Saturday, November 29, 2025
Friday, November 28, 2025
Thursday, November 27, 2025
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Carrie Fisher followed in her mother’s footsteps, beginning her acting career as a teenager and achieving worldwide fame as Princess Leia in the Star Wars films. Beyond her iconic role, Fisher was an acclaimed writer, sharing candidly about her struggles with substance abuse, bipolar disorder, and her complex, loving relationship with her mother.
Tragically, the pair passed away just one day apart in December 2016. On December 23, Carrie Fisher suffered a cardiac arrest following a collapse on a flight from London to Los Angeles and died four days later at the age of 60. The very next day, Debbie Reynolds suffered a stroke at her son’s home, shortly after expressing her wish to be with Carrie, and passed away at the age of 84. While Reynolds was laid to rest, Fisher was cremated, with part of her ashes placed alongside her mother.
Visiting their resting place is a reminder of the extraordinary legacy of two women whose talent, resilience, and love for life continue to inspire generations of fans and artists around the world.
Rest in peace, Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher. Your artistry, courage, and indelible mark on entertainment live on forever.
She was 22 years old when she stepped off a plane into hell — and discovered that wearing mascara in a war zone wasn't vanity, it was survival.
In 1965, while most young women were choosing wedding dresses or college majors, Grace Lilleg Moore made a different choice: she joined the Army Student Nurse Program. The deal was straightforward — finish nursing school, serve two years, and save lives wherever they sent you.
They sent her to Vietnam.
Grace graduated in 1966, trained at Fort Sam Houston in Texas, and spent her first year at Reynolds Army Hospital in Oklahoma. She was skilled, confident, and completely unprepared for what came next.
In May 1968, her orders arrived: Vietnam.
When the plane landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Grace walked into air so thick with heat it felt like breathing through a wet towel. She was assigned to the 12th Evacuation Hospital near Cu Chi — a facility that would treat over 37,000 wounded during the war. But calling it a "hospital" was generous. It was quonset huts and canvas tents held together by determination and prayer.
Grace worked the ICU, then became head nurse of the orthopedic unit. At twenty-three years old, she was making life-or-death decisions every single day. The injuries were beyond anything her textbooks had prepared her for — limbs blown apart, bones shattered beyond recognition, wounds that seemed impossible to survive.
But here's what almost destroyed her, and what ultimately saved her:
These weren't just soldiers. They were boys. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. Terrified. Crying for their mothers. Dying thousands of miles from everyone who loved them.
"We didn't just take care of their physical wounds," Grace later said. "We were their mother, their wife, their girlfriend. We were everything they needed us to be."
That's why the mascara mattered.
Grace and the other nurses fought to look put-together even when they were running on two hours of sleep and coffee that tasted like gasoline. These dying boys needed to see something familiar — someone who looked like the girl next door, like their sister, like home. In a place where nothing made sense, that small gesture of normalcy was a lifeline.
The cost was devastating.
Grace held soldiers as they died in her arms. She wrote final letters home for boys whose hands shook too badly to hold a pen. She worked until her body shut down, then kept working. The emotional weight nearly crushed her. She questioned her faith, her strength, whether she'd make it home with any part of herself still intact.
She survived by leaning on her fellow nurses — women who understood because they were living the same nightmare. She wrote letters home. She focused on the next patient, the next procedure, the next life she might be able to save. And somewhere in that crucible of suffering, she discovered something unbreakable inside herself.
"I don't know what kind of nurse I would have been if it were not for Vietnam," she said years later. The war shattered something in her, but it forged something stronger in its place.
Grace came home in December 1968 after seven months in-country.
There were no parades for nurses. No welcome ceremonies. No recognition at all. Just a quiet return to civilian life and the expectation that she'd simply forget and move on.
She couldn't. So she chose not to.
Grace joined Vietnam Veterans of America. She became Pennsylvania Coordinator for the Women's Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. — the monument that finally acknowledged what 11,000 military women endured in Vietnam. She began speaking at schools, veterans' events, anywhere people would listen.
