The Feline Redemption of Louis Sullivan

Many a great artist has died in obscurity or, perhaps even worse, found a glorious peak early in life only to face horrific ruin in the final years of life.

Few have embodied this as dramatically and sadly as the great Louis Sullivan. In 1890 when, at the age of 34, he unveiled the Auditorium Building, he was introducing to the world the most tremendous man-made structure on earth up to that time. At 17-stories, it was the world's tallest building. At 110,000 tons, it was the heaviest building in the world and had over eight million cubic feet of space.

When Sullivan died on April 14, 1924, died penniless, his friends coming up with $600 for his funeral and the six months past rent due the Hotel Warner where he whiled away his final days in a small, pathetic room of no architectural distinction. Those who don't believe in a resurrection or an after life need only look at the sudden returning praise of his work after years of being out of fashion and his surviving buildings for which there is a tactile afterlife for his vision and imagination. There may not be a heaven where the dead may go, but Sullivan left behind bits of heaven for those living after he died.

The pathetic last days of his life belie the fact that he did not find ways out of the hell of his final quarter of a century. What is not widely known that cats watch over fallen artists and taken them out of their quandary both in life and afterward. Though suspicious of the international style, Sullivan was no fuddy duddy. He was particularly fond of the work of Jim Flora, who was ten years old when Sullivan died and did not come into his full stride until the 1940s. He had a reputation of drawing hepcats that were cute -- and deadly.

But some nights in the teens and twenties -- and even some nights today when the spirit of Sullivan is feeling blue and in search of inspiration -- the cats come to him and transport him into paintings and rooms filled with the work of Flora. This commercial modernist came to greatest note designing covers of RCA and Columbia record albums primarily after the Second World War, a conflict Sullivan did not have to live to endure.

Though he died at the dawn of the Jazz Age, Sullivan was no square to swing and cool, and many nights he can be found swinging with the cats in some room designed by Flora. The creative spirit may come to mold a tower or sculpture or play or "So What", but more often it is still swinging out there beyond the lifetime of the creator, sometimes capturing the imagination of someone today who has no idea of its source.

Just before he died, Sullivan felt compelled to write a third book, The Autobiography of an Idea in which Louis Sullivan writes of Louis Sullivan in the third person while the idea tells his story in the first person:

"That IDEA which had its mystical beginning in so small a thing as a child's heart, grew and nurtured itself upon that child's varied consistently continuing and metamorphosing experiences in time and place, as has been most solicitously laid bare to view in detail, in the course of this recital. For it needs a long, long time, and a rich soil of life-experience to enable a simple, single idea to grow to maturity and solid strength. A French prover has it that 'Time will not consecrate that in which it has been ignored,' while the deep insight of Whitman is set forth in the line, 'Nature neither hastens nor delays.'

Louis Sullivan Is Asked to "Deal With His Issues"

One of the great tragedies for dead artists is that they rarely have a chance to respond to the analysis and critique of their work once they are in the grave. There is still no empirical evidence that the dead haunt the living, but we do know that the future frequently haunts the dead before they go to the grave. Some suspect that it was not a prostitute but news of his paintings selling for seven and eight figures in the 20th and 21st centuries that led Van Gogh to cut off part of his ear.

The case is similar for Louis Sullivan. When he was "outed" by Robert Twombly in his 1985 biography, Sullivan chose to neither confirm nor deny the claims though Twombly asserted that the evidence was there in many of the master architect's writings and his "muscular" buildings. Some have giggled at Sullivan gushing about the Marshall Field Store being a building of admirably "virile" stature.

In his 1996 book, Roman architecture professor Mario Manieri Elia went even further to add onto Twombly's theories: "The causes that Twombly adduces could in fact be described as contributing factors, to some extent acceptable, in addition to a long-standing psychological disturbance variously expressed in Sullivan's interpersonal relationships. A further analysis, including historical factors, would lead us to concentrate on the fascinating anachronism of the figure of Sullivan, an anachronism that (as is so often the case with artists) places him at the peak of his linguistic research during the time of his decline. In short, his professional success was being undermined by a disjunction that can be detected as far back as the late 1880s; right from the beginning of that seventeen-year period that Sullivan indicates as the period of incubation and development of his great crisis."

