Swedish Meatballs

The Seventies were a swinging time and no one swung with greater abandon than the bloody Swedes. The blond-haired, satin-panted dancing queens of ABBA® were the rage 'round the globe, whilst in their native land, bands of hurriedly-assembled Scandanavian noisemakers hoped to follow suit — or rather, pantsuit — synchronizing their sound, their open-collared costumes and mutton-chopped dans moves in the neighborhood discotheques, their piercing blue eyes set on stardom. Groups like Norrland Spöjrkarna, Kjell Brööz Orkester and the Inge Lindqvists each took their turn in the spotlight, but ‘twas The Gert Jonnys whose cassette tape recordings captivated the citizenry in countries where chunky, wood block shoes are manufactured and worn. Alas, when founder and fashion designer Gert Jonny Hansson left the band bearing his name, many assumed the remaining members would pack up their colorful stretch trousers, their glockenspiels, accordians and keytars and take their talentry in-house at IKEA. ‘Twasn’t so. Today, Björn Bitters, Eugen Torgny, Olaf Petersson and new recruit Lars Lundqvist (pictured), are making music, touring and charting in the south of Sweden, Denmark and the Canary Islands — wherever those might be — with a stirring re-imagining of the Australian smash "Forever Young." "Do You Really Hope to Live Forever (Given Your Lackluster Hygienic and Calisthenic Regimens)?" pines the plaintive Lundquist. 'Tis a question that should give us all pause in this time of the spreading Corona® beer brand viral contagion. Be well, citizens.

Ain't Patrick's Day

Celebrating a Deathday™ (March 17th, 1762): St. Patrick himself died on this day, or did you think those vomiting collegians and parading ballbag pipers were celebrating his bloody birth? Well, you’d be wrong and not for the first time. Something else you may not know about the patron saint of Shamrock Shakes® is the long forgotten tale of how England stepped in to save Patrick’s sorry arse from some awful business in Ireland, only to have him turn his back on the Queen and return to his native land when it plaid suited him. ‘Tis why I am no fan of the sainthooded man, nor his home-brewed green beer. I can think of a shiteload of Patricks more worthy of a parade than he. To wit: Patrick Swayze — People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, when he was alive — giantine basketball bouncer Patrick Ewing, showering Southforkian Patrick Duffy — aka, Bobby Ewing, no relation to Patrick, i.e., Ewing — Butch Patrick, jelly-haired Addam’s Family junior, Patrick McGoohan, sharply-dressed Avenger, Patrick Stewart of the ever-enterprising Starship, and of course, Patrick the Starfish, sidekick of the Square-Panted Sea Sponge named Bob. But the Patrick I would most like to see honored with a parade or honorary street or alleyway signage is the titular "Patrick" in the horrifying documentary from 1978. As our station house VHS copy proclaims, “He’s in a coma. Yet, he can kill.” And with swift and sinister aplomb! I’ve watched this police procedural on many a Patrick’s Day and have marveled at the flatlining coma killer's ability to outfox the doltish security staff in the mental ward. Though Dr. Roget and Nurse Jacquard nobly attempt to nurse Patrick back to proper well-being, everyone else is asleep at the lobotomy switch. In any event, may the luck of the English or Irish be with you as we celebrate the Anni-hearse-ary™ of ole' St. Patrick, who died for your sins on a Celtic cross, as it were.

