Somebody order a nightmare?
I owned this particular set of prints, which I ordered from the back of some magazine in, like, 1967. Four for a buck. The artist was called Gig and the genre was called Pity Kitties (and Pitty Puppies, Pitty Cubs and God knows what these are, but Gig painted them). Thanks to Gig, I wander the earth in fixed belief that millions of adorable kittens die every day for want of ham sammiches and weasel smoochies.
If I ever find Gig, I’m going to murder him. Murder him until he’s dead.
That’s not likely. There’s considerable mystery around the profusion of Big-Eye artists of the Fifties and Sixties: Gig, Eve, Mikki, Lee, Eden, Maio (something in addition to their tardonyms). No-one seems to know anything about them, and efforts to learn more have so far been fruitless (I’m guessing there’s shame and a great deal of soul-destroying guilt involved).
An exception is Walter Keane, who may have been the one to start it all. His schtick was big-eyed waifs, though it wasn’t really his schtick — the paintings were actually done by his wife, Margaret. But they were signed “Walter” and it was a hugely lucrative business, so when came the divorce, Walter claimed to be the actual painter.
To make her case, Margaret tore one off in front of the judge in Federal court (by which I mean painted a waif, not farted). Walter declined to paint one himself, on account of “his arm was sore.” She won.
Having a portrait painted by Margaret Keane was briefly in vogue among those refined citizens of Hollywood. Such noted aesthetes as Jerry Lewis, Liberace and Kim Novak sat for her. Natalie Wood and Joan Crawford were huge fans.
Keane is 81 and still painting. One of her bug-eyed originals will set you back tens of thousands nowadays. After she left Walter, she blissed out with the Jehovah’s Witnesses and currently describes her hypereyeballic waifs as weeping “tears of happiness.”
Get this: Kate Hudson is starring as Margaret Keane in a film called Big Eyes that will start production any day now. It’s a drama. About feminism. Kidding? Not.
This makes Weasel very sad.
July 7, 2008 — 11:10 am
Comments: 93
I did not know that
This dude? Uncle Sam. No shit.
He was Samuel Wilson (1766 — 1854), a meat packer from Troy, New York. During the War of 1812, he won a contract to supply meat to the army. The barrels were market “U.S.” and the soldiers joked that it stood for “Uncle Sam.”
It stuck.
When he got the little beard and the kicky star-spangled weskit, I do not know. I found this by following McGoo’s link to an article about James Mongomery Flagg. You know: the guy who painted the I Want You poster with finger-waggin’ Sam on it.
It’s the day before a holiday and my boss is out, so I have no intention of doing anything that even vaguely resembles work today.
And tomorrow? I’ll celebrate the Fourth the way I always do: ringing up Uncle Badger and yelling “Hey Limey — you suck!” and hanging up.
Got to be careful. One of these days, he’s going to figure out it’s me.
July 3, 2008 — 10:41 am
Comments: 27
A delightful morning of murder and buggery
Oh, man, I love the internet. They’ve put the proceedings of the Old Bailey online! And it’s searchable!
It’s an excellent website, too: in addition to the 200,000+ documents (both scans and transcriptions) covering trials from 1674 to 1913, there’s a ton of good London history (and not much more politically correct than it absolutely has to be).
The Old Bailey is London’s Central Criminal Court and has been since…forever, amen. The current building (built in 1902) is on the site of the old Newgate Prison, but the two were originally side by side for the sake of convenience.
There is no better primary source of information about the lives ordinary people than trial transcripts. Where else can you learn what a murder victim had in his pockets in 1810, what a Victorian innkeeper keeps in the till, what timeless drunken ladies of the evening shout as they whale away on each other with a rum bottle and a tin teapot? Treasure, I tell you!
Naturally, murder trials are the besteses (the advanced search helpfully allows you to sort by crime). But permit me to draw your attention to sodomy offenses prior to 1790, where you will encounter what the site describes as “a vibrant, even joyful, world of men who pursued both homosexual experiences and a distinct lifestyle” — i.e. lots and lots of cross-dressing and buggery. (After 1790 the courts got squeamish and censored the transcripts).