Don't think that these words didn't sting for Sullivan, even though they were written more than 70 years after his death. And they did not go past his business partner Dankmar Adler who monitored the future quite regularly and through unusual sources. Tension had been brewing between them for months after Adler asserted one morning about their business signage that adorned their office entry was a bit too "frilly". Though sensitive and meticulous, Sullivan was no cream puff and refused to be intimidated by Adler's bullying.

However, when the Elia book came out, Adler became even more stern and insisted that Sullivan seek outside guidance. Though Freudian analysis had yet to jump across the pond from Austria to the U.S. full heartedly until the 20th Century, German immigrant Adler had strong Viennese links and insisted one Dr. Schwartzy Baumgartner whose office on Michigan Avenue near Grant Park. After weeks of Adler's needling and Sullivan's resistance, the battle was finally settled and an appointment was made.
Sullivan felt uneasy from the moment he walked into Baumgartner's overly ornamented office.

"So, Herr Sullivan, how was your relationship with your father?""

"Fine."

"And with your mother?"

"Fine"

"So what would you say it is that is bothering you the most. Right now, at this very moment."

"You."

Dr. Baumgartner conceded that the individual therapy might be too intimate for someone as initially skeptical as Sullivan and that a group setting might be more comfortable and productive. Relieved that the session ended earlier than originally planned, Sullivan agreed to return next week for a group session, although still having grave misgivings.

When he returned to the office, Adler immediately needled him for details.

"So how did the session go?"

"Fine," Sullivan said, dipping his pen into the ink well as he began sketching an ornate corbel.

"And...and..."

"And the doctor-client communication is always confidential."

The following Thursday afternoon, Sullivan dragged his feet slowly along Michigan Avenue as he thought of every excuse to bolt and lie to Adler that he'd attended but he knew Baumgartner would rat on him were he to bail.
Uncomfortable as the first session had been, Sullivan felt even more ill at ease as the small group circled around him and made him sit in the plush center chair. After nibbling on cookies, they were instructed by Dr. Baumgartner asked them to "check in" as each chronicled the emotional baggage of the past week.

"Oh, I was so depressed. I almost jumped into Lake Michigan."

"I had another fight with my mother. And she's been dead for eight years!"

"I keep getting more and more anxious. Even little noises bother me."

The diatribes continued until it finally was Sullivan's turn. There was a long pause until finally Dr. Baumgartner called out gently but firmly, "Mr. Sullivan, it's your turn."

"Pass."

"No, Mr. Sullivan. That's not an option. Surely there is something that you want to share. Some issue that you had to deal with, even if it was something positive."

The group moved in closer to an uncomfortable distance and eyed Sullivan up and down.

"Come on, Sully, share! Share!"

"Hey, little Louie, you gotta tell us your secrets. Just gotta!"

"Fess up. We're all here to share...and support."

Sullivan took a deep breath, staring straight ahead and refusing to make eye contact with the group. "Pass."

Dr. Baumgartner cleared his throat and said, "Okay, let's take a different approach. Mr. Sullivan, let's pretend that your mother and father are in this room. Take a couple of deep breath until you have a clear image of them in your mind's eye. Now what would you say to them, from the depths of your soul, if they were standing right in front of you."

Sullivan took the deep breaths as instructed, closed his eyes and then called out, "Mama! Papa! I'm in a room full of lunatics and they all smell of garlic and moldy cabbage."

With that, Sullivan bolted from his chair, stormed out the door and down Michigan Avenue towards his office. He decided that if it meant dissolving his partnership with Adler it was a better option than one more second in that room.

Louis Sullivan Visits the Century After Next (and Contributes to the Polka Dot Thursday Madness Theme)

In January of 1894, master architect Louis Sullivan sat looking out his office window at the sea of snowy white that gripped Chicago and echoed his broken, shivering heart. He could not fully grasp that his economic descent was already in progress, though some of his glorious jewel box banks would follow in the difficult years ahead when he was paid a mere pittance but he left behind brick hewed emeralds throughout the Midwest prairie that would long outlive him and restore his reputation as a genius.

The "Panic of 1893" the previous spring and summer had ended years of economic and construction boom of which Sullivan was the gleaming star. The dissolving of the stellar firm of Adler and Sullivan left him financially adrift. Unlike Mr. Adler, he lacked the business acumen to promote himself nor the audacity of his protegee Frank Lloyd Wright to so shamelessly extol his own genius.

