I see all the birds are flown.

January 30, 1649 -
Once again, history proves that it's not always good to be the king (or apparently the man who overthrows him either).

Charles I was your average inbred near dwarf royalty that much of Europe was popping out at the time. He is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the nation's shortest king ( just over 5 feet tall). He married another inbred royal princess (Princess Henrietta Maria of France) and that would have been that. Unfortunately for him, two issues got in his way - his wife was Catholic and after much tsuris, England was in a Protestant mood.

Also, Charles had picked up the nasty habit of believe in the Divine right of the Monarchy. Parliament was feeling it oats and would have none of it and this lead to the English Civil War. Rather than the Blue and the Grey, England had the Roundheads and the Cavaliers (it really doesn't matter who was who - but it might be on the test.)



Charles and his supported were defeated and Charles was put on a show trial for High Treason. Since Charles believed he had a Divine right to be King, he put up no defense. Parliament, wishing all the best to meet the Divine, convicted him of treason and ordered his execution.



When Charles was beheaded on January 30th, 1649, it is reputed that he wore two shirts as to prevent the cold January weather causing any noticeable shivers that the crowd could have been mistaken for fear or weakness. He put his head on the block after saying a prayer and signaled the executioner when he was ready; he was then beheaded with one clean stroke.



It was common practice for the head of a traitor to be held up and exhibited to the crowd with the words Behold the head of a traitor!; although Charles' head was exhibited, the words were not used. In an unprecedented gesture, one of the revolutionary leaders, Oliver Cromwell, allowed the King's head to be sewn back on his body so the family could pay its respects. Charles was buried in private and at night on February 7th, 1649, in the Henry VIII vault inside St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle.

This was Cromwell's big mistake.



Under Oliver Cromwell, England became a Republic and became Protectorate and ruled England until his death from malaria in 1658. He was succeeded as Lord Protector by his son Richard. Although Richard was not entirely without ability, he had no power base in either Parliament or the Army, and was forced to resign in the spring of 1659, bringing the Protectorate to an end. In the period immediately following his abdication, the head of the army, George Monck took power for less than a year, at which point, Parliament restored Charles II as king.




Now here's the kicker -



in 1661, Oliver Cromwell's body was exhumed from Westminster Abbey, and was subjected to the ritual of a posthumous execution. Symbolically, this took place on January 30; the same date that Charles I had been executed. As Cromwell was quite dead at the time, he could put up a very weak defense at best. His body was hung in chains at Tyburn. Finally, his disinterred body was thrown into a pit, while his severed head was displayed on a pole outside Westminster Abbey until 1685. Afterward, the head changed hands several times, before eventually being buried in the grounds of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, in 1960.

Important news on the scientific front

Frank Sinatra's Hamburger recipe

Dean Martin's Hamburger recipe

Ernest Hemingway's Hamburger recipe

(Actual recipe as printed in the Paris Review)

Remember you probably need to be barechested while making these hamburgers, the hell with the grease slattering and be drinking fresh lime daquaris.

Ingredients–

1 lb. ground lean beef

2 cloves, minced garlic

2 little green onions, finely chopped

1 heaping teaspoon, India relish

2 tablespoons, capers

1 heaping teaspoon, Spice Islands sage

Spice Islands Beau Monde Seasoning — 1/2 teaspoon

Spice Islands Mei Yen Powder — 1/2 teaspoon

1 egg, beaten in a cup with a fork

About 1/3 cup dry red or white wine

1 tablespoon cooking oil

What to do–

Break up the meat with a fork and scatter the garlic, onion and dry seasonings over it, then mix them into the meat with a fork or your fingers. Let the bowl of meat sit out of the icebox for ten or fifteen minutes while you set the table and make the salad. Add the relish, capers, everything else including wine and let the meat sit, quietly marinating, for another ten minutes if possible. Now make your fat, juicy patties with your hands. The patties should be an inch thick, and soft in texture but not runny. Have the oil in your frying pan hot but not smoking when you drop in the patties and then turn the heat down and fry the burgers about four minutes. Take the pan off the burner and turn the heat high again. Flip the burgers over, put the pan back on the hot fire, then after one minute, turn the heat down again and cook another three minutes. Both sides of the burgers should be crispy brown and the middle pink and juicy.

