Don't Let Your Sun Go Round on Me

Friday would be the 537th birthday of Nicolaus Copernicus if he wasn't dead and rotting in hell as he had the nerve to prove you can't take the Bible literally. (Fortunately no one takes the Bible literally today--after all, Catholics formally apologized for the trial of Galileo in 2000, although many think that was just a Y2K glitch on John Paul II's part.) And no, the church didn't hate him because he was a quadrilingual polyglot (after all that would just be a lucky priest's good afternoon with three altar boys). They hated him for saying the earth wasn't the center of the universe, sure (take that 1 Chronicles 16:30, Psalm 93:1, Psalm 96:10, Psalm 104:5, and Ecclesiastes 1:5), but he also had the nerve to suggest there's stuff called evidence and it can be used to prove things. Luckily no one is like that anymore--I mean it's not like only 39% of Americans believe in the theory of evolution or anything. Of course, making Copernicus the center of this entry would probably perturb him--even during his lifetime his own public persona kept shifting, as the spelling of his name constantly changed, to the point where if he were a dog he would make the noise "woof woof" in English but "hoang hoang" in Thai, not that he ever went there for Thai stick or that sex tour. When he asked you to check out his telescope, he really meant it.

C'mon Baby Fight My Lyre

Ready to feel old? Not only does Christina Ricci turn 30 tomorrow, Ray Manzarek turns 71. Now perhaps those doors closed for you long ago, and if you're like me you might like him best for producing X and kicking ass on "The World's a Mess, It's in My Kiss," but still, goddam those 60s are far away, aren't they. So here's to Manzarek, the actual talent in the band dominated by a guy as phallocentric as a Maypole (poetry is not the phrase "great golden copulations" ok?). You've got to give props to any man famous for playing his organ in public. And so well!

So, a Needle Pulling Cleopatra

At least by my any-day-in-history calendar Friday is the 229th anniversary of the erection of Cleopatra's Needle in New York's Central Park, one of the few times the words "erection" and "Central Park" were not followed by a bust by the vice squad. Wikipedia, however, says the date is February 22, 1881, but who knows, it might take a month to get a 240 ton obelisk up (sadly, I wouldn't know). The funny part (you certainly didn't think it was my jokes did you?) is the tower's title is a misnomer, as it stood in Egypt a good 1000 years or 8,765,800 hours prior to Cleopatra...that's over 2 million x greater than modern medicine says is healthy, of course, but facts like that tend to bite you in the asp, don't they. No, it was Thutmose III (formerly known as Smutnose, no doubt a buddy of Biggus Dickus and Incontinenta Buttocks) who thrust the mighty cylinder skyward. Alas, he never got into a Shakespeare play, let alone got portrayed by Claudette Colbert or Liz Taylor, so no memorializing for him. And if you wondered about the inscriptions, and who doesn't, they were added during the reign of Ramsesses II, therefore making the shaft ribbed for your pleasure.

Fast Pass, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Fast Pass

Space Mountain, the first (WDW that is), turns 35 on Friday but in scream years it's probably close to going supernova. Leave it to those Imagineers to gussy up a mildish if far from Mickey Mouse rollercoaster by turning off the lights--or maybe it's because as they are geeky science guys their wives only have sex with them in the dark, and they figured that's an okay enough ride for them so it should do for everyone. Of course they teased us with a cookie planet for years, too, only to have that constellation crumble, so we know how mean these folks can be. Just ask their wives, who really get tired of the "Have you met my little animatronic friend" jokes.

Presley Sage Resigned in Time?

Friday would be Elvis Presley's 75th birthday, if only he didn't go to the bathroom. To do drugs. And die. But it is curious to wonder what he'd be doing if he were alive today, beyond clawing at the inside of a coffin. (I should bury that bad joke, I know.) Would he be "Elvis the Surgically Replaced Pelvis"? Would he rerecord "I Forgot to Remember to Forget" for the Alzheimer's Association? Let alone "All Shook Up" for the Parkinson's Disease Foundation? Would he at least have kept Lisa Marie from marrying Michael Jackson? or Nick Cage? I do think I'd totally pass on what would no doubt be his latest film "Viva Los Branson."

Presenting This Year's Miss Timed

In case you've ever wondered if you can be both hated and forgotten, consider the case of Willard Bundy, who is to Bundy-dom as Gummo is to the Marx Brothers, although you have to admit Ted makes for a lousy Harpo. It seems our forgotten Bundy invented the punch clock on November 20, 1888, thereby turning us all into more efficient wage slaves, at least till we all got internet connections at work and figured out cats say the funniest misspelled things. Makes me want to say rats, Willard. By the way, the invention was originally called a time clock, thereby joining the day calendar, automotive car, and look-and-hear television as early phrases for things so astounding they had to be named twice. You can probably imagine how the invention got the name punch clock.