Sullivan considered himself a poet, even if his medium was brick, steel and glass, sending soaring verses reaching to the heavens like hands grasping for insight and meaning. A poet like Sullivan had no interest in accounting and marketing but preferred to read and edit the works of his idol Walt Whitman to whom he wrote at least one gushing fan letter.

The master architect closes his eyes that mid-morning of 1894, summoning up his muses and guardians.
Within seconds he has left 19th Chicago and its snowy blast and has arrived in 2010, seated in the back garden of the Junkplex near the polka dot toad stools where he is received for tea by host Billy the Blunder Cat and the advisory board of Junk Thief Enterprises. "On behalf of the Junk Thief family, it is my pleasure to welcome you," Billy says, offering him a cup of Kalimpong Darjeeling tea.
"Why, Mr. Sullivan, you look a little distressed," one of the advisory board members notes. Though tiny and cute, the advisory board possess many amazing powers (as seen during this weekend's incident in Orange County), including the gift of insight and empathy.

Sullivan sighs, hanging his head. "Ah, it seems my life has become just a pursuit of money when all I care about is art and roses and beauty and poetry. I miss the summer roses of Chicago. It will be a good five months before I shall see them again. Even if I have enough money to eat, I am starving the beauty and nature."

Billy offers him a rose colored cup of tea and points to the sterling silver rose bush on the other side of the garden. "Come, come, Mr. Sullivan. We are hear to cheer you any time you need support. And remember beneath the snow, those rose bushes are taking deeper root as they rest and will make glorious blossoms soon."

Sullivan nods and then pulls out a letter he recently wrote to Walt Whitman. "Would you like to hear what I wrote?" he asks. "It speaks what dwells deep in my heart."
"Oh, yes, please do," say the advisory board and Billy.

Sullivan pulls the letter from his vest pocket and begins, explaining that his favorite poem in Leaves of Grass is "Sea-Drift", especially the section entitled "As I Ebb'd With the Ocean of Life"

"Dear Mr. Whitman," Sullivan reads. "I, too, 'have sweated through fog with linguists and contenders.' I, too, 'have pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair,' reaching for the basis of a virile and indigenous art. Thus I am enclosing a copy of my own poetic essay 'Inspiration,' because it is your opinion above all other opinions that I should most highly value. Signed, respectfully yours, Louis Henri Sullivan, Chicago, Illinois."

Sullivan puts down the letter, saying that more than any dean of architecture, he most admired Whitman whom he considered to be a fellow artist pursuing the same objectives but in a different field and was the distant soul mate he had forever pursued yet never met.

Unable to finish their cake, Billy and the advisory board dry their tears as they surround Sullivan in a warm embrace as all sing in unison:

Come said the Muse,
Sing me a song no poet has yet chanted
Sing me the universal

All, all for immortality
Love like the light silent wrapping all.
Nature's amelioration blessing all.
The blossoms, fruits of ages, orchards divine
and certain.
Forms, objects, growth, humanity, to spiritual
images ripening.

Is it a dream?
Nay but the lack of it the dream.
And failing it life's lore and wealth a dream,
And all the world a dream.

The Illustrated Adventures of Louis Sullivan

On the snowy afternoon of January 5, 1890, beloved local architect Louis Sullivan is having his portrait made at the photographic studio of Hesler and Associates of Chicago. Not only is Sullivan America's greatest architect, he has also been described as the windy city's most "bewitchingly bewildering bachelors".

He is noted for his beautifully twinkling dark eyes and a beard that the notorious tabloid Bachelor Boys Bonanza describes as being "pleasantly plush and pliant."

Suddenly the photographic session is interrupted by the entrance of a breathless, half naked bike messenger dressed as Mercury who announces, "Mr. Sullivan, I have been instructed to invite you 120 years into the future to the grand opening of the great-great-great-grandchild of your magnificent contribution to modernism, the Auditorium Building."

