The Writer's Allman Brother for Friday, August 21, 2026

Aubrey Beardsley

The Mona Lisa is stolen! 

Melvin Van Peebles

Kim Cattrall

Kelis

"Sonnet" by Bernadette Mayer

Transcript

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And here's the Writer's Alman Brother for Friday, August 21st, 2026. It's the birthday of walking tuberculosis machine Aubrey Beardsley. Weird and beardless creature, he drew pictures and dressed in ice. Oscar Wilde said his face looked like a hatchet, which coming from him is pretty wild, Olivia. He was born to a dude who didn't work a lot because he had tuberculosis, as had his dad, whose mom was rich with lung germs. The severed heads in Beardsley's archasms are outnumbered only by the boobs, both pointalistic and antiseptic, possibly drawn from imagination only, if you catch my pie plate. At the end of his short life, Beardsley found Catholicism, asked a friend to burn all the naughty drawings, and also his dog eared copy of Oedipus. Lucky for generations of gothy art school kids with a limited poster budget, friendship ends in death. So on this day in 1911, that the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. An Italian former museum employee simply ripped it down and shoved it in his pants. They do say it's smaller than you think. When he was discovered two years later, he said that she smiled at him funny, and that he wasn't sure about her hair. Wanted to study it more under the light of his hydroponic grow room while listening to the dice games of his collapsing parents. It's the birthday of sweet, sweetback badass Melvin Van Peebles, father of Mario, creator of that sweet, sweet, fruity delicious Flintstones themed cereal, as well as inventing the black exploitation film genre. He also wrote books in French, which he then made into movies himself, wrote and directed, sang on the soundtrack, ran craft services, sold the tickets at the theater, which he also bought all of, and made sure to sit in every seat so that by the end of the night he could say it was a full house. When he showed up to the movie with his own girlfriend, he got mad. What are you doing with him? he said. He said, What? It was on the stage seventy years ago that Samantha came into the world. Kim Catrol, born 1956 in Liverpool, England. She had a rare condition where each of her toes was a large clitoris. It was distracting in the household when she learned to walk. She'd later go on to join the track team. As well as being the cast member who had the most sex in the city, Catrol has authored several different sex advice books, including Satisfaction, the art of the Mick Jagger Orgasm. Co-fingered by her ex-bass player Mark Levinson, the two were arrested in 2011 for galloping around New York, biting all the he-dogs, and harassing all the she-dogs with their lascivious winks. Other of Kim's oeuvre include sexual intelligence, sexual artificial intelligence, a guide for hacking Alexa, sexual faith healing, how to arouse someone named Faith in under an hour, and Did You Finally Bugger Burger, a guide to the sexiest diners in Michigan. Yeah, it's the birthday of Pop Star Calice, born 1979 in Harlem. She was a home birth. Her mother labored outside in the yard. Began breastfeeding immediately, and slowly all of these boys started to congregate in the yard. Wasn't sure if it was the wafting scent of her mother's milk or perhaps the sound of the rattles she held, rhythmically shaking shaking, she suckled and shook, suckled and shook. More boys arrived in the yard. Gave her an idea for a song, but before she could even hum the first note, her father Kenneth Rogers came running out. Not Kenny Rogers, although it is his birthday today too. Lady Lady Anyway, the song was put on hold until she was able to speak and also learned her way around the kitchen. Okay. Here's a poem for today by Bernadette Mayer from her book Sonnets. Like many of the poems in the book, it's just called Sonnet. You jerk, you didn't call me up. I haven't seen you in so long you probably have a fucking tan. And besides that, instead of making love tonight, you're drinking your parents to the airport. I'm through with you bourgeois boys. All you ever do is go back to ancestral comforts only money can get. Even Catullus was rich, but nowadays you guys settle for a couch by a soporific color cable TV set instead of any arc of love. No wonder the GI Joe team blows it every other time. Wake up. It's the middle of the night. You can either make love or die at the hand of the Cobra Commander. To make love, turn to page forty-four. To die, turn to page 130. Sonnet by Bernadette Mayer, used without permission here on the Writer's Almond Brother, supported by Ivan Hose. So retro stockings for your next slutty Renfare outfit. Until next week, be well, pay per view, and vapor pipe.