These Snyder's of Hanover Pretzels are making Dee Snyder of Hanover thirsty

Curlicued, hair-metal hermaphrodite and pretzel-making scion Derwood “Dee” Snyder of Hanover® is celebrating a birthday today. Born March 16, 1955 in a proper pretzel-making borough of Pennsylvania, the perennially peroxidized golden-throat was hair-raised in the Episcopal faith, getting his first taste of singing in the church choir with his mother, whilst his Jewish father stayed home and made the bloody Snyder's of Hanover® pretzels. Though he showed promise in the art of dough looping, young Dee would turn his tramp-stamped backside on the family business, taking his lipsticked visage and coiled mane to the top of the rock 'n roll charts with salty snack-inspired odes such as, “We’re Not Gonna Bake It Anymore (Unless We Get The Gluten Levels Down to a Digestible Level)” and “I Wanna Rock (Your World With These Rock Hard Mustard 'n Onion Pretzel Pieces).” One assumes that Snyder and his band of face-painted, cock-knocking sidekicks in "Twisted Sister™" — originally "The Pretzel Twists" — had other numbers in their repertoire, but two songs (and accompanying videos featuring that unfortunate, jarheaded gent from "Animal House") were all you needed to earn a spot on the floating vomitorium that was the MTV® tour bus. The Twisted Mister Snyder of Hanover® memorably went to bat for the music industry in the 80’s, taking his ballbuster jeans and Velveteen™ vest to Washington D.C. to challenge Tipper Gore in a stare down over the state of lyrical content, but she melted under his Adonis gaze and surrendered, allowing hair metallions to continue to torment the parents of young listeners with infantile odes to pubescent sex and mythical demons who could "F*ck Like Beast." The birthday boy went on to form lesser-known bands such as Widowmaker, and tried his hand at an unintentionally hilarious horror movie, before a career in radio came a-calling. He and his costume designer wife Suzette have been married, remarkably, since 1981 and have foisted a brood of odd and oddly-named pretzel nibblers into the world — Jesse Blaze, Shane Royal, Cody Blue and Cheyenee Jean — and one imagines they’ll sit ‘round a pentagram on the patio tonight, crunching away on a family size bag of Sourdough Something Or Others™, comparing skin ink whilst their devilish dad blows out the candles on his devil’s food cake. Bless them.

Yours Truly O'Dooley & The Wearing O' The Green

As is our tradition, Yours Truly O'Dooley™ and the station house squadron are officially paying no nevermind to the daft ole' ditty, "they're hanging men and women for the wearing of the green" — surely a tall tale told in the wake of rebellion or an honest English mistake — and festooning the shanty with kelly-coloured tinsel, streamers and shamrocks, non-offending "Erin Go Braless" buttons and, importantly, a plentitude of Irish Spring®, a fresh-scented deodorant sudsing agent non pareil, one that will give the bloody Corona® beer brand viral contagion its due. May celebration and blessings rule the livelong days all week. Happy Saint Paddy's, Citizens!

Stand-Up Checks Out

Celebrating a Deathday (March 14, 2014): Humorist-turned-authorist David Brenner penned his last sorta funny joke on this day, and then called it a day. A leisure-suited long-nose from the cream cheese capital of America, Brenner was a frequent guest and, later, guest host on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, a wolf in sheep’s clothing if there ever was one. Carson, a chain-smoking, plaid-suited womanizer, treated Mr. Brenner like his own son, until his own son rolled his motorcar down a bloody embankment and died, after which Carson treated Brenner like someone else’s son whom he couldn’t stand. When Mr. Carson packed up his Viceroys® and his liquor cabinet and stumbled off into the sunset, never to be heard from again — excepting the barrage of late night commercials for the mountainous 800-VHS collection of his ancient television programme — Mr. Brenner disappeared from the broadcast landscape, turning up in shite hole comedy clubs, alongside next generation arse-wipes like Dennis Miller. He later turned to book writing, penning in quick succession, the harmless, if unspectacular, “I Think There’s a Terrorist in my Soup,” “I Think There’s a Hole in the Exhaust Pipe,” and “I Believe There’s a Stain in my Undershorts.” All said and done — or possibly sad and dumb — Brenner was a likeable, capable funnyman who, alas, succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 78. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to David Brenner, pride of Philadelphia, Freedom, PA, home of Steak-umms® thin-sliced, steak-like meats.

Lucky, Charmed

'Tis Sunday the 13th calendar day of the month and to no one’s surprise — least of all,
 Yours Truly Dooley's — the deadbeats and miscreants have taken to the Arnold "Al" Gore Memorial Misinformation Superhighway™ with wanton abandon on this, the heathen's unholy day. Whilst Twitternet™ trolls scheme and pillage, our station house patrollants are responding unkind, taking to the chatrooms and squalid Stumblr™ pages like foot soldierers at an unsanctioned — unmasked, it should be noted — gathering of longhairs (pictured). We are forging into valleys of dank darkness with chins up, shoulders back and ballsacks tucked. Let mirrors shatter and black cats scatter! Godless, luckless brazen be damned! Friday the 13th is our lucky day!

