Well, it's deepest gray and pouring rain here in Our Nation's Capital, and I have to admit that my seasonal funk continues. If anything, though, were to drive away the clouds, I think it would be spending some time, as I've done this afternoon, in the very personable company of today's Birthday Girl.

And so we live in a world suddenly Gaborless. It seems a fitting ending to this wretched, dreary year.

With the latest sad news from Los Angeles, it's clear that St. Zsa Zsa is a sort of modern-day Job.  One can only hope she doesn't know.

Saint Zsa Zsa of Gabor is 97 today.  I cannot be alone both in wishing her well and in hoping that someday soon she'll be free.

On a fine Manhattan evening just 54 years ago, Zsa Zsa Gabor went to a very swish soirée hosted by Prince Aly Khan.  That's Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. there, sitting on her right.  Dear Mr. Eisenstadt appears to have caught her in a pensive moment.  Well, she was a bit at loose ends (in between two of her lesser husbands, a Mr. Hutner, who'd lasted four years, and a Mr. Cosden, who only eked out one) and so was her host.  Perhaps she was wondering whether it might be worth trying to become the third Princess Aly.  Such an alliance would, if nothing else, have been a great deal better than the sordid semi-royalty with which she eventually did became embroiled.

The '50s really were the sisters' glory years, and in her opulent serenity, Zsa Zsa has no idea just how unkind, to her and to the very idea of Gaborismo, the following decades would prove to be.  Just as well; let her enjoy her moment.  I'm guessing those are emeralds.

And what are you up to?

Okay, most of these I can see.  Sadly, the question of her continued existence is all too germane (and it's not unkind, I think, at this point to wish her godspeed to a better place, however glamour-diminished a world she'll leave behind).  Of course, she is, in fact related, if only by marriage, to the tawdry sisters who wear a pale imitation of her crown of celebritude (she's their step great-grandmother, as nearly as I can make out).  And she is, at least in part on her mother's side, what dear Dame Edna calls a "Red Sea pedestrian."

But, really - pregnant?  The poor woman was born, even if we credit the latest possible date, in the fading glory of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  Spare her something, for heaven's sake, in what the Enquirer would once have called her "sad last days."

Since she's on Thom's mind over at the show-biz armageddon that is the Redundant Variety Hour, I felt like revisiting better days in the life of Sári Gábor Belge Hilton Sanders Hutner Cosden Ryan O'Hara de Alba Lichtenberg "von Anhalt," better known, of course, as Zsa Zsa.

These last few years have been hard on fans of the Gabor phenomenon.  What was once a glorious, winking joke (one in which Zsa Zsa, Eva, Magda, and Mama were wholly complicit for six or seven decades) has soured, leaving only a sad old lady, an aging half-mad gigolo/fantasist, and a trail of increasingly sordid stories.

I'd rather focus on all the long years that involved things like fuschia satin daywear, glittery mules, and that very particular vanilla-ice-cream-and-bourbon expression (a prime example of which is seen here) that the Zsa so often adopted for photos.  Bless.

One reads with sorrow the news trickling out of the City of Angels. The indomitable lady whom dear Donna Lethal with very good reason calls Saint Zsa Zsa of Gabor does appear to be enduring a particularly horrid version of that staple of the tabloids, Sad Last Days. Her last decade or so, actually, seems to be turning into a particularly melancholy contrast to the whirlwind of glamour and silliness that preceded it, which really is just a lousy shame.

I'd rather remember her in palmier days, dripping in diamonds, teased out to there, and painted with an insouciance that seems almost Fauve, as convinced of her perfection as she is that the sun will rise in the morning (a time of day she last saw 'round about the time she may or may not have been Miss Hungary).

...And of some mighty strange realms...

Say what you will about the scantiness of jungle fashions - this is one queen who's found a volumizer that really works for her.

As for this one, I have no idea what's going on, but I really, really want to see it. If nothing else, the "proudly presents" is both a jaunty and a slightly pathetic touch.

Another fine release from the good folks at AIP, although I find the theming here a little muddled - is she the Queen of Blood, somehow arachnid, or the centerpiece of a disturbing circus acrobatic act? Perhaps Basil Rathbone knows, but I sure the hell don't.

Here we have one of the screen's less memorable pairings - if they had dumped Reagan for Joan Crawford, that would have been a picture to put Johnny Guitar to shame.

Of course, we couldn't get away without including this one in any roundup of Queens - although I have to say I don't think it holds up terribly well. Fab alternate poster, though, no? And not an outfit I remember, either, although it's been a while.

Here's anothing almost insanely obscure one. You know what I really want to see? Barbara Stanwyck Battle an Army of Savage Midgets. With Joan Crawford as the Terrifying Lady of Snakes.

Any rumours that this is the next Johnny Depp pic should be swiftly put to rest.

