Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-03-01
THIS AND THAT
BIZ CHARLEs E. TRACEWELL.

There certainly are a lot of ugly
people" said one ugly woman to another
as they walked along F street on
beautiful February afternoon.
This remark, caught in passing, de-
serves to be preserved in type, because
it expresses large truth and one which
furnishes the justification for most
of u.s.
If physical beauty were the only ex-
cuse for being, probably eight-tenths OF
human beings necessarily would cease
to exist.
The executioner would be going
around with big sword in one hand
and a tremendously long list in the
other of those who would not be missed.
LONELINESS is a Self-evident fact.
Just how much Of it is inherent and
how much depends upon surroundings
is difficult problem, of course.
Consider the street.
Such a setting is not good even for
pretty woman. Seldom does one stop
to consider just what a poor back
ground an average corner makes, but
when he does he realizes that great
deal is to be desired.
The prevailing street tone is gray and
every one knows that this is trying
color Asphalt streets, stone buildings,
blend into a peculiar shade which
ought to be called city gray.
1t is drab, citizenlike tint, devoid of
the spectacular, or even the ordinarily
appealing. 1t is so common in the
lives of city people that they seldom
notice it, one way or the other.
1t is the gray of everyday, the drab-
ness amid which automobiles chug,
adding to the monochrome by not
entirely invisible exhaust which tends
to make even the atmosphere gray.
X X X
Against such a monotonous back
ground, slightly resembling festive
oyster out for a stroll, human beings
of the cities pose and posture all on a
sunny afternoon. But mostly their hats
are on crooked, and their shoulders are
not mates, and their noses are too big,
and their hair is too long or too short
or something or other, particularly
something or other.
And the clothes, especially of the
womenl Whereas in the fashion pic
lures the skirts hang just so-so, here
| on the street they flop. The soft
clinging lines" have gone askew; there
is nothing soft, even clinging. The
shoes do not match the hat. Some
| mysterious bit of undergarment is for
ever poking its nose into the public eye
where it has no business.
AS for the men, they are much worse
One can walk F street all afternoon
without once seeing a really cookbook
| ing man. Even If one is found, the
chances are decidedly that he will have
such a smirk of dissatisfaction on his
countenance that something ought to
be done about it, although anything
seldom is.
For, as already stated, most of us are
! in the same boat There is no man
or woman, however conceited, who,
comparing his or her precious self with
perfection, but will be glad to give over
| the project.
Perfection, it must be admitted, is a
| hard taskmaster. 1t demands nothing
less than Greek gods and goddesses, and
| few moderns could essay the roles. The
saving thing is that the feat is no long
er necessary.
Compare the tribe of authors. If
there is any more homely-looking SCI
| in the world, we would like to see
! them. Yet, here beauty is as beauty
does, and the written word makes up
| for many a paunch.
Men and women, therefore, are not
altogether to blame that they are not
more beautiful There is something in
our stars, Brutus, which makes us as
we are. The generations which have
! gone before had something to do with
us, after ALL 1t is just probable that