Girls Will Be Girl Scouts

On the wedge heels of last week's International Women's Wear Day™ comes a celebration of one of the gender's spring-bonnetted forebears, one Juliette Gordon-Low, whose Girl Scouts® was founded on this day March 12, 1912. A woman of profound purpose and beauty (the inner kind), Gordon-Low didn’t trade on her obvious (inner) sexiness to earn her place in the history and/or cook books. An adventurer who traveled the globe at a time when women paddled barefoot about the kitchen tending to the spicy sweet Hot Cross® buns in their ovens, Gordon-Low broadened her horizons and desired to do the same for young girls. After making the platonic acquaintance of Sir Robert Baden-Powell, British founder of both the Boy Scouts® and the auxiliary Girl Guides®, Gordon-Low endeavored to form a similar group on her side of the cement pond. While Baden-Powell’s Girl Guides placed an emphasis on domestic labor and feminine arts, Gordon-Low challenged her charges to master dexterous skills associated with the Boy Scouts, such as camping, canoeing and live animal torture. (This explains why modern women prefer the primitive toileting facilities of rural campgrounds over the luxuries found at 5-star hotels.) Today, the Girl Scouts find themselves with membership of more than 3.2 million girls and adults, spanning 90 countries. To these girls, I say: Bravo, young citizens! You are part of an esteemed history, but be mindful: You can wear the neckerchief and clasp the woggle at your throat with your insignia rightly centered, but if you fail to accessorize your uniform with the proper pink shoes, starry charm bracelet and spangly fuschia purse, you'll never pass muster with Yours Truly Dooley™! Commit yourselves to noble pursuits as envisioned by Juliette Gordon-Low, but do so with fashionable self respect as it may well assist you in the selling of thin, minted cookies door-to-door or at www.girlscouts.org. (I’ll take three boxes!)

Fine And Dandy

Today we take a celebratory pull on the moonshine jug in honour of the quintessential southern rock front man, James “Jim Dandy” Mangrum of the band Black Oak Arkansas. Born and baptized on this here day, March 11, 1948, Master Dandy was raised a proper — gun-totin’, kin-bangin’ — Southern Baptist in the town of — I’ll be bloody damned — Black Oak, Arkansas, who left high school early, but not empty-handed, as he absconded with the entirety of the marching band’s instrumentation and nearly ended up in a prison cell as a result. Alas, the rock ‘n roll gods took mercy on the southern-fried shite-for-brains and he received a suspended sentence, after which Dandy skeedadled, taking his scrawny, dope-tokin’ arse to the Hell’s Kitchen of Dixie — N’Awlins — where we imagine he spent his time warshing dishes, bustin’ cherries and makin’ bail, before music again came a-callin’, this time in the form of a vintage warshboard he commenced to scratch and thwap away at it whilst a-howlin' at the moon. ‘Twas a god-awful racket that was destined for the radio airwaves! Master Dandy arrived shirtless in mid-'70’s Lost Angeles, where he and his bandmates officially came to the public’s attention, thanks to man-crushing music impresario Don Kirschner. Ol' Jim Dandy's trademarked yowlin' and sweaty, spandexed gyratin' were a hit on television's Rock Concert®, where his repertoire of drunken, uncouth stunts included simulated coitus with his beloved laundering board. Dandy and his ditchweed-bogartin’ bandmates released a heap o’ tasty platters — “High as Hell on the Highway to Hell,” “Ridin’ Miss Daisy,” “Shootout at the Waffle House,” and “Lawd Have Mercy, My Balls Are On Fire!” — their big-bellied, halter-topped fans eatin’ it up like barbecued gizzard po’ boys. Dandy would become the unlikely blond-haired prototype for a legion of crotchless chaps-wearing look-alikes (including younger brother, David Lee “Sloth” Mangrum). Adored by trailer trash men and women alike — I’ll confess to having a soft spot for the platinum-maned geezer myself — he is 74 today. Go, Jim Dandy, Go!

Kansas Pity

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (March 10, 1891), that an undertaker in Topeka, Kansas by the name of Almon Strowger patented the Strowger Switch™, a device which led to the automation of telephone circuit switching. Now, if that random factoid leaves you unimpressed, imagine being a citizen of Topeka or Toledo or countless other sleepy hamlets on either side of the pond that are home to obscure invention or fifth-tier industry, and every time your town was Yahoodled™, people were reminded that yours isn’t the home of personal computing or motorcar production or shipbuilding — no, your town’s claim to fame is bloody strowger switching, and ‘twill be forever and ever, amen. Bloody hell, if I were from Topeka, I’d endeavor to expunge all data on the Twitternet connecting Almon bloody Strowger to my hometown. I’d hack into Wikipedialyte and relocate him to the Missouri side and no one would be the Budweiser™. Of course, my efforts to disassociate from the heralded circuit switcher would likely be thwarted by some wanker from the Topeka Historical Society who'd be on the mourning telly trumpeting the tale of the funeral director who took a break from pumping corpses full of formaldehyde to design some rotary dial gizmo, and then he'd invite everyone out to the commemorative Strowger Switch Days Parade, where they ask that you keep your intelligent phone apparatus out of plain sight, as the ladies of the Strowger Society frown on the telecommunications advancements that have made the work of their beloved Almon Strowger more or less obsolete.