And sometimes, miraculously, former patients found her — men who remembered the nurse who held their hand in the worst moment of their lives, who promised them they'd survive, who wore mascara in hell because small gestures of humanity matter most when everything else is falling apart.
Grace Lilleg Moore is retired now, but her mission continues. She still speaks. She still honors the nurses who never made it home. She still reminds America that women went to war too — and came back forever changed.
Her legacy isn't just measured in the lives she saved, though there were many. It's measured in the memory she refuses to let die, in the truth she represents: that service doesn't end when you take off the uniform. It's a calling that echoes through a lifetime.
To Grace and every nurse who served in Vietnam: You were healers in the darkest places. You were light when there was only darkness. You were strength when everything was breaking.
Thank you doesn't feel like enough. But it's what we have.
So thank you. For your service. For your sacrifice. For your courage. And for remembering when the world tried to forget.
~Weird Wonders and Facts
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Jim Meads was a photographer living in Hatfield, Hertfordshire near the Hatfield aerodrome in 1962. A pilot friend notified him on September 13th of that year that he would be test flying an English Electric Lightning F1 XG332 if he would like to come take some photos. Happy to get shots of the only British built fighter capable of Mach 2 speeds, he set out toward the airfield hoping to get photos of his children with the F1 landing in the background. The photo he ended up getting would become famous.
As he and his family walked up, a grounds keeper for the airfield approached them in a tractor to tell them to leave the area. That’s when the plane went out of control at a very low altitude with the pilot ejecting at the last possible moment, setting up an incredible, one of kind shot (especially for the time). As it turns out, the pilot was not Mead’s friend, but another test pilot named George Aird. He landed on a tomato greenhouse nearby, crashing through the roof and breaking both legs on the way down. The story is well documented by Aird, Meads, and Mike Sutterby, the tractor bound groundskeeper who was only 23 at the time.
Tuesday, November 25, 2025
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She inherited America's largest mansion 250 rooms, 125,000 acres, unimaginable wealth. Then she walked away from it all to finally become herself. Five hundred guests filled All Souls Church while thousands lined the streets outside. The press called it "the wedding of the century." Cornelia Stuyvesant Vanderbilt—sole heiress to the Biltmore Estate, America's largest private home—was marrying British aristocracy. She wore a gown worth more than most families earned in years. She smiled for photographers. She played her part perfectly. The world watched a fairy tale. But no one tells you what happens when the princess realizes the castle is a cage. Cornelia was born in 1900 into wealth most people can't imagine. Her father, George Washington Vanderbilt II, had built the Biltmore—a 250-room French Renaissance château on 125,000 acres of North Carolina mountains. Indoor swimming pool. Bowling alley. Library with 23,000 books. More square footage than entire towns. When George died suddenly in 1914, thirteen-year-old Cornelia inherited it all. Every photograph. Every appearance. Every decision—analyzed by a society that saw her not as a person, but as a living symbol of American royalty. The pressure was crushing. The expectations were suffocating. But she did what was expected. She married well in 1924. John Francis Amherst Cecil was British nobility—handsome, appropriate, approved. Their spectacular wedding reinforced everything the Vanderbilt name represented. For a few years, Cornelia played the role. She lived at Biltmore. Hosted society events. Had two sons. Maintained the facade. But something was breaking inside. The mansion that symbolized ultimate privilege had become a prison of predetermined identity. By 1932, Cornelia couldn't breathe anymore. She moved to New York, ostensibly to study art. Then Paris—the city where lost souls went to find themselves in the 1930s. There, surrounded by artists and expatriates who didn't care about the Vanderbilt name, something extraordinary happened. Cornelia Vanderbilt began to disappear. She divorced Cecil in 1934—scandalous for someone of her standing. She immersed herself in bohemian culture, exploring art and a lifestyle that would have horrified the society matrons who'd attended her wedding. For the first time in her life, she was choosing her own identity rather than inheriting one. The American press tracked her with fascination and judgment: "VANDERBILT HEIRESS GOES ROGUE" Society whispered: What a waste. What a scandal. But Cornelia was finally free. She remained in Europe through the tumultuous 1930s and 40s, navigating World War II while maintaining