre Cailloux. I am grateful to each and every one of them.

May their memories be for a blessing יהי זכרם ברוך

Good stuff: New tuneage + housekeeping

First, the housekeeping:

  1. I’ve added Just Jerusalem (the Sheikh Jarrah/East Jerusalem activists) to the Israel/Palestine blog roll. Please check them out, and if you have a little spare dosh, throw it their way!
  2. I’ve added Accidental Theologist to the Smart People roll – this is the new blog of Lesley Hazleton, author of After the Prophet: The Epic Story of the Shia-Sunni Split in Islam (about which I wrote, and I quote: “OMG!! THIS BOOK IS SO GOOD!! IF THIS BOOK WERE A PERSON, I WOULD MARRY IT!! GO READ THIS BOOK!!1!” ) She also has a Twitter account, if you are of the tweeting sort: @accidentaltheo
  3. I’ve added Hyperbole and a half to the Funny Pages roll, because she is so stinkin’ funny I thought I hurt myself laughing. For realz.
  4. I’ve removed a few blogs from the various rolls for lack of activity — however! If you are one of the removed bloggers and you’ve gotten back into it, even just now and then, let me know, and I’ll put you back on! Pinky swear.
  5. I will very soon be putting together the promised blog roll of Lovely Folks Who Happen to Know Me IRL. Pinky swear!

But enough of my yakkin’! Let’s boogie!

I discovered some really awesome new songs via the TNC bloggers yesterday, and will herewith share some of them with you! Please do also visit their blogs — the folks and the blogging are all very fine, indeed.

From Andy at onefinemess, “Hum” – The Sheila Devine:

From one of FuriousGiorge’s blogging pals, Sycophantman, at Oscars Wild Years, “Rather Be Dead” – Bottle Up & Go:

And finally, from thatgirlb at Cleveland Love, “Scumbag Blues” – Them Crooked Vultures:

Good tunes, good times, my friends!

**********************

PS I also just added Wonkette to my Smart People blog roll, because, honestly, why hasn’t it been there all along? I have no idea.

Confederate History Month – part the third.

In a comment to my Holocaust Day post, commenter/internet buddy absurdbeats wrote “The history matters—the actual history, the actual lives and deaths of millions of human beings. Not the mythification and weaponization of history, but the actuality of it. The actual horror of it.” Truer words have never been spoke.

In something of that spirit, and following in the rather formidable footprints of Ta-Nehisi Coates, I’ve decided to mark Confederate History Month — by learning and blogging about a handful of real Southern heroes about whom I had never heard until TNC mentioned them (I started with General George Henry Thomas and continued with Elizabeth Van Lew, if you want to catch up!). Today’s hero: Robert Smalls.

Robert Smalls

We actually just missed Robert Smalls’s birthday: He was born on April 5, 1839 in a South Carolina slave cabin. It’s known that Smalls’s father was a white man, probably either John K. McKee, Lydia Smalls’s owner, or a Jewish merchant named Moses Goldsmith. Lydia was 49 when Robert was born, and he was her only child.

Until he was 12 years old, Smalls worked as a house slave; after that, he was hired out, initially only allowed to keep $1 a month of his pay, but at age 18 (and by now a married man) he negotiated a deal by which he was able to keep $15 a month. When Smalls’s wife Hannah Jones (15 years his senior) gave birth to their first baby, a daughter they named Elizabeth Lydia, he negotiated a second deal — one by which he was able to buy his wife and their little girl for $800. Robert and Hannah’s second child, Robert, Jr., was born the same year that the Civil War broke out, in 1861.

As a hired hand, Smalls worked in a wide range of professions, including waiter, lamplighter, stevedore, ship rigger and sailor — and these last two would quickly prove of particular importance to the Union Army.

Hired as a deckhand on the Confederate transport steamer Planter, Smalls was soon made its pilot. The 147-foot vessel was docked outside the home and office of its commander, Brigadier General Roswell Ripley; on May 13, 1862, it was loaded with armaments intended for Confederate forts. Before dawn, however, Smalls and a crew of Black men commandeered the ship and sailed to a nearby dock where his wife and children and several slaves were waiting on a second ship.