Though initially perplexed, Sullivan is too easily seduced by adventure not to respond and is soon on the Trans-Arabian Zephyr racing into the future and the Mideast.Sullivan, who 12 decades earlier created the tallest building in the world, has been asked to share his opinion of the latest holder of this somewhat dubious title casting its long shadow over Dubai. Just as Robert Oppenheimer came to regret his best known invention, Sullivan's eyes swell with tears and he coughs as he chokes back a hearty sob. Finally, as the architectural tabloids press him for an opinion on the Burj Khalifa, formerly known as the Burj Dubai, Sullivan finally offers succinctly but honestly, "Well, it's clearly of very juicy proportions."
The master architect is soon whisked to the building's elegantly appointed penthouse where Lulu Brobstein, the reported Perle Mesta of the Gulf is hosting one of her notorious parties filled with "perennial bachelors" who banter about art, politics and the latest innovations in shoe cream. Lulu's wrap around balcony boasts views of both the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman. "On a clear day you can see from Dubai to Mumbai," Lulu cackles. Sullivan also notes that on a windy day, the top floor sways a good five feet in each direction, a clear reminder to him that any structure taller than the Woolworth Building is obscene excess. Though no stranger to such parties in 1890s Chicago and able to carry on an enlightened conversation about art and the grammar of ornamentation, Sullivan feels quite uncomfortable in this bevy of constructed socialites. He pretends not to hear comments about his "Edwardian ball pinching garb" and resists snarking back about how their suits remind him of elephantine drapes floating around the bloated torsos of unenlightened Buddhas.
This stale atmosphere soon tires Sullivan and he retreats to a notorious, abandoned mosque near the darkened waterfront. Here he encounters gentlemen more suiting to his taste and temperament, but he soon realizes their "gentlemanly" hesitation and inability to articulate the obvious is both tedious and fruitless.
Finally before making his way back to the Trans-Arabian Zephyr, Sullivan saunters into a waterfront saloon where the drinks and men are of more than juicy proportions. He admires the seamless towers of glass, thinking of structures devoid of a steel skeleton and able to enjoy their cool refreshment and intoxication yet still unable to embrace that towering monstrosity he was dragged here to pay homage to. Finishing his last drink and bidding adieu to his fellow bachelors, Sullivan realizes his proper place is back in the twilight of the 19th century,where he can peer ahead into the possibilities of modernism without having the endure all of its detours and mis-steps.Midway through the journey backwards, the Zephyr stops to refuel and offer figs and chai to its passengers. Sullivan spies something curious outside the window and then steps out to more closely examine this curious ritual. Why it is our own Junk Thief executive committee, worshiping a golden pig in front of an ornate Indochinese pagan shrine. At first a bit disturbed by such idolatry, Sullivan is soon struck by the elegant beauty of the shrine itself and joins the trio in their worship. But his prayer is soon interrupted as the Zephyr whistle blows and he is transported back to 1890 yet mildly aware of the impending arrival of the shattering of time.

Louis Sullivan and the Phalanx of Philadelphia

Even those least enlightened about architecture recognize, if they recognize his name at all, that Louis Sullivan and the rise of Chicago are intertwined. Significantly fewer know that he was not born in the Midwest but in Boston to immigrant parents. Pitifully rare is the person that knows of his short stint in Philadelphia in 1873 when he was all of 16.

In fact his apprenticeship in the city of brotherly love lasted a mere series of months when he was employed by the renowned Frank Furness whom many people feel should be played by Kenny Rogers in the TV movie of his life. Furness may have designed some of Philly's best known structures, but Sullivan -- a young man who prided himself on having both a beard of juicy proportions and immaculate grooming -- was appalled by the random bits of parsley, snuff and molding raisins that often gathered in Furness' gnarly patch of facial hair.

Brought on as a junior draftsman, Sullivan was part of the crew that helped with renderings of one of Furness' most ambitious projects to date, the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.

It was at a reception to introduce the latest designs for the Academy (where sun dried pesto pate and Jello shots were served on fancy Belgian dinner ware) that Sullivan met the enfant terrible de la academie, one Mr. Thomas Eakins, a dozen years his senior. Nearly 20 years later he would be expelled from the academy for having the audacity to ask students to have actual humans pose for figure painting classes. Though still in his 20s at the time, Eakins was already quite skilled at procuring new apprentices and models, and was soon drawn to Sullivan who was tottering around the reception hall after a dozen Jello shots which he did not realize actually contained alcohol.

Sullivan and Eakins quickly became inseparable as they toured Philadelphia and had discussions about how modern buildings could appropriately merge virile idealism, naturalism and be of juicy proportions.