Let Us Prey

We begin this week with a prayer: Dear Lorde®, help me understand why you allow such reckless ineptitude to run rampant on your beloved Mother Earth. What part of your all-knowingness has resulted in such abundant awfulness as neck tattoos, man buns, wine bars, adult coloring books, artisanal sandwich makers, celebrity carpenters, suburban educators, smart phone salesmen, musclebound Samoan screen curiosity Dwyane "Wade" Johnson, Citizen Climatologist™ Leonard DiCaprio and Reptilian News Chameleon (RNC) Shawn Hannity, to say nothing of every pale-faced adult with an opinion, a keyboard and an anonymous online handle? If we are all of us God’s children, Citizen Spirit Master™, upwards of sixty percent of your unhinged offspring could use a timeout, if not a proper jail sentence. Unfortunately, there are only so many tailgaters, philanderers, mommy bloggers, craft beer aficionados, ex-sister-in-laws, Match.com couples, and hero-worshipping professional golf fans I can cite with an e-warning, and carting every last bearded jackal on terra firma to the local jail house is sadly unworkable. If you could see your way to pinpointing a decimating “React Of God" — hurricane, wildfire, Imagine Dragons concert — upon those most deserving of your wrath, Oh Heavenly Avenger™, it might lighten this Internet Patrolman’s load and give me the strength to carry on. I fear the end of days approaching and ‘twill be worse than that bloody “End of Days” movie starring Governor Emeritus™ Arnold Schvartzen*gger, but until the last day arrives and this planet is justly sent up in flames, watch over us and do us a solid or something. I ask this in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghostly Roman Empire. Amen.

Brew Ha-Ha

The man they called “Mr. Coffee,” restaurateur Giuseppe “Joe” DiMaggiano died on this day, March 8, 1999. Born in 1914, the son of “Eye-talian” immigrants, DiMaggiano was a native New Yorker whose father operated the popular “Yankee Clipper” barbershop in Little Italy. Young Joe spent his after-school hours at the shop, sweeping up head and nostril hair clippings and flipping through nudie mags, but alas, he didn’t acquire his father’s affinity for shears and such, preferring the minestrone ladle in his mum’s kitchen. Mother and son began concocting recipes that became the basis for their DiMaggiano’s casual dining menu, sold from a storefront lunch counter below the family's second floor walk-up. After his foray into minor league baseball fizzled, DiMaggiano dedicated himself to the restaurant, expanding and franchising the renamed Maggiano’s Little Italy®, where he enjoyed goodly success serving family-sized portions of traditional fare, which is to say, red-sauced slop, along with his signature “Joltin’ Joe” percolated coffee. Hippy dippy folksinger Bob Dylan is said to have penned the lyrics to “One More Cup of Coffee (For the Road)” on a DiMaggiano napkin and 'twas here that Joe got the notion that if folks could brew their own bloody coffee at home, they wouldn't suckle bottomless cups of his brew, whilst weaseling another basket of free bread. He commissioned the engineers responsible for the famed “Turbo Encabulator®” to design a device that used gravity to pull water through a heating section and then dripped hot water over his Starbuck's™ coffee grounds into a carafe below. He named the system “Mr. Coffee” and, just like that, the failed baseballer had finally hit a “home run.” His line of Mr. Coffee® machines produced a remarkably flavorful cup of "Joe" and he soon found himself to be somewhat of a celebrity, squiring pin-ups and actresses like Lee Meriwether, Olivia deHavilland, Marlene Dietrich and probably Rita Moreno. But ‘twas Arthur Miller’s ex-bird Norma Jean Desmond to whom he really took a fancy and they eventually married and enjoyed, one hopes, a long, caffeine-fueled life together. Joe would go on to create a succession of products bearing “his name,” including a Mr. Coffee Juicer, Mr. Coffee Breadmaker and Mr. Coffee Erectile Enhancer. He later sold his coffee empire to a young Howard Schultz who has himself enjoyed some success with the trademarks. We raise a cup of “Joe” in memory of “Joltin’ Joe” DiMaggiano on this day. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Citizen Brewmaster.