(Spice Islands stopped making Mei Yen Powder several years ago. You can recreate it, she says, by mixing nine parts salt, nine parts sugar and two parts MSG.  With the measurement for this recipe, add a splash of soy sauce. )

After you eat on of these 1/2 pound babies, your body slick with animal grease, your brain fueled on Cuban Rum, you will probably want to wrestle someone in the home.

Painch, tripe, or thairm

January 25, 1759 -
It's Robert Burns' birthday and people will be celebrating with a Burns Supper.



The Burns Supper is eaten all across Scotland each year on the anniversary of the national poet's birth. It consists of haggis and whiskey. It is customary for the host to read Burns' Ode to a Haggis at the dinner table, presumably as a diversionary tactic.



The haggis are a gentle breed of playful mammals indigenous to the Scottish highlands. They have never survived attempts at transplantation. They have been popular cuisine for as long as the British isles have been populated. Julius Caesar reflects in his memoirs that he tried to bring several thousand haggis back to Rome for breeding after his conquest of Brittania - a controversial decision that eventually led to civil war in the Roman Empire.



The ancient Picts of Ireland invaded and eventually settled Scotland in no small part because of their affinity for haggis. The ancient Celts migrated in the opposite direction to avoid it.

Haggis were traditionally trapped, killed, and prepared like most other small mammals. Toward the end of the eighteenth century, however, it became fashionable to drop living haggis, like lobster, into pots of boiling water.



This is because after boiling for half an hour the pelt peels off easily and can then be dried and used for in textiles. Haggis fur is especially popular in Scottish gloves, coats, and seat covers.

I would like to bring some attention to the terrible plight of the delicate and sweet-tempered Haggis, whose inoffensive lives are too often ended by being boiled alive at the hands of a boozy Scot.



In today's frigid atmosphere of political correctness, it is considered unfair to condemn the Scots for their grotesque maltreatment of these affectionate animals. To deplore their treatment of the haggis is to criticize their culture, and cultural criticism is an obscenity.

But Scottish culture? We're all grateful for whiskey, but is it enough to justify bagpipes and men in skirts? Has any other culture cried out so eloquently for condemnation?



According to People against the Indefensible Treatment of Haggis, more than eight million haggis were "ranched" for this year's festivities. Over six million of these ranch-bred haggis, beside whom veal calves might well be considered pampered, were sold to Scots who will take them home, boiled them alive, then skin and dismember them. The nearly two million not sold will be tossed alive into commercial blenders, mixed with fresh cream, frozen, and later sold as the popular Scottish summer treat, Haggis Ice.

Try looking into the trusting brown eyes of a haggis and explaining that it must be boiled alive and ceremonially dismembered for the sake of Scottish culture.



This horror must end. To help bring it home to Americans, I ask you to take a moment to reflect on our own Groundhog's Day. Each February 2, we honor the prognosticative skills of that curious little creature in a vast national celebration of pagan superstition.



How many groundhogs die for this celebration? None. How many groundhog mothers are separated from their groundhog children in order to satisfy our national groundhog needs? None. How many grandfathers stand at the heads of their dinner tables, proudly presiding over the dismemberment of a steaming groundhog carcass?

The Scots could learn a thing or two about ethical animal treatment from us. We could probably also teach them a thing or two about trousers.

Another book on the nightstand

Tea, the pause that truly refreshes

What one is currently reading

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

January 19, 1809 -

It's the birthday of the poet and short-story writer Edgar Allan Poe, born in Boston on this date.  He was the son of two actors, but since he was Edgar Allan Poe, both his parents died of tuberculosis when he was just a boy. He was taken in by a wealthy Scotch merchant named John Allan, who gave Edgar Poe his middle name.