As should any idea that this picture is as much fun as either the title or the prospect of the sheer Gaboriness of it. On the other hand it does have the fabulous "I hat zat Qveen!" moment. A line for the ages.

I hate it when the skull-candlestick gets all chatty, don't you? Between that and the visibly bored, dagger-wielding Michael York impersonator there on the right, I'm not encouraged.

After everything from the Amazon to the lands of the undead, the Yukon seems practically as prosaic as - well, as a Stanwyck-Crawfordless Montana. But not nearly as prosaic as Monogram - how did genteel leading lady Irene Rich end up there?

Yes, Phyllis Diller is indeed telling Fame-thrush Irene Cara something about Zsa Zsa's bust, while the possessor of said bust is taking a moment to admire her own jewelry. I have no idea what this all means, but, needless to say, I adore this picture and would kill to have been there.

Zsa Zsa's kind of a big girl, isn't she?

What I've decided is proof positive that Magda didn't really die, but simply came to Paris and, following in Mama's footsteps, opened up a shop. Hell, you could half-convince me that she's got Jolie and Eva helping her out; I think a Death Becomes Them scenario is all too plausible with those gals.

It's an especially remarkable trio of birthdays today:

Prima Diva Assoluta Eva Gabor;

Semi hapless post-Ottoman monarch King Farouk I of Egypt;

...and our very own Mr. Muscato (not pictured), who I suppose might be considered an amalgam of all the best qualities of both.

In honor of all three, but especially the last, we had a festive evening at the Chedi, which local readers will know is a Rather Big Deal. Heaps of lobster and crab at the beachside pavilion, followed by a peanut-butter millefeuille (Mr. M.) and a tropical-fruits creme brulee (me), both of which were beyond beyond. We may not eat for a week. Or at least until tomorrow's Champagne brunch (we're making a festive, gluttonous weekend of it, in memory of poor old King F.).

Wow! What are the odds that two such divinities could have shared a birthday? Strange as it is, it appears to be true:

Sari Gabor Belge Hilton Sanders Hutner Cosden Ryan O'Hara Alba Lichtenberg, known these days as Princess Zsa Zsa von Anhalt, was born this day somewhere in Mitteleurope sometime toward the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and basically the world hasn't had a tranquil moment since.

The only comparatively less tempestuous Mamie Van Doren is also celebrating today.

It deeply gratifies me that both these remarkable creatures continue to grace this low world in which we find ourselves. Until they depart for Fabulon, we are lucky indeed to be able to savor a kind of ultrastyle in all too short supply these days.

And wouldn't Zsa Zsa Van Doren make a great drag name?

I really think so...

Yes, it's Zsa Zsa. Yes, she's dressed as Madame Chiang Kai-shek dressed as Eva Perón. Better not to wonder why; simply marvel at her utter Gaborness.

P.S.: I don't believe for a minute that that thieving, tacky final husband of hers lost her money to Madoff. If there still is any money, he knows exactly where it is. Delusional, dreadful climber. End of rant.

Better than either of her sisters, Magda Gabor clearly understood the concept of age-appropriate glamour. I think this photo proves, as well, that although undeservedly obscure, she was without question the Fun Gabor.

A rare solo shot:

Magda, the enigmatic Gabor. Come to think of it, I think she probably lived through Brenda Frazier. If only she were still here...

Just when you think teh Interwebs have lost the capacity to entertain, you go and find something like Celebrities Playing Table Tennis and your faith in the future is restored. It's a veritable Who's Who, including any number of people whom you wouldn't have thought even owned sportswear.

People like Dolores Del Rio, apparently snapped playing in a light moment on-set, in the only backless ping pong outfit ever made:



Perhaps it was prescribed as part of Mr. Mayer's exercise-and-diet plan for young Judy Garland:

And there's never a bad excuse for Guy Madison to take off his shirt:

Wynne Gibson had the first (and, one hopes, only) matching bra-and-paddle ensemble:

"Celebrity" is defined marvelously broadly, so we are treated to things like the Duchess of Cornwall at a tense moment:

And (to my mind the real treasure of this trove) a Princess of a very different kind - Zsa Zsa, about to bat a ball away as imperiously as she did half-a-dozen husbands:

Bitch stole my table tennis frock!

Go, and enjoy - but beware. The proprietor takes his table tennis very seriously. Oh, and the gent with Zsa Zsa? Not a husband; we're told he is, instead, "Long Beach TTA President John Hann."

How one wonders this particular event came about; the thing about Gabors is that you can't tell anything from the outfit. In their universe, that is daywear. Maybe she just dropped by.

Just 'cause we're traveling doesn't mean I'm not keeping up. Here we have, shamelessly stolen from today's Telegraph, a clump of Kate Moss hair, fallen and found on some red carpet.

There's a lesson there for all of us: a lesson about vanity, transience, and cheap extensions. Next time, Kate darling: go Gabor, or go bald.