If you have any pasty English genes floating around in your gene pool, I highly recommend plugging your surname into the thingie and seeing what your ancestors got up to. Hey, it’s England! There’s probably a coat of arms for cross-dressers!
See also: the complete Newgate Calendar, London’s Past Online. You can still visit the Old Bailey and attend a trial. I’ve always wanted to. But I made Uncle B take me to the Houses of Detention, the Old Operating Theatre and a fancy rat show so I’m not pushing my luck. I’d just as soon not be the subject of a trial at the Old Bailey, thenkyewverymuch.
June 10, 2008 — 10:23 am
Comments: 79
Please help me. I’m immigrating to the Island of Misfit Toys.
Uncle B went to a village fête this weekend (I was going to title this post ‘a fête worse than death’ but I have a feeling that’s probably the oldest joke in the really stupid immigrant joke book).
Given the slightest encouragement, Brits break out in morris dancers. These guys. With the bells and the flowered hats and the dancing and waving hankies. The morris dance combines several things that Britons love: dressing up, acting stupid and scaring the hell out of weasels. (Their real first love is dressing in drag, so it’s no surprise there is a bit of this in some local variants).
Some claim morris dancing goes way back to pre-Christian Britain, but Wikipedia says the earliest for sure citation is late 15th C. I’m guessing some of the dances themselves are ancient, but the term “morris” apparently is derived from “Moorish” and may relate to the celebrations in Spain after Ferdinand and Isabella finally drove the Moors out in 1492. So it’s got that going for it.
Oliver Cromwell put the Puritan kibosh on it for a while, but it came roaring back. Then it died down to a few very teams (or ‘sides’) after the industrial revolution. But it got revived in the early 20th and esploded. Because, hey — dressing up, acting stupid and scaring the hell out of weasels. w00t!
What’s the dance like? I don’t really know. I’m pretty sure it’s all about the dressing up.
June 9, 2008 — 10:06 am
Comments: 13
My daddy didn’t buy a cow, and I won’t either
Ten years ago, I bought a six-shooter in a little shop in Alexandria, Tennessee. Buying a gun is a wingnut bonding ritual; it involves telling each other progressively wingnuttier stories for an hour or two before getting down to bidness. Thus, the buyer knows the seller is an honest man and the seller knows the buyer isn’t a BATF agent trying to trip him up and nick his license.
Anyhow, the shopkeep told me that Al Gore, Sr, ran a crooked cattle auction in nearby Carthage. People would come from all over (“desert sheiks in robes and all kind of thing”) to pay way over the odds for an angus cow that they, like as not, never even picked up. One man, asked on the way out what to do with the grievously overpriced cow he’d just bought, shrugged and said, “throw it in the grinder, I guess.” He didn’t buy a cow, he bought a sitting Senator.
I didn’t think much of the story, but last time I was home, I remembered to ask my dad if it was true. His face lit up, “you bet it’s true!” When he came to Nashville in the ’60s to take a position in Democrat Frank Clement’s government (my dad’s a Republican, duh), somebody took him aside and told him, “Son, you’d better buy a cow.”
Al Senior was a slick, sharp, old school Southern fraud. His son is a different flavor of phony altogether. I’ve never met him, but he’s a sort of a FOAF. My impression? Sharp as a bag of wet mice; a cipher; a bozo; an empty vessel, hollowed out to hold his father’s ambitions.
Politicians have issues the way the Senior Prom has a theme. Ex-military men become the military guy, unchallengable on all things military. Ex-doctors are experts not just on medical issues, they are the compassion guy. Women and minorities are women and minorities.
Legislators without a built-in hook generally pick one at random (this helpful video explains the process). Al picked the environment.
I believe he is genuinely puzzled that anyone would take him to task for flying around the world to tell people not to fly so much. So what if one of his three mansions uses twenty times the electricity of the average family? Don’t you get it? He’s the Environment Guy. Except when he’s wearing an eyepatch — then he’s a pirate!
That was my rambling preamble for grassfire.org‘s Carbon Belch Day. Thursday, June 12th, turn on your space heaters, open a window, set fire to something (or someone!), fart, drive around in circles, eat meat, mow the lawn. Take the pledge! DO NOT BUY THE GORE FAMBLY COW!