her distance from everything Biltmore represented. She married again in 1949—Captain Vivian Francis Bulkeley Johnson, a British war veteran. That marriage lasted until his death in 1968. In 1972, at age 72, she married for a third time William Goodsir, 26 years her junior. By then, she'd been away from Biltmore for nearly forty years. She lived quietly in London and Oxford, rarely photographed, almost never interviewed. The woman who'd once been America's most famous heiress had successfully vanished into private life. But here's what matters: She didn't abandon her sons. George and William grew up at Biltmore with their father. She stayed connected to them throughout her life, even from an ocean away. And as adults, those sons did something remarkable. They transformed the Biltmore Estate from a struggling private mansion into a thriving tourist destination and historical landmark. Today, Biltmore attracts over a million visitors annually. It remains privately owned by Cornelia's descendants—a legacy she made possible by letting go. She didn't reject her family. She rejected the performance required of her because of her family name. When Cornelia died in 1976 at age 75 in Oxford, England, obituaries struggled to capture her story. Was she a rebel? A tragedy? Someone who squandered privilege? Or was she simply a woman who realized that inheriting a 250-room mansion doesn't mean you have to live in it? Think about what she actually did. She looked at extraordinary wealth—advantages most people will never know and recognized the invisible chains that came with them. Expectations. Scrutiny. Predetermined roles. A life mapped out before you're old enough to choose. She said: No. She walked away from an empire to discover who she was without the Vanderbilt name. That took a different kind of courage than staying would have required. The Biltmore Estate still stands today magnificent, imposing, breathtaking. Tourists walk through its 250 rooms, marveling at the excess, imagining what it must have been like to live there. But Cornelia knew what it was like. And she chose differently. She chose Paris over Asheville. Freedom over propriety. Herself over symbol. What Cornelia Vanderbilt proved: Sometimes the bravest thing you can do isn't accepting what you've been given—it's walking away to discover what you actually want. Privilege can be a gift. But it can also be a cage. The world expected her to be a princess in a castle, preserving a legacy. She became herself instead. When she died, her sons—raised with her independent spirit even from a distance—had transformed that massive estate into something sustainable, something that serves the public, something that honors the past while looking toward the future. Maybe that's the real legacy. Not the mansion. Not the wealth. Not the fairy-tale wedding. But the courage to walk away from what doesn't fit, even when the whole world is watching. Even when what you're walking away from is everything most people dream of having. Cornelia Stuyvesant Vanderbilt: Born 1900, died 1976. Heiress to America's largest private home. The woman who inherited everything and chose herself instead. Sometimes that's not running from something. It's running toward yourself. Old Photo Club |
Monday, November 24, 2025
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Bill Marx, son of Harpo Marx: "By the time he settled down with my mom and started raising a family, he was in his fifties and financially secure enough not to have to work every day. And so he spent a lot of his time playing with... and getting to know... his kids. And this became his 'second childhood.'""My
dad was the most child-like adult I've ever known. Not 'child-ish' - an
unattractive quality that suggests a certain selfish insensitivity.
That wasn't Dad at all. No, he took the world in the way a child does -
with lots of wonder and very little judgment.... with the delight of
someone for whom everything is new and delightful. The great comedy
parodist of song, Allan Sherman, wrote in his autobiography, 'A Gift of
Laughter,' 'Harpo Marx had the good sense to never grow up.'" "Dad
once told a friend he wanted to have as many kids as he had front
windows in our house on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills... so that he could
see them waiving at them when he got home from work. It's still a nice
image." "My
mom remembers waking up one night to find herself alone in bed. She
searched the house to find out where my dad was. She looked into my
4-year-old sister, Minnie's room and found him in there, on the floor,
playing jacks with her. He had insomnia, needed some action and decided
to wake her up and play with her (Despite the fact that it was 3 in the
morning, she was delighted)." "In
Dad's autobiography, 'Harpo Speaks', he mentions a list of rules we
Marxes lived by. It wasn't a gag - Dad really did live by those rules
and expected us to do the same. It wasn't that hard - his rules were all
about being true to yourself and doing what was best for yourself." Harpo Marx Family Rules 1.