The young draftsman who still had not formed a full edificial arch nor even decided if he would be a figure painter, lap dancer or architect hung on every word of Eakins.
Though a bit skeptical when Eakins asked him to join an all male, all nude rowing team -- "It's the Philadelphia way," Eakins assured him -- young Sullivan clung to his every word. Some afternoons they sat in parks, enjoying the sun and smell of moist grass as they quoted their favorite passages of Whitman.
It was not until their second month of brotherly love that Eakins invited Sullivan for a private sitting at his studio. He was a bit confused that it was to be a midnight supper and further dismayed by Eakins promise that it would deliver a "virile phalanx of earthly delights". Though he'd heard the word phalanx used before, especially in war correspondence and sports, Sullivan was a bit startled and equally excited when he saw the illustrations of the word in reference to ancient Greece when he looked up the word in his dictionary.
Sullivan's elegant but virile hands were shaking as he grabbed the large lions head brass knocker on Eakins studio door.

Exactly what happened that night remains undocumented in the papers of both Eakins and Sullivan. However, two weeks later after he was discharged from the firm of Furness do to the Panic of '73, he caught a train to Chicago, his vision for virile edifices of juicy proportions reaching for the heavens firmly etched in his imagination. Where Eakins figures into all of this is a mystery that rests somewhere between heaven and Lake Michigan.

Meanwhile, back in Philadelphia the Academy opened three years later without a single credit to the young draftsman named Sullivan. However, many suspect the pink walls were his touch since most considered Furness to be color blind and it was his parting shot to this stodgy Victorian.

Young Louis Sullivan Visits 'Paris on the Pacific'

Master architect Louis Sullivan graduated from École des Beaux-Arts in the mid-1870s, greatly influenced by Michelangelo and his contemporaries. Not quite ready to return to Chicago, he took a time tripping graduation journey to 21st century San Francisco which he'd heard described as the "Paris on the Pacific" and was curious to see what school of temple building lodged here. As luck would have it, he landed in the Mission District, and his first view of the Million Fishes Gallery at 23rd and Bryant struck him as being a virile structure with appropriate proportions.Clean shaved, with closely cropped hair and sporting a dapper five-button coat, Sullivan fit in seamlessly as he ventured further west to the hipper parts of the Mission. For those who knew him as the bearded gentlemen of more juicy proportions when he reached his commercial and critical success in the 1880s and 1890s, he was a nearly unrecognizable artistic and could pass as just another sensitive youth whose hygiene was decidedly better than that of the skateboarders who lived in a century with far greatter access to indoor plumbing and organic grooming products.
His reaction to the designs in the Mission was mixed. Though sometimes seen as a highly romantic and dramatic architect of the Victorian era, he was forward thinking enough to admire sleek modern design that could look beyond the cliches of form and function, even if they were mobile.
Seeing the contemporary commerce nestled in the ground floors of larger towering temples of design, Sullivan recalled an essay on "how buildings learn" and thought of his own personal, physical human architecture, of how a smile line might become embedded but a beard might be removed, return and then be evicted quickly like an annoying, delinquent tenant.
As he wrapped up his tour and noticed the excess of tattoos on youths in the neighborhood, Sullivan reflected on organic architecture from this passage from his Ornament in Architecture: "It must be manifest that an ornamental design will be more beautiful if it seems a part of the surface or substance that receives it than if it looks 'stuck on,' so to speak. A little observation will lead one to see that in the former case there exists a peculiar sympathy between the ornament and the structure, which is absent in the latter. Both structure and ornament obviously benefit by this sympathy; each enhancing the value of the other. And this, I take it, is the preparatory basis of what may be called an organic system of ornamentation."

Seeking the Truth About Mary See

Sometime after the fall of the Third Reich and before the Bay of Pigs invasion, a handsome bearded gentleman and two owlish looking women were having lunch at the Marie Callender's in Pismo Beach, California. Their waiter immediately recognized one woman as famed Hollywood costume designer Edith Head, a woman so clever that she managed to nab an Oscar for the Givenchy dress Audrey Hepburn bought herself in Paris and wore in Sabrina. He wasn't quite sure about the more senior woman but after conferring with his coworkers, he confirmed his hunch and braved his way back to their table.

"Miss Head, I adore all of the lovely costumes you designed," he said.

"I appreciate your limited good taste, although it clearly hasn't helped you when shopping at Montgomery Ward," she disdained, eying him from head to toe.