Sailing past rebel forts, Smalls’s knowledge of the ship and the Confederate Navy allowed him to evade capture: He wore the captain’s hat and stood as a captain would in the pilot house, giving the appropriate whistle signals until he reached the Union blockade, where he raised a flag of surrender before the Union vessel could fire. Thus Smalls presented the Union Navy with what the northern press soon referred to as “the first trophy of Fort Sumter.”

‘One of the most heroic acts of the war,’ reported the New York Times on May 19, 1862. Later, the commander of the Union navy along the South Atlantic coast, Rear Admiral Samuel F. Du Pont, pronounced it ‘one of the coolest and most gallant naval acts of war.’ (Historynet.com)

Newspaper editorials citing Smalls’ gallantry shattered stereotypes about the capability of blacks. An editorial in the New York Daily Tribune said, “Is he not also a man – and is he not fit for freedom, since he made such a hazardous dash to gain it? . . . Is he not a man and a hero – whose pluck has not been questioned by even The Charleston Courier or The New York Herald? . . . What white man has made a bolder dash, or won a richer prize in the teeth of such perils during the war? . . . Perhaps [blacks are inferior to whites] but they seem to possess good material for improvement. Few white men have a better record than Robert Smalls.” (The Robert Smalls Foundation)

Just learning this little bit about Smalls, I was struck by the sheer arrogance involved in hiring a slave to pilot a Confederate vessel. Did the commander and crew think him uninterested in freedom, or lacking in the courage or foresight to try to gain it? Did they think the Union cause so baseless as to be unworthy of his (or their) attention? Was Smalls a “good nigger,” one they believed would never “run off”? What kind of one-dimensional understanding did they have of this man? This was, after all, a man who had negotiated an actual salary (however small) from his own master, and managed to purchase the freedom of his wife and child — and to the tune of what would be equivalent to more than $20,000 in today’s currency — all before he was even 22 years old.

I’m also struck by the age of Smalls’s wife — did growing up with an older mother teach the boy to appreciate the wisdom of age? And then there’s the fact that his mother was forty-nine years old when he was born. Even today, that’s pretty late to be having a baby! What’s the story behind his conception? Was it rape, or did Lydia have a relationship — however understood — with either or both of the white men who may have been Robert’s father? Was there joy at finally having a child of her own? Was their sorrow at bringing another person into slavery? And did she — please God — live long enough to see her only child become an American hero?

I hope she did. I hope she knew that the child born into a slave cabin ultimately won the freedom of more than a dozen other slaves, and made a crucial contribution to advancing the United States to the day — mere months later, on January 1, 1863 — on which Mr. Lincoln would declare that “all persons held as slaves… are, and henceforward shall be free.”

Holy Mother of Moses.

The view of Earth from Mars, photographed by Mars Exploration Rover Spirit, March 8, 2004.

Thanks to BoingBoing. Photo courtesy of NASA Flickr.

Keeping Jerusalem holy – the Sheikh Jarrah activists.

Something brief, for now, before I run out the door to do some reading that MUST BE DONE TODAY, and if I don’t flee the internet, it’ll never happen.

But I just want to tip my hat and send my love and gratitude to some people who are doing what is, to my mind, God’s own work in Jerusalem: the folks behind the Sheikh Jarrah protests that have been turning into a national anti-occupation movement.

There have always been anti-occupation forces in Israel (always – check out this 1967 finding by the Foreign Ministry’s legal counsel stating that the occupation was illegal), and I was active myself in a wide variety of anti-occupation activities during the 14 years that I lived in Israel.

But the past decade has seen a shrinking and wilting of the Israeli left, for reasons that are many and do not lend themselves to a quick running-out-the-door post. What the Sheikh Jarrah activists (the organization’s real name is Just Jerusalem) have done is to re-invigorate and re-focus the movement, and when I say that I have betrayed my people by choosing the gentle exile of American suburbia, it’s people like these that I’m thinking about:

Just Jerusalem has become a symbol for Israel’s anti-Occupation activists. Against all odds, lacking resources and organizational backing, the movement demonstrated the power of conviction and tenacity.

Here’s a good summary of who they are and what they’ve accomplished so far, and here’s their own website, in Hebrew and in English. And here (not to put too fine a point on it) is their donation page. Like do-gooders everywhere, Israeli peaceniks tend to not be the wealthiest bunch, and their transportation, promotion, and (not least) legal costs are not inconsiderable. I can’t be there, so I just sent them some money. I wish I could be there.