Life has been created for you to enjoy, but you won't enjoy it unless
you pay for it with some good, hard work. This is one price that will
never be marked down. 2.
You can work at whatever you want to as long as you do it as well as
you can and clean up afterwards and you're at the table at mealtime and
in bed at bedtime. 3.
Respect what the others do. Respect Dad's harp, Mom's paints, Billy's
piano, (son) Alex's set of tools, (son) Jimmy's designs, and Minnie's
menagerie. 4. If anything makes you sore, come out with it. Maybe the rest of us are itching for a fight, too. 5. If anything strikes you as funny, out with that, too. Let's all the rest of us have a laugh. 6.
If you have an impulse to do something that you're not sure is right,
go ahead and do it. Take a chance. Chances are, if you don't you'll
regret it - unless you break the rules about mealtime and bedtime, in
which case you'll sure as hell regret it. 7.
If it's a question of whether to do what's fun or what is supposed to
be good for you, and nobody is hurt whichever you do, always do what's
fun. 8.
If things get too much for you and you feel the whole world's against
you, go stand on your head. If you can think of anything crazier to do,
do it. 9. Don't worry about what other people think. The only person in the world important enough to conform to is yourself. 10. Anybody who mistreats a pet or breaks a pool cue is docked a month's pay. (HarposPlace.com) Happy Birthday, Harpo Marx! |
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Today we remember Thaddeus “Ted” Budny Jr. (August 10, 1936 – November 13, 1960) — a young man whose love for adventure, talent, and determination carried him from the busy neighborhoods of New York City to the rugged landscapes of the American West, and finally onto television screens across the country. His life was brief, but it burned bright with passion, courage, and unforgettable spirit.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, Ted grew up in Greenpoint and attended St. Anthony’s Parochial School before continuing on to Chelsea High School in Manhattan. But even as a city kid, his heart belonged to open skies, dusty trails, and the freedom of horseback riding. The rhythm of hooves called to him more than anything else, and he dreamed of a life far from the crowded streets of New York.
That dream carried him west — all the way to Tucson, Arizona, a place where the culture of ranches, horses, and wide-open spaces shaped his next chapter. Ted found work at Tanque Verde Ranch and other local ranches, molding himself into a skilled rider and ranch hand. He didn’t just ride horses — he lived the lifestyle. He learned to rope calves, handle broncs, and master the craft that made him stand out in a region full of cowboys and seasoned hands.
This authentic skill, combined with his natural charisma, began catching the eye of film crews. Tucson was a hotspot for Western movies, and Ted started appearing as an extra in productions shooting on location. It didn’t take long before his talent moved him from the background to the real attention of actors and filmmakers.
One moment changed everything:
Ted met teen idol Ricky Nelson on the set of Rio Bravo.
What began as a chance encounter slowly grew into a sincere friendship, one that opened a remarkable door in Ted’s life. Through that connection, Ted landed the role of “Zeke”, one of Ricky’s fraternity brothers, on the legendary television series “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” Appearing in multiple episodes from 1958 to 1960, Ted brought youthful energy, Western charm, and genuine warmth to the screen. For a young man in his early twenties, he was living the dream — a life filled with acting, adventure, friendships, and the promise of a rising career.
But Ted’s story, full of possibility, came to a heartbreaking end far too soon.
On Sunday, November 13, 1960, Ted joined his friend and co-star Skip Young, along with two young women, for a day trip to Catalina Island aboard Skip’s 22-foot cabin cruiser. What began as a simple outing on the water would turn tragic on the journey back to Los Angeles.
As evening fell, the boat struck the breakwater at San Pedro with devastating force. The impact tore the vessel apart, sending everyone into the cold, rough waters. Skip and his girlfriend managed to swim to shore and alerted the Coast Guard. The young woman who had been with Ted was found after nearly thirty minutes of drifting in the dark waves — shaken, but alive.