Onan The Barbarian

As I Understand It™, the Catholocists are fully a "weak" into the Lenten season and with Ash Wednesday® in the rear view and the foreheads of the faithful adequately ash-tagged, it can only mean one thing: Suffering. Churchgoers have a penchant for suffering, if you'll forgive us for saying, and suffer mightily they will for forty days, fully a month and more of abstaining from that which gives them pleasure, yet threatens to be their moral undoing: Malted liquor, corned beef, tobacco, Tombstone® pizzas, crossword puzzles, bowling, bumper pool, Off-Track Betting (OTB), karaoke and coveting — which is to say, sexting — the neighbor's spouse; whatever one's pleasure, Lent is the time the religulous say, enough is enough, we're offering it up to you, Oh Lorde™. Take, for instance, young John Thomas. It seems that Master Thomas — in a practice common among school lads and digital marketing professionals — has been pumping out the precious fluid of his immortal soul nightly. His weakness for shillelagh shellacking has shamed his mum and dad and cost him his bloody eyesight. His IQ has summarily plummeted in six months and the fulsome pubis growth engulfing his left hand requires daily stroking with a razor blade. Alas, any sort of stroking leads to no good — according to Pastor Ron at "The Lorde Is My Savior But Not Yours Christian Fellowship Church" — as John Thomas is a complusive, serial Onanist. His story came to our attention in a disturbing series of postings circulating the Twitternet™. Pictured here with Pastor (and real-life Uncle) Ron, John Thomas and the God-fearing flock at The LIMSBNYCF Church are asking for prayers this Lent and the station house is of a mind to oblige: "Dear Lorde of wafered communion hosts and horrible, sweet wine on high. Keep John Thomas’ hands — and Ron's hands — off John Thomas' John Thomas for these 40 Lenten days so that his vision returns 20/20 and he's in fine form for the colored egg and jelly bean hunt on Easter Sunday. Yours Truly, Citizen Spiritualist Dooley®."

Bob's Yer Late Uncle: Remembering Bobby Sherman

Celebrating a Deathday™: Oscar-winning songwriter Robert B. "Bobby" Sherman took his final curtain call on this day, March 6, 2012 in London. He was 86'd. Together with conjoined brother Richard M. "Marky" Sherman, Robert Sherman brought the world a string of classic show tunes from award-winning musicals and films including "The Aristocrats," "Winnie the Pooh-Bah," "Mary Pops In (For An Extended Stay)" and "Chitty Chitty Gang Bang." They also wrote the amusement ride theme, “It’s a Small World (After All Is Well Said And Done)”, credited as being the most played song in all of recorded history, outside of that Chuck Mangioni flugelhorn thingy that still haunts my dreams. Remarkably, “Bobby” — and his namesake "Bob" hair style — also enjoyed goodly success as an actor and singer, first coming to fame in the Millard Romney-esque fable “Here Comes the Brides,” alongside bride beater David "Blue Eyed" Soul. Bobby and his puka shells went on to "guest star," which is to say "appear briefly" in the usual shows of the era — The Mod Squad, Ellery the Queen, The Man called U.N.C.L.E. C.H.A.R.L.I.E. and I-Spy-The-Brady-Bunch-Mum-and-Sisters, where he shared screen time and salivary fluids with Marcia or Carol Brady (either way, it wasn’t luckless middle sister Jan). I seem to recall Robert being the voice of the robot on Lost in Space, but don’t quote me on that or I’ll toss you in the virtual lockup. Sherman was, indeed, no slouch as a lisp-singer, climbing the pop charts with "Jennifer Juniper," “Julie, Do Ya' Love Me (In The Biblical Sense)?” — she did, with great haste to the great shame of her father — and “Easy Come, Easy Go.” His easy pop stardom fueled a desire to make more meaningful music, hence teaming with his brother on songs for singing bears, artistocratic felines and flying motorcars. He went from studded, fringed shirts to Bob Fosse tails with equal aplomb, if not Eve Plumb, and one hopes is pounding the keys in the heavens. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to Robert B. Sherman!