His foster father sent him to the prestigious University of Virginia, where he was surrounded by the sons of wealthy slave-owning families. He developed a habit of drinking and gambling with the other students, but his foster father didn't approve. He and John Allan had a series of arguments about his behavior and his career choices, and he was finally disowned and thrown out of the house. Sometimes, we all make bad choices.



He spent the next several years living in poverty, depending on his aunt for a home, supporting himself by writing anything he could, including a how-to guide for seashell collecting and picking the pockets of the dead at funerals. Eventually, he began to contribute poems, journalism and helpful cleaning tips to magazines. At the time, magazines were a new literary medium in the United States, and Poe was one of the first writers to make a living writing for magazines. He called himself a magazinist.

He first made his name writing some of the most brutal book reviews ever published at the time. He was called the "tomahawk man from the South." He described one poem as "an illimitable gilded swill trough," and he said, "[Most] of those who hold high places in our poetical literature are absolute nincompoops." He particularly disliked the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and John Greenleaf Whittier.

Poe also began to publish fiction, and he specialized in humorous and satirical stories because that was the style of fiction most in demand. Once again, remember this is Edgar Allan Poe - so, soon after he married his 14-year-old cousin, Virginia, he learned that she had tuberculosis, just like his parents, and he began to write darker stories. One of his editors complained that his work was growing too grotesque, but Poe replied that the grotesque would sell magazines. And he was right. His work helped launch magazines as the major new venue for literary fiction.



But even though his stories sold magazines, he still didn't make much money. He made about $4 per article and $15 per story, and the magazines were notoriously late with their paychecks. There was no international copyright law at the time, and so his stories were printed without his permission throughout Europe. There were periods when he and his wife lived on bread, molasses, and dust bunnies and sold most of their belongings to the pawn shop.

It was under these conditions, suffering from alcoholism, and watching his wife grow slowly worse in health, that he wrote some of the greatest gothic horror stories in English literature, including The Tell-Tale Heart and The Fall of the House of Usher. Near the end of his wife's illness, he published the poem that begins,

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door....



On October 7, 1849, Edgar Allen Poe was found in a delirious state (Maryland) outside a Baltimore voting place (saloon).



Mr. Poe was often found delirious, especially outside voting places, but this time his delirium was serious and he died

I must have been out of class that day

I know Sr. Rita did not bring this up in catechism class

Fanfare for the average celebrity

Most Americans believe that Martin Luther King, Jr, was born on the third Monday in January, but in our eagerness to celebrate the reverend’s accomplishments, we are overlooking two classic icons of American culture whose birthdays occur in the same week.

Unlike the venerable Reverend King, these two figures represent not the American Ideal but the American Reality and, as such, deserve our recognition. Therefore, in the tradition of President’s Day, that floating amalgamation of Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays that has at last become a kind of collective presidential birthday, let us choose one day this week to celebrate not only the two individuals whose identities will be revealed in a moment, but everything they represent. Let us take this one day a year to acknowledge all that is great in America, as personified by Charles Nelson Reilly (1/13/31) and Charo (1/15/51).

Why are they important? Because they represent everything magnificent about America in the last century, everything grand and glorious about our unique blend of liberty, commercialism, and shiny red sequin dresses. Charles Nelson Reilly made a career out of a weak chin, a few peculiar facial expressions, and a whiny sound that cannot be done justice on paper (but sounded something like "neeyeh!").



It might be said that Charo made her fame the old-fashioned way, by wriggling around in scanty clothes, but then how does one account for the millions of women who’ve shaken their hoochies and shimmied their coochies before and since with nary a guest appearance on Love Boat? No, Charo wasn’t simply a titillating nymphet, but a titillating nymphet who yelped and squealed like a dog in heat.