Finally, here’s a quote from Just Jerusalem’s response to Eli Wiesel, who recently ran full page ads in the Wall Street Journal and Washington Post, in which he spread easily de-bunkable untruths about Jerusalem and its status, and called for it to be removed from the negotiating table — and indicated that he hasn’t read a newspaper in decades by writing that Jerusalem must not be “a symbol of anguish and bitterness but a symbol of trust and hope.”

Dear Mr. Wiesel…

You speak of the celestial Jerusalem; we live in the earthly one.

For more than a generation now the earthly city we call home has been crumbling under the weight of its own idealization. Your letter troubles us, not simply because it is replete with factual errors and false representations, but because it upholds an attachment to some other-worldly city which purports to supersede the interests of those who live in the this-worldly one. For every Jew, you say, a visit to Jerusalem is a homecoming, yet it is our commitment that makes your homecoming possible. We prefer the hardship of realizing citizenship in this city to the convenience of merely yearning for it….

We, the people of Jerusalem, can no longer be sacrificed for the fantasies of those who love our city from afar. This-worldly Jerusalem must be shared by the people of the two nations residing in it. Only a shared city will live up to the prophet’s vision: “Zion shall be redeemed with justice”. As we chant weekly in our vigils in Sheikh Jarrah: “Nothing can be holy in an occupied city!”

I wish I could be there with them, and words cannot express my gratitude for the work they are doing.

***********************

Earlier:

Israel/Palestine: the basics.

Israel/Palestine peace advocacy – places to start.

Israel/Palestine – a reading list.

Friday afternoon brief: In response to Arizona’s new law.

You know what, I didn’t want to believe that this would really happen, so I put it out of my mind. But it happened. Holy mother of Moses.

AZ Gov Signs Immigration Bill

I think I’ll leave it up to The White Stripes to have their say:

white Americans, what?
nothing better to do?
why don’t you kick yourself out
you’re an immigrant too.

who’s using who? what should we do?
well, you can’t be a pimp
and a prostitute too.

I know for a fact that my great-great grandfather jumped ship to stay in this country. I have no idea if he ever got papers.

white Americans, what?
nothing better to do?
why don’t you kick yourself out
you’re an immigrant too.

who’s using who? what should we do?
well, you can’t be a pimp
and a prostitute too.


The first fifteen months + my bad.

Yesterday Andrew Sullivan ran a post about what the Obama Administration has accomplished in its first “year and a half” in office. Given that it’s April 23, I would like to offer a small corrective: It’s only been 15 months.

And holy crow! Look at all they’ve done!

An end to illegal torture of terror suspects. A beginning to a saner method of detaining, trying and convicting terror suspects.

Adept handling of the worst financial crisis and recession since the 1930s, leading to a profitable bank bailout (excluding Freddie and Fannie) and a return to growth. Check.

Salvaging of the automobile industry, which is now showing signs of life.

Passage of an ambitious stimulus package that has helped repair many crumbling parts of the US infrastructure and poured money into green industry.

The biggest social policy reform since LBJ – guaranteeing access to health insurance for all Americans.

Financial re-regulation of an out-of-control Wall Street, and the beginnings of real scrutiny (see Goldman) of the self-serving corruption at the heart of the financial industry.

Repaired relations with Russia, leading to a new START treaty, and better relations with China, leading to a revaluation of the yuan.

Joint Chiefs’ endorsement of ending Don’t Ask Don’t Tell.

A tough re-balancing of the US position in the Middle East, away from the Likudnik-oriented jerking knees of the last eight years, and an assertion that US foreign policy should be conducted to advance the interests of the United States, not the interests of a belligerent faction in a foreign country.

Please click through and read the rest — it’s not much more, but I didn’t want to lift the whole thing. Didn’t seem prudent! Or respectful.

But speaking of crow, I need to eat some. Back in October, I was a Debbie Downer, a Debbie Dreary, a Debbie Doubtful. Lovely Friend (remember Lovely Friend? She’s really quite lovely) commented, begging me “not to go to the dark side.”

He’s putting himself out there in his pragmatic and sensible way and it’s not radical enough for some of us, but it has made peace once again seem thinkable and something we have a duty to pursue.

