The president doesn't know what to do. He's running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

I don't want the worst characters in hell to be running after me with friendly messages and little testimonials of admiration for Smythe, and blowing about his talents, and bragging on him, and belching their villainous fire and brimstone all through the atmosphere and making my place smell worse than a menagerie.

These aren't classic records (despite the label tide) and one immediately recognizes that, despite being surrounded by Ellingtonians, albeit a reduced personnel, Johnny played his best work with Duke himself.

That moist and fruity dish is simply delectable.