Blithering Heights

Whoever said we’re all the same height lying down never laid down with Svetlana Pankratova of Russia. While technically not the tallest woman in the world, the towering Volgogradan is listed in the Guinness Book of World Record as having the world’s longest legs, measuring 4 ft. 4 in. Photographed here in London’s Trafalgar Square with fellow Guinness Record Holder — World’s Shortest Man He Pingping of China — Pankratova was apparently looking for a fella who'd look up her skirt when she met Pingping. At birth, He could fit in the palm of his father’s hand, which means Pankratova could have likely balanced the teeny tiny He man on her big toe. Pankratova and Pingping made an affecting couple in their time together — joined at the hip, as it were, even though their hips were feet apart — and surely would have starred in a reality TV show had Pingping lived. Sadly, 'twasn't so. When He passed away a decade ago on this day March 5, 2010, the grieving giantess took to an oversized bed that was incapable of housing her statuesque frame. Today, the leggy Pankratova is enjoying happier times. She's married — which is to say, laying down with — an average-heighted bloke and coaching average-skilled girl's high school basketball in Virginia — where she still holds the records for blocked shots, vodka shots and tall drinks of water. As for Himself, He remains nestled in a miniature, underground lair. #RIPinging.

Adam Bombed

England has Paul McCartney, John Lennon, John Bonham, John Paul Jones, John Lydon, John Deacon, Brian May, Brian Jones, Brian Eno, Brian Ferry, George Harrison, Ringo Starr, Eric Burdon, Allan Clarke, Graham Nash, Graeme Edge, Justin Hayward, Spencer Davis, Steve Winwood, Jeff Beck, Jeff Lynne, Rod Stewart, Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, Peter Frampton, Peter Gabriel, Peter Hook, Pete Townsend, Pete Way, Pete Ham, PJ Harvey, Roger Daltry, Roger Waters, Roger Hodgson, Roger Taylor, Andy Taylor, Andy Powell, Martin Turner, Elton John, John Squire, John Entwistle, John Lodge, John McVie, Christine McVie, Chrissie Hynde, Chris Martin, Elvis Costello, Simon LeBon, David Bowie, David Gilmour, Dave Stewart, Dave Clark, Petula Clark, Dusty Springfield, Dido, Duffy, Adele, Nick Mason, Rick Wright, Richard Thompson, Linda Thompson, Thom York, Tom Evans, Josh Stone, Marianne Faithful, Mick Jagger, Mick Taylor, Mick Jones, Mick Fleetwood, Mick Ronson, Mike Rutherford, Mike Pinder, Mitch Mitchell, Morrissey, Nico, Sade, Lulu, Lemmy, Liam Gallagher, Noel Gallagher, Noel Redding, Gerry Rafferty, Joe Strummer, Joe Elliott, Johnny Marr, Keith Moon, Keith Relf, Keith Richards, Cliff Richards, Jim McCarty, Roy Wood, Ron Wood, Ronnie Lane, Denny Laine, Sandy Denny, Mary Hopkin, Topper Headon, Tony Iommi, Tony Hicks, Tony Banks, Tony Kaye, K.K. Downing, Glen Tipton, Glen Tilbrook, Bill Bruford, Bill Wyman, Bill Ward, Geezer Butler, Ozzy Osbourne, Greg Lake, Keith Emerson, Carl Palmer, Rick Wakeman, Will Sergeant, Chris Squire, Chris Difford, Jools Holland, Jon Anderson, Steve Howe, Steve Hackett, Steve Jones, Steve Marriott, Stephen Morris, Cat Stevens, Kate Bush, Annie Lennox, Lilly Allen, Amy Winehouse, Shirley Bassy, Shirley Manson, Gordon Sumner, Bernard Sumner, Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, Robert Palmer, Paul Rodgers, Paul Weller, Paul Simonon, Paul Cook, Paul Carrack, Phil Collins, Phil Collen, Phil Mogg, Ray Davies, Dave Davies, Rick Davies, Graham Parker, Alan Parsons, Robert Fripp, Robert Smith, Rob Halford, Ritchie Blackmore, Ian Gillan, Ian Curtis, Ian McCullough, Ian Brown, Ian Stewart, Al Stewart Barry Gibb, Maurice Gibb, Robin Gibb, Robin Trower, Freddie Mercury, Jack Bruce, Ginger Banker and EC, Eric Clapton. The states have sinewy, song-and-dance softie Adam Latrine. Grinding and falsetto-ing on the telly and other national stages, no less. Bloody hell, America.