Ted, however, had suffered a fatal blow, likely hitting the rocks during the crash. Though he was wearing a life preserver, he was rendered unconscious and drowned. His body was later discovered about 500 yards from the wreckage.
He was just 24 years old.
Ted Budny had traveled across states, across careers, across dreams — from a boy with a love for horses to a young actor in Hollywood’s golden era. His life was full of potential, friendships, and the kind of ambition that inspires those who hear his story.
Today, his memory rests at Calvary Cemetery in Queens, New York, a final resting place close to where his journey began.
We honor Ted Budny not for the tragedy that ended his life, but for the courage, passion, and authenticity that shaped it. A young man who chased his dreams with everything he had. A cowboy at heart. A rising star. A spirit taken too soon, yet never forgotten.
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Judith’s journey into acting began almost by chance. At just five years old, her natural charm and expressive personality caught the attention of casting directors. Very quickly, she became a familiar face on television — appearing in commercials, guest roles, and eventually major Hollywood productions. Her dedication, professionalism, and ability to bring emotion to any character made her stand out even among adult actors.
By the time she reached fourth grade, Judith was earning enough to help her family buy a home in West Hills, Los Angeles. It was a remarkable achievement for someone so young — a testament not only to her success, but to the extraordinary future that seemed to lie ahead of her.
Her talent only grew stronger. Judith voiced Ducky in The Land Before Time, a role that remains beloved worldwide. Her cheerful line, “Yep! Yep! Yep!”, became one of the most iconic moments in 1980s animation. She later brought another unforgettable character to life in All Dogs Go to Heaven, capturing innocence and warmth in a way only she could. She also appeared in Jaws: The Revenge, proving that she could shine both on-screen and in voice acting.
But behind the cameras, Judith faced challenges no child should ever have to endure. Her father, struggling with alcoholism and emotional instability, created a home environment filled with fear and unpredictability. Those close to Judith noticed signs of distress, but despite concerns raised to authorities, the help she needed did not arrive in time.
In July 1988, tragedy struck. Judith, along with her mother Maria, lost their lives in an act of violence inside their home. Their passing sent shockwaves through Hollywood and broke the hearts of everyone who had worked with — and loved — this remarkable child. Judith was only ten years old.
Today, Judith and her mother rest together at Forest Lawn–Hollywood Hills Cemetery, a place where fans still visit to leave flowers, toys, and messages of remembrance for a little girl whose talent outshone her time.
Judith’s legacy lives on in every child who laughs at Ducky’s cheerful voice, every family that watches The Land Before Time together, and every generation introduced to her warmth through classic animation. Her performances continue to inspire young actors, reminding the world that even the smallest voices can leave the deepest echoes.
Although her story is tragic, Judith Eva Barsi remains a symbol of innocence, talent, and the light she brought into millions of lives. She may have been taken far too soon, but her work — and her memory — will never fade.
A star who left too early.
A voice the world will never forget.
Forever remembered.
Sunday, November 23, 2025
Art by John Berkey for Star Science Fiction Stories No. 4 (1972). It was also amongst a number of artworks purchased by George Lucas to use as the visual background to try to get movie studios interested in funding Star Wars.
From kitbashed.com: “George Lucas himself personally called Berkey at his home studio and commissioned him to do several paintings to be used as the visual background to try to get a movie studio interested in funding Star Wars.
To serve as visual reference material, Lucas purchased several pieces of space artwork from artist John Berkey, then began drafting his fantasy in earnest. One of Berkey’s illustrations - a rocket-plane diving down from space towards a gigantic metal world - seems to have especially caught and held the director’s eye.“
Friday, November 21, 2025
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| House of Shield's Night Club, San Francisco, Calif. |
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Seal Point, San Francisco
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Tam Nguyen, Photo |
San Francisco Bay - Sailing past the Lime Point Lighthouse, (established as a fog signal in 1883. The current building dates from 1900 and had a beacon affixed to the top of it.), base of the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.
Photo taken Sept. 10th, 2000.
credit: nuvocoke
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| Good night, San Francisco! |
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