It had been a long night, the sort of long night that leaves you with Rosie the Riveter working on piece-rates inside of your skull, and a taste in your mouth like the garbage men held a wake there. It was the sort of long night that left me not wanting to do anything with the morning except wait for Rosie to knock off. So I didn't need a dame to knock on the door like the Mighty Mo firing an Veterans' Day salute and then sail in through the door and announce, "Sorry, your door was open. May I come in?". Especially I didn't need dames with a figure like hers, which was that of a pin-up, for Greenpeace.