Very well, you say: maybe Charles Nelson Reilly made his fortune off a weak chin and "neeyeh," and maybe Charo made hers off a yelpy squeal, so what? What’s any of this got to do with America? Who cares?

I care and you should care. The important thing isn’t that they made their particular fortunes by means of those particular eccentricities, but that they were ABLE to do so. Our nation is great not because people like Charles Nelson Reilly and Charo succeed here, but because they CAN succeed here. It’s important to support the ideals of liberty and justice and equality before the law, but it’s just as important, nay, perhaps more important to celebrate the reality that we’re more than Democracy’s standard bearer, more than the defender of oppressed peoples, more than the "last best hope" we are unbelievably silly! We’re sillier than any other nation on the face of the earth, and it’s time to stop being ashamed. It’s time to stand up for silliness, and that is what I believe

(I only wish Valerie Perrine had been born on the same week - it would have been the perfect trifecta.)

Because, I am a dancer

Yes, it's Mitt

Give the lady what she wants

Harry Gordon Selfridge was born on January 11, 1864. Though American-born, he is best known as the founder of the British store Selfridge and Co., Ltd (think Macy's, for those of you unfamiliar with the store). He receives little or no attention here in the United States. His name does not appear in any textbooks, he is not honored with any holidays, his image does not appear on any currency, and his biography has never aired on A&E (It's airing on ITV in England). And yet Mr. Selfridge's philosophy has had more impact on western civilization than a dozen Aristotles.

His great maxim is uttered carelessly by a million voices every day, is enshrined in the halls of commerce and government alike, and has permeated our culture to the point where it has become a cliche. Like most successful ideas, we can hardly imagine that his concept was ever new or controversial; we must strain our imaginations to conceive a world unilluminated by his wisdom.



It was Mr. Selfridge's philosophy that "the customer is always right" and "give the lady what she wants" (this phrase might more have to do with the fact that Selfridge, a widower at the time, carried on scandalous affairs with Isadora Duncan, Anna Pavlova and not one but both silent film stars, The Dolly Sisters, simultaneously.)

This was an unorthodox, even heretical proclamation to the ears of nineteenth century merchants, who had been operating--like their parents and grandparents and scores of generations before them--under the assumption that the customer was an idiot who didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.



Prior to widespread acceptance of Mr. Selfridge's theory, exchanges between merchant and customer often went something like this:

Customer: This is a terrible shirt. There's no hole for my head, the arms are too long, and it barely comes down over my shoulders.

Merchant: That's because it's a pair of pants, you jackass.

After the revelation of consumer infallibility, however, the same exchange was more likely to go something like this:

Customer: This is a terrible shirt. There's no hole for my head, the arms are too long, and it barely comes down over my shoulders.

Merchant: You're absolutely right, of course. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. You can rest assured we'll have our seamstresses taken out and shot.



Consumer infallibility changed the face of commerce because instead of producing goods and then trying to force them upon the public, merchants began appraising the public's needs and trying to provide products and services that met them. Merchants became less inclined to insult, spit at, or strike their customers, and more inclined to take them out to dinner.



This shift dovetailed nicely with the growth of political pluralism, which saw governments becoming more responsive to their electorates based on the premise that "the voter is always right." (It has been argued, however, that whether they are made love to or raped, most electorates still end up screwed.)



Mr. Selfridge's birthday should be celebrated throughout western civilization as a holiday of emancipation, no less significant than the signing of the Magna Carta, the drafting of the U.S. Constitution, or the invention of microwave popcorn.

Late one night

Directly from the press conference

What did you know and when did you know it?

A man is not finished when he is defeated. He is finished when he quits.

It's the birthday of the 37th president of the United States, Richard Milhous Nixon, (born in Yorba Linda, California on this date in 1913. He had a childhood full of tragedy and disappointment.