May 29, 2008 — 10:47 am
Comments: 72
Do not miss this!
they were born outside Callendar Ont,
you useless piece of shit ..
No, no. Our boy is only cracking his knuckles. Wait for it…
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
who was it that said nothing like this happens in the U.S.?
thats a laugh .
americans are brain washed into thinking they’re the shit ,
that they were the “main part” of every world war, and that they just own.
guess what bud some STUPID FUCKING AMERICANS posted Hitler as time magazines MAN OF THE YEAR IN 1939 , which btw was the start of WW2, you know the one where 55 million people died ?
oh yeah and also the one were the U.S. sat on there ass for the first half, and then jumped in at the end to get some credit .
oh wait that was also WW1,
and everything else you fat fucks do.
i dont have anything against the U.S., but i dont like naive people.
since your one of the most illiterate first world nations why dont you guys stop listening to media bullshit thats let out by the government of Bush(haha), learn how to read, pick up a history book, and learn how your COUNTRY IS NOT BETTER THAN ANY OTHER and if anything its corrupted, brainwashed, and obese.
Bee-yootiful. That’s what the real thing looks like, ladies and gentlemen.
My blog is complete.
May 22, 2008 — 2:24 pm
Comments: 72
Yeeeaaaaarrrrrgh!
So I finally got around to watching the DVD of LOTR: Return of the King last night, and Legolas plugs an arrow in some dude who falls shrieking off the back of the oliphant, and I thought, “damme if that wasn’t the Wilhelm Scream!” And I looked it up, and and damme if it wasn’t.
What’s the Wilhelm Scream, you ask? If you wanted to be helpful and set up this post you would, anyhow. Go on. Ask.
The scream (or series of screams) that came to be known as the Wilhelm Scream was originally recorded for the 1951 film “Distant Drums.” It is intended to represent a man being eaten by alligators. Most probable voice talent that screamed this screamy scream: Sheb Wooley, bit actor and musician. You know him best for “Purple People Eater.”
It subsequently appeared in a Number of Warner Brothers films — a thing that did not escape the attention of film student Ben Burtt. He picked it up and named it after the second character to scream it: Private Wilhelm, with an arrow, in “The Charge at Feather River.” Then Bratt got hired to do the sound for Star Wars, and The Scream went nookylar.
Here is Wikipedia‘s list of Wilhelm’s screen credits (you can hear the file there, as well):
So now you know something you didn’t know before, unless you already knew this, in which case you can just go straight to hell, smartass. I really don’t have to take this from you.
May 13, 2008 — 12:30 pm
Comments: 20
Happy birthday to Spam!
Spam turns thirty today! No, not the delicious potted luncheon meat from Hormel. And not me, either — I turn somewhat older a little later in the month (but you get extra points in the It’s All About Me sweepstakes if you remembered that Spam was once my online moniker).
Nope, the very first Usolicited Commercial Email (UCE) was sent thirty years ago today. And here it is:
DIGITAL WILL BE GIVING A PRODUCT PRESENTATION OF THE NEWEST MEMBERS OF THE
DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY; THE DECSYSTEM-2020, 2020T, 2060, AND 2060T. THE
DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY OF COMPUTERS HAS EVOLVED FROM THE TENEX OPERATING SYSTEM
AND THE DECSYSTEM-10COMPUTER ARCHITECTURE. BOTH THE DECSYSTEM-2060T
AND 2020T OFFER FULL ARPANET SUPPORT UNDER THE TOPS-20 OPERATING SYSTEM.