Hells Bells We're Havin' a Birthday!

A doff of the double-billed birthday brim to the “Twin Towers of Scottish Letters & Science,” brothers Alexander and Graham Bell. Born conjoined — which is to say, clutching one another’s paws as they hurtled headlong down the exit ramp — March 3, 1847 in Edinburgh, the Bell brothers rarely left one another’s side, whether squiring the Hubbard sisters, Mabel (Alexander) and Pauline (Graham), or putzing (Graham) and futzing (Alexander) about the laboratory. Alexander (pictured left or, possibly, right) was inclined towards invention, while Graham (pictured right or, possibly, left) was the food scientist and ‘twas the later’s experimentation with fine-ground white flour and coarse-ground wheat bran which resulted in a delightful, honey-sweetened, digestive biscuit. Originally deemed the “Wise Cracker” by his “Smart Alex” brother, the “Graham® Cracker” was larger than a conventional soda cracker, purposefully designed in an oversized square shape so as to fit "squarely" in the brothers' matching engineer's shirt pockets. That it would later accommodate a square of Cadbury® chocolate and a single, melted marshmallow was not happenstance, methinks, but rather the snacking gods at work, ensuring immortality for what brother Alexander would call the “S'more.” (As in, “Jolly good, let’s have s'more of those melty mallow and cocoa-sweetened treats, brother!”) The brothers Bell would acquire some 18 patents during their lifetime, for such varied inventions as the metal detector, the ripened red "Bell" pepper and something of a crude “teléfono,” but ‘tis the Graham cracker for which they will be most closely associated. Methinks 'twould be a great day to have a s'more and a smile in honour of these two Great Scotts. Brothers Alexander and Graham Bell would have been 173 years young today.

The Horse Talkerer

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — March 2, 1979 — that Mr. Ed died, which makes this a lousy damn day, indeed. A well-hooved American Palomino, Ed was the original horse of a different colour. His popular nighttime comedy "I Am Mr. Ed" aired from 1961 to 1966, and if there has been a finer television series to come out of the states since then, I am unaware of it. Ed was never nominated for an American Telly Award, and I can only hope that the judges who overlooked his thorspian talentry are burning in hell for it. There was no more capable actor — man, woman or horse — on television during that time. I don’t doubt that the great comedians of the 70’s — Benny Hill, Terry Thomas, Wayland Flowers — all went to school on Ed. He spoke fluent English, French and horse Latin, played table tennis and polo (on land and water). He could stitch with needle and thread, operate a ham radio and read the newspaper, the racing sheets and Rona Barrett's Horseplay™ magazine. Ed went to correspondence school and majored in animal science. He had a photographic memory and was capable of memorizing scripts on sight, and of naming all 51 U.S. states in alphabetical order, but only if you gave him a carrot. An accomplished ventriloquist and unicyclist, Ed operated the merry-go-round at carnivals. He was a jackass of all trades and master of fun, a practical joker, but an impractical businessman who received no television royalties — even though he voiced the famous slogan, “This has been a Filmways presentation, dahling" and wrote the bloody lyrics to the show’s jingle — brilliantly rhyming “of course” with “steady course.” Ed dated co-star Connie Hines, but it didn't last long, as the clingy actress wouldn't give the breakout star room to spread his horse wings, so he showed her the door (to the barn). He was a man after my own heart, if my heart had four legs. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, Mr. Ed Wilbur. Long may you run. On basic cable, at odd hours.

Miss March

I Have It On Good Authority™ — which is to say, a dog-eared, 1967 Farmer's Almanac® — that March will come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. Then again, who's to say the tea leaf readers weren't misinformed and March doesn't come in like a Welsh pony and go out like a malodorous pug? Maybe this year March will come in standing on two bloody feet — Welcome Wagon Lady — and go out on the flat of her back — an obliging southern belle. Or maybe March will come in like a longshoreman and go out like a second hand bookseller. Or in like a Christian Mingler® and out like a conspiracy theorist with a full diaper. Or a seer-suckered country clubber — in — and a perpetually stewed sister-in-law (pictured) — out. In and out. Whatever the case, March is bloody well comin' in. One hopes that it wipes its muddied shoes as it crosses the threshold.