In February, I began to pick up my head and see more light, and we all know how happy I was about Health Care Reform. Not to mention the general sense that I’ve had, since even before the announcement of new homes in Jerusalem made during Vice President Biden’s visit to Israel, that the Administration might very well be making some serious movement on Israel/Palestine. So, you know, my perception has been changing.

But I have not yet publicly eaten crow, and it’s time. Look at that list that Sullivan put together. Just look at it.

I was wrong. Lovely Friend was right.

Fingers locked and duct-taped into the crossed position that the work continues on finance regulation, and climate change, and gay rights, and the wars, and (and…) Israel/Palestine.

But so far? Man. It’s been a good fifteen months, I’d say.

***************

UPDATE: The title to this post originally read “The first fixteen months…”, and that’s been, well, fixt. But I must say, that is just the sort of Freudian slip that I can find amusing for hours (h/t to the husband who noticed it in the first place…).

Winnie the Pooh and Elmer the Elf.

I recently read the final chapter in The House at Pooh Corner to my daughter, thus completing our sojourn in the Hundred Acre Woods.

The animals have all sensed, without knowing how, that Christopher Robin is Going Away, and they write him a note — a Poem, really, as drafted by Eeyore, which reads (in part):

I ought
To begin again
But it is easier
To stop.

Well, anyhow, we send
Our love.
END.

The whole crowd of them — Eeyore, Owl, Piglet, Rabbit, Kanga, Roo, Tigger, and of course Pooh — deliver the Poem to Christopher Robin, but they all feel “awkward and unhappy,” because “it was a sort of good-bye they were saying, and they didn’t want to think about it.” Eventually, having all crowded around, they slowly edge away, and by the time Christopher Robin is finished reading the Poem, the only one left is Pooh.

“It’s a comforting sort of thing to have,” said Christopher Robin, folding up the paper, and putting it in his pocket. “Come on, Pooh,” and he walked off quickly.

They walk and talk, with Christopher Robin filling Pooh in on “people called Kings and Queens and something called Factors… and when Knights were Knighted, and what comes from Brazil.” Christopher Robin knights Pooh, dubbing him “Sir Pooh de Bear, most faithful of all my Knights.”

And slowly it dawns on Pooh “how muddling it would be for a Bear of Very Little Brain” to keep track of all of the exciting new information to which Christopher Robin is now privy,

“So perhaps,” he said sadly to himself, “Christopher Robin won’t tell me anymore,” and he wondered if being a Faithful Knight meant that you just went on being faithful without being told things.

We come to see, though, that Christopher Robin has his own fears. Having told Pooh that “they” don’t let you do Nothing almost ever, he finally says

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”

Pooh thought for a little.

“How old shall I be then?”

“Ninety-nine.”

Pooh nodded.

“I promise,” he said.

Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh’s paw.

“Pooh,” said Christopher Robin earnestly, “if I – if I’m not quite -” he stopped and tried again – “Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won’t you?”

*****

Once upon a time, I had an imaginary friend. Well, in truth, I had a great number of imaginary friends, designed to suit whatever need I might have at the time. I remember that one of them wore only silver, and another wore only gold.

But the one that mattered was Elmer the Elf.

Elmer was a constant in my life for many years, and in my mind’s eye, he looked rather as you might expect an elf to look (if you have not yet been introduced to the Lord of the Rings). He was tiny, and dressed largely in green, and I believe he may have even had a peaked cap.

When I was about eight — maybe I was seven? I’m not at all sure — I sat with Elmer in my Queenie’s backyard, between the swing set and the bush that, if Queenie and Grandpa weren’t looking, you could take a flower from, turn it upside down, and you’d have a little doll.

I sat on the grass, and Elmer stood before me, and I told him that it was ok — he could go back to his family. I understood that he needed them and they needed him, and I would be ok. He could go. And, well, he left, I suppose. I didn’t see him go.

The amazing thing to me about this story is that I knew — of course I knew — that Elmer wasn’t really real, and never had been. But, like Christopher Robin, I was moving beyond my ability to see past the veil, and I needed to send Elmer home.

The truth is that my childhood had been kind of rough up to that point, and would continue to be pretty rough for another two or three years — I think it would have been nice if I had been able to have Elmer around for a little longer.

