Tears cannot restore her. Therefore I weep.

One of my sort-of-forbidden pleasures is the cinematic stylings of the Self-Styled Siren. I am a great fan of the studio films of the Thirties, Forties, and Fifties and she has a studio full of stories, observations, critiques, revelations, and appreciations of them.

Here's the thing, though. She so often writes about the cinematic and movie-related things she enjoys that it's easy to forget that the Siren can flat-out, pure-D, stomp-down, kick-ass, tear-the-roof-off-the-muthsucka fucking write.

Every once in a while, though, she reminds us. Here's a terrific little story for your enjoyment; Manhattan Thoughts on a Hot Evening

"...she was most likely weeping because Citibank has plenty of money, and she does not."

Pure brilliance.