I should have know better than to resort to cheap sensation as I did here in NiceWork yesterday with the pin-up photo of that hot Naiad (or was she a Nereid?). You loyal readers, normally a well-comported bunch whom I proud to take anywhere, began, under the scrubbing babe’s influence, to caper. The rowdy rendition of Hinky Dinky Parlez Vous was the last straw. Order must be reimposed.
What better way to cool the jets of antic youth than a memento mori such as the one to the left? That’s the Woodlawn Memorial Cemetary tomb of visionary Abbot Kinney, he who did cause the canals of Venice, California, to be excavated and filled with water. He achieved a greatness in his lifetime denied to most men — and, yea, in death his name remains on a street in Venice and on the Venice Public Library — but the Reaper recognizes no distinction amongst his clients: rich, poor; great, sodden; fat, tubby; all, all must take it in the neck, as did Abbot in 1920. Abbot’s wife and children — even feckless little Thornton who let his dad’s Venetian theme park go to wrack and ruin — are planted all about the tobacco magnate’s final excavation.