But the child grows, the mind changes, and quite possibly aside from anything else, having already been through a thing or two, it’s entirely possible that I knew in a way that I couldn’t have before that Elmer could only help so much.

And yet, at the same time, I know that I did Know, in a way that I will always Know, that Elmer — like Pooh, and the Velveteen Rabbit, and the stuffed dog that I lost in one of our many, many moves — was, in fact Real, would always be Real, and like Pooh, would not forget about me, ever. And that whatever happens, he still understands.

So they went off together. But wherever they go and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

Confederate History Month – part deux.

In a comment to my recent Holocaust Day post, commenter/internet buddy absurdbeats wrote “The history matters—the actual history, the actual lives and deaths of millions of human beings. Not the mythification and weaponization of history, but the actuality of it. The actual horror of it.” Truer words have never been spoke.

In something of that spirit, and following in the rather formidable footprints of Ta-Nehisi Coates, I’ve decided to mark Confederate History Month — by learning and blogging about a handful of real Southern heroes about whom I had never heard until TNC mentioned them. (I started last Wednesday, if you want to catch up!) Today’s hero: Elizabeth Van Lew.

Elizabeth Van Lew

Born in 1818, Elizabeth Van Lew was the well-educated daughter of a wealthy businessman in Richmond, Virginia — which was, you’ll recall,  the capital of the Confederacy. Much like General George Henry Thomas, however, Van Lew both opposed slavery and was loyal to the Union.  “She risked everything that is dear to man,” reads a sign at her grave, “friends, fortune, comfort, health, life itself, all for one absorbing desire of her heart — that slavery might be abolished and the Union preserved.”

Van Lew’s opposition to slavery came to the fore and found expression early on: When her father died in 1843, she learned he had written into his will that his slaves could never be legally freed — so she reached some sort of agreement with them, simply telling the former slaves that they could leave if they chose, and paying them wages when they stayed on to work for the family. The money her father left her was spent buying and freeing the slaves of others.

Van Lew also took bold action in support of the Union once war broke out. She got food and bribe money to Union prisoners, hid prisoners of war who had managed to escape (and even the occasional stolen Union body), and was herself a spy, conveying to the Union army information regarding Confederate attack plans. Her spy ring known was known as the Richmond Union Underground, and some of the former slaves she had freed were among the Underground’s agents. According to Elizabeth Van Lew: Civil War Spy: “General Ulysses S. Grant, commander of the Union Army, highly valued her work as a spy. The messages she delivered to him were some of the most valuable information he received and helped ultimately to lead the Union to victory.”

And as if that weren’t enough, she passed this information on in a secret code of her own devising:

Another Southern hero — and something of a feminist foremother, to boot!

Good stuff: Or, How to waste the entire day with Eddie Izzard.

I have come to love the Twitter, and I’ll tell you for why.

For one thing, I am often directed to important developments coming out of Israel/Palestine that I might not have otherwise noticed. For another, I am often directed to interesting and/or fascinating information that has nothing whatsoever to do with Israel/Palestine, and, you know: Phew! And for a third, occasionally, one is gifted with something like, oh, I don’t know, say: THE ENTIRE TRANSCRIPT TO EDDIE IZZARD’S DRESS TO KILL SHOW.

OMG. OMG! I’m not sure, now, how I’ll get anything done today. Because all I want to do is read it. I’ve seen Dress to Kill so many times that I could probably recite it along with the man himself, but seeing it on the page (screen), devoid of sound, devoid of images, is just weird, man! Weird and cool! Brings it to a whole other level (she said, of course, in an Eddie Izzard voice).

Here’s but a wee small taste:

I used to keep my makeup in a squirrel hole, up the tree. The squirrel would keep makeup on one side, and he’d keep nuts on the other side. And sometimes I’d get up that tree, and that squirrel would be covered in makeup! ( mimes squirrel putting on makeup ) “La la, la la… Oh! ( mimes squirrel eating ) What?! Fuck off!” He seemed to say. And squirrels always eat nuts with two hands, always two hands, and occasionally, they stop and go ( gasps ), as if they’re going, “Did I leave the gas on? No! I’m a fucking squirrel!” And occasionally they go, “Fucking nuts! Fed up with them always. I long for a grapefruit.”

If you, too, would like to waste your entire day with Eddie Izzard, here you go: Dress to Kill transcript.

You’re welcome.

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