Because I still can’t get the damn podcast to work, and I refust to post the vid of his surgically transformed face producing “Jingle Bell Rock,” surely the most insipid, heartless and banal seasonal tune ever committed to vinyl/digital.
Category Archives: Lush Life
A Downtown EastSide Christmas
Ho, ho, hotels all over the Downtown EastSide keep Christmas in their own unique ways. Unlike the Chinese restaurants that simply layer new tinsel over the old and leave the whole spangly mess up all year round, the hotels and flophouses, to be fair, do try to get into the spirit of things at the time, each in its own way.
The Patricia, flyer of the Red Ensign, bastion of respectability, old-fashioned refinement, microbrewed house beer, and sad old run-down gentlemen who still stand when a lady walks into the pub:
The Drake, a somewhat different establishment:
the Monkees: Ríu, Chíu
So what if they’re a little drunk? The a cappella harmonies are beautiful, and it’s great fun watching Davy and Peter try not to crack up. Bonus: at the end they introduce the whole crew. Looks like it was a fun place to work, even with the ridiculous outfits.
English Translation:
River, roaring river, guard our homes in safety,
God has kept the black wolf from our lamb, our lady.
God has kept the black wolf from our lamb, our lady.
Raging mad to bite her, there the wolf did steal,
But our God almighty defended her with zeal.
Pure he wished to keep her so she could never sin,
That first sin of man never touched the virgin sainted.
River, roaring river…
He who’s now begotten is our mighty monarch,
Christ, our holy father, in human flesh embodied.
He has brought atonement by being born so humble,
Though he is immortal, as mortal was created.
River, roaring river…
quiz o’ the day: Which historical lunatic are you?
Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.
Stole it from Pharyngula, but now that we’ve settled all pesky Cthulhoid-related issues, could there be a quiz more perfect for the ol’ raincoaster blog? I thought not, and so did my alter personalities.
Background:
Born in England sometime in the second decade of the nineteenth century, you carved a notable business career, in South Africa and later San Francisco, until an entry into the rice market wiped out your fortune in 1854. After this, you became quite different. The first sign of this came on September 17, 1859, when you expressed your dissatisfaction with the political situation in America by declaring yourself Norton I, Emperor of the USA. You remained as such, unchallenged, for twenty-one years.
Within a month you had decreed the dissolution of Congress. When this was largely ignored, you summoned all interested parties to discuss the matter in a music hall, and then summoned the army to quell the rebellious leaders in Washington. This did not work. Magnanimously, you decreed (eventually) that Congress could remain for the time being. However, you disbanded both major political parties in 1869, as well as instituting a fine of $25 for using the abominable nickname “Frisco” for your home city.
Your days consisted of parading around your domain – the San Francisco streets – in a uniform of royal blue with gold epaulettes. This was set off by a beaver hat and umbrella. You dispensed philosophy and inspected the state of sidewalks and the police with equal aplomb. You were a great ally of the maligned Chinese of the city, and once dispersed a riot by standing between the Chinese and their would-be assailants and reciting the Lord’s Prayer quietly, head bowed.
Once arrested, you were swiftly pardoned by the Police Chief with all apologies, after which all policemen were ordered to salute you on the street. Your renown grew. Proprietors of respectable establishments fixed brass plaques to their walls proclaiming your patronage; musical and theatrical performances invariably reserved seats for you and your two dogs. (As an aside, you were a good friend of Mark Twain, who wrote an epitaph for one of your faithful hounds, Bummer.) The Census of 1870 listed your occupation as “Emperor”.
The Board of Supervisors of San Francisco, upon noticing the slightly delapidated state of your attire, replaced it at their own expense. You responded graciously by granting a patent of nobility to each member. Your death, collapsing on the street on January 8, 1880, made front page news under the headline “Le Roi est Mort”. Aside from what you had on your person, your possessions amounted to a single sovereign, a collection of walking sticks, an old sabre, your correspondence with Queen Victoria and 1,098,235 shares of stock in a worthless gold mine. Your funeral cortege was of 30,000 people and over two miles long.
The burial was marked by a total eclipse of the sun.
happy Christmuhkwanzamadan
Another in our ongoing series of multiculti seasonal anthems. And with all the struggles I’m having trying to do a simple podcast, take what you can get; I nearly posted Kiki and Herb’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” instead, just because it fits my mood somewhat better at the moment.
But then, Kiki and Herb are the universal language, are they not? (PS if you see Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, tell them to duck if they’re coming through Vancouver. I could strangle those two bytches with my bare hands at this point)
Merry Christmas. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