THE DECSYSTEM-2060 IS AN UPWARD EXTENSION OF THE CURRENT DECSYSTEM 2040
AND 2050 FAMILY. THE DECSYSTEM-2020 IS A NEW LOW END MEMBER OF THE
DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY AND FULLY SOFTWARE COMPATIBLE WITH ALL OF THE OTHER
DECSYSTEM-20 MODELS.WE INVITE YOU TO COME SEE THE 2020 AND HEAR ABOUT THE DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY
AT THE TWO PRODUCT PRESENTATIONS WE WILL BE GIVING IN CALIFORNIA THIS
MONTH. THE LOCATIONS WILL BE:TUESDAY, MAY 9, 1978 – 2 PM
HYATT HOUSE (NEAR THE L.A. AIRPORT)
LOS ANGELES, CATHURSDAY, MAY 11, 1978 – 2 PM
DUNFEY’S ROYAL COACH
SAN MATEO, CA
(4 MILES SOUTH OF S.F. AIRPORT AT BAYSHORE, RT 101 AND RT 92)A 2020 WILL BE THERE FOR YOU TO VIEW. ALSO TERMINALS ON-LINE TO OTHER
DECSYSTEM-20 SYSTEMS THROUGH THE ARPANET. IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO ATTEND,
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO CONTACT THE NEAREST DEC OFFICE
FOR MORE INFORMATION ABOUT THE EXCITING DECSYSTEM-20 FAMILY.
In honor of this exciting anniversary, my email service has shit the bed. Totally. If you’ve tried to email me in the last 24 hours, your message has gone into a big black hole in cyberspace. No bounce message, nothing. It’s all very mysterious.
Anyhoo, I haven’t got time to feex it. The maid comes in an hour, so I have to clean up!
May 3, 2008 — 7:27 am
Comments: 103
The Portuguese Escudo: 1911 – 1999
Portuguese escudos. What? It came up in a thread, so I figured I’d dig out a few.
“Escudo” means “shield” in Portuguese. The denomination was adopted in 1910, after the Republican revolution. It replaced the real. There are 100 centavos in an escudo, and escudo amounts are written escudos$centavos (except it isn’t really a dollar sign in the middle; theirs has two strokes).
The escudo was in trouble in the early 20th C, especially after a counterfeiting operation was traced to the Bank of Portugal. Oops. Eventually it stabilized and was pegged to the British pounds, then the US dollar and finally abandoned for the stupid Euro.
That lady looks familiar. I think she’s a smurf.
I have the world’s stupidest coin collection; nothing I own is worth anything. I just like to play with moneys.
May 1, 2008 — 12:14 pm
Comments: 48
Dude!
Albert Hoffman died yesterday at the age — holy shit! — of 102.
Hoffman is called the Father of LSD on account of he was the father of LSD. He was a chemist working at Sandoz Labs in Switzerland in the thirties when he discovered lysergic acid diethylamide-25, a compound derived from wheat rust. He was looking for a PMS cure (I forget where I read that; maybe the pixies told me). The stuff is so powerful, he got a ginormous dose just from handling it that day. His description of riding his bicycle home afterward is guaranteed flashback fodder.
He remained a proponent of the stuff all his life and dropped acid himself for decades. A hunnert and two. As a friend of mine once remarked, “this stuff doesn’t kill you. It only makes you wish it would.” She was looking rather paisley at the time.
Plant rusts — ergots — are fungi that occasionally affect crops and, when eaten, cause a range of effects from hallucination to extreme blood constriction (Ew. Wikipedia calls it ‘dry gangrene’). Some historians have blamed the nuttiness of Medieval Europe on ergotism, AKA St. Anthony’s Fire.
Dry gangrene. There was one medieval lady who was riding a mule to pilgrimage, rubbed against a tree and her leg fell off. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm, got back on the mule and went on her way. That really doesn’t advance this post, but I read it a long time ago and wanted to share. Like, how the hell did she hop back on the mule with one leg? And why take it with her? (Don’t be a litterbug — take your spontaneously amputated limbs when you go!) Boo. The pixies never answer the important questions.
Oh! You want a good, creepy read? I highly recommend The Day of St Anthony’s Fire. True story. A sack of wheat contaminated with rust was delivered to the little village of Pont St Esprit, France in 1951. The frogs love them some bread. By nightfall, half the village was yapping mad.
Actually, I recommend the first half of the book. The second half of the book is a boring drone about the decades the survivors spent trying to wring some reparations out of the government. The frogs love them some bureaucracy.
Wait, what was I talking about? Stupid pixies.
April 30, 2008 — 5:38 am
Comments: 54