Oblivious to her comment, he turned to the other woman and blurted out, "And Mrs. See, I think your candies are just the tops. Better even than the Whitman sampler."

Louis Sullivan cleared his throat and blushed as the two women's eyes bulged like giant cracked eggs. Finally, Miss Head peered over her trademark spectacles and said sternly, "G arçon, that is not Mrs. See. In fact, you are in the company of the most important architect of our time. Have you no idea who this is?"

Shaking, he bit his lip, finally offering feebly, "Frank Lloyd Wright...in a dress."
"No, you imbecile. Julia Morgan! The woman who has designed the most important buildings in California. The woman who designed the largest and most elegant private residence on the face of earth from which we are almost sitting in the shadow of."

His hands were shaking now, barely able to get the words out as he realized the stature of the woman seated at his table. Ms. Morgan smiled gently, trying to calm him, "Oh, Edith, it's really not worth making a fuss. Young man, might I bother you to exchange this Cesar dressing with Green Goddess?"

"S-s-s-sure...m'am."

As he departed, Julia sighed with certain trepidation, "Oh, dear, I hope they know how to make Green Goddess properly here and that it's not from a bottle. So often they go overboard with the chervil or leave it out completely."

The conversation then turned to the true origins of Green Goddess Dressing. Though considered to have its roots in Sauce Au Vert which was prepared by the chef to the court of Louis XVI. In 1923, it was credited to being adapted in the U.S. by the chef at San Francisco's Palace Hotel in honor of George Arliss who was starring in a play of the same name which Julia Morgan loved. Things went downhill in the 1970s after the widening popularity of Ranch Dressing and the eventual purchase of Green Goddess by evil Kraft Foods. Trader Joe's has its Goddess Dressing which is actually brown, and Annie's Naturals has its own, but obviously without the anchovy.

"Since it came out the year before I died, I never had much opportunity to eat it," Louis Sullivan said.

"Well, when it's done correctly, it's superb," Miss Morgan said as the waiter arrived with a heaping serving of the dressing in a porcelain bowl on an emerald saucer. "Ah, merci, mon petit."

"Anything else, Miss...Morgan?"

"Yes, another Manhattan!"

Early in its operation, Marie Callender's distinguished itself by being the only family restaurant chain to serve alcohol in what they never called a "bar" but always a "saloon", perhaps acknowledging its wild west origins.

"Speaking of food legions," Edith said, "I've always been suspicious of whether or note there really was a real Mary See. Wasn't she one of those inventions like Betty Crocker."

"Wasn't she the wife of Mr. Crocker as in the Crocker Galleria?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

"Poppycock!" Julia exclaimed, dipping a radish in her Green Goddess. "She was a complete fiction."



















Julia Morgan (right) is NOT the same as Mary See!

"Well, I think the whole Mary See story was the same," Edith said, lifting her whiskey sour. "Julia that isn't you in those photos as a gag at some Hearst Castle costume party?"

Miss Morgan shivered and said, "Oh, surely you don't think I look like that old battle axe?"

"And what about Marie Callender herself?" asked Mr. Sullivan. "Isn't she an invention too?"

Suddenly a hunched over, petite elderly woman emerged from the kitchen. "I am for real!"

"Why, Mrs. Callender, are you the one that cooked up this flawless Green Goddess dressing?"

"Naw," Marie shrugged. "I haven't done that shit in years. I'm on my way up to San Simeon for a mah-johng tournament that Marion Davies is holding. "Why don't you three join us?"

Just then, Nancy Kulp and Odetta entered, wearing headscarves and dark glasses. They asked for a table in the back where they ordered Irish coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Years later, this unlikely meeting resulted in Edith Head inviting Marie Callender to attend the 1967 Academy Awards in her . Edith's costume design was the single nomination for the much maligned film The Oscar which featured lines such as "If you lie down with dogs, you'll smell like fleas." Edith also had a cameo playing herself.

When Bob Hope read the nominees and then announced the winner, he said. "And the Oscar for best costume design goes to The Oscar and Edith Head. Miss Head is unable to accept tonight because she has...a Head cold!" As the audience roared with laughter, someone slipped Bob a surprise last minute change of plans for the betowing the best costume design award. Not missing a beat, he glanced up from the note and said, "Accepting the Oscar on Miss Head's behalf are ...Dino, Desi and Billy!"