When Nixon was 12, his older brother had a vision of young Dick's future and got a headache that turned out to be meningitis. He died a month later. Nixon said that he cried for weeks afterward. A few years later, Nixon's other brother caught tuberculosis and spent five years in a cut-rate sanitarium before he died. The cost of his treatment drained the family's resources, and Nixon had to turn down a partial scholarship to Harvard. He did get a full scholarship to Duke Law School, but he had to live in a one-room shotgun shack with no plumbing or electricity. He was forced to shave in the women's room of the Duke University library and bathe in a local bird bath.



Nixon's luck only began to change when he decided to join the military during World War II. Although raised a Quaker - morals never seemed to stand in his way. Nixon was interested in politics, and he knew that military service would look good on his résumé. One of the many things he learned in the military (besides compiling lists of his enemies) was that he was a fantastic cheat at poker. By the end of the war, he had earned almost $10,000. When he got back to civilian life, he used that money to fund his first political campaign.



He managed to win his first election for Congress, and he served as vice president under Dwight Eisenhower. Eisenhower suffered from heart problems and Nixon would try to entertain the ailing President by jumping out from behind the furniture shooting, "Boo" or "Oh My God, the Communists have begun bombing New Haven". Nixon was defeated for the presidency by John F. Kennedy in 1960 due in part to a perceived lack of personal hygiene. Then, in 1962, he lost a campaign for governor of California, and suddenly it seemed like his career was over. But just six years later, he was elected president of the United States.



His policies as president were surprisingly liberal by today's standards. He began arms control agreements with the Soviet Union and eased relations with China. He established the Environmental Protection Agency, expanded Social Security and state welfare programs, and he tried to create a national health insurance system.



The Watergate investigations eventually forced Nixon to resign in 1974. At his last meeting with his Cabinet in 1974, Nixon burst into tears.



He told them, "Always give your best, never get discouraged, never be petty. Always remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don't win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself."

Mortuus est autem rex

The only 'recognized' monarchy to reign in the United States died on this date.

Joshua Norton was a businessman in San Francisco in the 1800's. In the 1840's, just before the Gold Rush, he tried to corner the market on rice and failed. He went from being very wealthy to being destitute overnight and the experience completely shattered his reason. A couple of months after this event, he put on a formal admiral's uniform, complete with gold braid and epaulets and strode in to the office of the newspaper. He handed the editor a large, official looking proclamation which stated in quite formal language that, due to popular demand, he hereby declared himself Emperor Norton I of these United States, and the Protector of Mexico. He bade all his subjects show him loyalty and the other courtesies due a person of such eminent stature.

On the evening of January 8, 1880, Joshua Norton collapsed on the corner of California Street and Dupont Street (now Grant Avenue) while on his way to a lecture at the Academy of Sciences. His collapse was immediately noticed by another citizen who raised the alarm, and "the police officer on the beat hastened for a carriage to convey him to the City Receiving Hospital." Norton died before the carriage could arrive.

Norton's funeral was a solemn, mournful and large affair. Some accounts report that as many as 30,000 people lined the streets to pay homage, and that the funeral cortege was two miles long. He was buried at the Masonic Cemetery, at the expense of the City of San Francisco.

The day after his funeral, January 11, 1880, the San Francisco skies were blackened with a solar eclipse.

Excoriation of the King

On his birthday, remember; Elvis was born to suffer for your sins



Touch the screen, feel the golden shaft of his power (hunka, hunka, burning love) pierce your loins.

Another court mandated PSA by ACME

From the Federal Fiber Council:

The holidays are actually over

Take the damn decorations down.



It's the Feast of the Three Kings (Gaspar, Melchior and Balthazar), Little Christmas, etc. If you're playing the home version of the game - the Gifts of the Magi were Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh (or the watch fob and a set of combs would have been an acceptable answer.)



... The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. - O. Henry



Keep your thoughts positive because your thoughts become your words. Keep your words positive because your words become your behavior. Keep your behavior positive because your behavior becomes your habits. Keep your habits positive because your habits become your values. Keep your values positive because your values become your destiny -  Mohandas Gandhi



I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. - Maya Angelou