I've Got You, Under My Hudson

I'm probably going to dig a hole with this one, but Friday is the 82nd anniversary of the opening of the Holland Tunnel, about which Manhattan is no doubt still bitter as it made it easier for New Jerseyites (as in parasites) to invade. Notice there is no toll to leave NYC and go to NJ. And people born in NJ like to make jokes about terms like "tube diameter, it's not just for tunnels anymore." But no lie can pass from my two lips, so I must say the Holland Tunnel (woo-hoo, got tulips into the Holland entry!) is named after its original chief engineer, who dies before it was completed. The second person to have the position died after being on the job only a few months; I believe his name was John Paul I (they even referred to him as I from the beginning, for the just had this uneasy feeling). It was quite a feat, building the tunnel and not just because the digging workers had to be sure not to get the bends, which you think would have been easy as it was decades before Radiohead even recorded the album. At the time, they weren't sure how to clear the carbon monoxide from a tunnel. So they experimented on Yale students (true story) to see how much CO they could take. Alas, this was years before George W. Bush was a student there, so it explains nothing.

Live Streaming!

Friday is the 47th anniversary of Byron White being named to the U.S. Supreme Court, and you're in (read that fast!) luck, as I can't pass up writing about a man nicknamed Whizzer, so don't be pissed at me. He was a football player in college, and then drafted, but he didn't go number one. Somehow they still nicknamed him Whizzer, for he was fast and they figured if ever a whizzer there was, it was Byron. Plus there's the rule nicknames must be alliterative and graduating in 1938 he couldn't have been Bionic Byron. Amazingly Whizzer was once the number two man in the Justice Department, but Bobby Kennedy didn't give a shit. So then he ended up on the Supreme Court, a wee, wee bit less liberal than the Kennedys had hoped. In fact, somehow a guy who played football and slapped butts for years upheld Georgia's anti-sodomy law--weird, and not just because saying upheld and anti-sodomy in the same sentence sounds like a double negative. Sorry if the humor just sort of leaked out of this blurb.

Who's the S Now?

It was 319 years ago this Friday that the first multi-page newspaper was published in the not-yet-U.S., Boston's Publick Occurrences Both Foreign and Domestick. One reason it was a multi-page paper was they had to fit the extra "k"s. Then there was the multi-page Columbus Day ad for Ye Young [it was 1690--couldn't be olde yet] Witch and Warlock Shoppe: "Wicked Wanda says: 'For eye of newt, either boiled or plain, our prices are insane!"* Alas, the paper only had one issue, as its owner fired all the staff for actually wanting to be real journalists. Oh, wait, that's the News-Press, speaking of witches. It was the government that shut Publick Occurrences down, claiming it printed "sundry doubtful and uncertain Reports," plus capitalizing even more randomly than the government did, and what's with that "f" for "s" thing? It makes you look totally foolifh, ridiculouf, and filly. And this is Bofton. (And I realize that "f" isn't an "f" but a long "s" back when we seemed in need of two "s"s, as if one "s" in the room isn't usually enough, let alone a big "s.")(You might have to read that one aloud, but it's not fuitable for work, ok?)

We Can't Wait for Fall, Us!

With all due respect for things flying over Manhattan 8 years ago this Friday, this is a tale of a less tragic time. For it was on Sept 11, 1923 that the USS Shenandoah, the biggest active dirigible (inactive dirigibles don't lift off, as no one had yet invented dirigible Cialis), flew over the Woolworth Building, at the time the tallest building in the world (as Wikipedia insists: "Strongly articulated piers give the building its upward thrust" so look out!). You know me, folks, can't keep my hands off a good rigid airship story, and this one certainly takes its place in the mighty annals [editor--please spell check twice!] of Phallic Symbol History. As we all know, Woolworth nickeled and dimed people to erect his tower, known as the Cathedral of Commerce, since that's the way the church goes. As you might not know, the Shenandoah was painted with aluminum dope, and therefore got hungry for more paint. And see, pot does make you dumber--nowadays no one even knows there's another meaning for dope, which, I guess, makes us all dopes (shoot, that's three meanings, but I can't see through the smoke here). But I dare you not to feel a little thrill when one massive lingam languidly lingered over the other. Just pity the street cleaners.

(25 of 31 in the drive to 2500)

He's So Fined

At least according to what appears to be the chronically chronologically challenged This-Day-in-History that I consult, Friday is the 39th anniversary of George Harrison's release of "My Sweet Lord." Of course, the song has since become more famous for the lawsuit about it. I'm sure you recall the class action suit by Catholic church parishioners who demanded restitution from Harrison for being the inspiration for the 1970s abomination known as the Folk Mass. They rightly believed that hippies and priests didn't mix (unless the hippies were young boys of course), even if you stopped singing before the Hare Kirshna part. You can't mimic the Holy Spirit descending with a wave of your tambourine. And trust me, now matter how hard you pray, the Eucharist just doesn't turn into windowpane. (Heck I might still be going to church....) Alas, the judge hearing the case ruled all things must pass, and the parishioners got nothing. They didn't even get to keep the case open long enough to argue that the Church's attempt to turn "Blowing in the Wind" into a hymn is one of the reasons Dylan went Christian and mucked up his career for a decade.

(15 of 31 in the drive to 2500)

She Hit a Wet Spot!

Sometimes the "this day in history" listings just don't give you enough to go on. For instance, Friday is the 22 anniversary of Donna Patterson Brice setting the high speed water skiing record of 111.11 mph, which is not only terrifyingly fast but freakishly consistent. Yet Google Brice and her place in history has left no skidmark--it's as if she just sank under the waves of time. Then there's that name. Just perform a bit of monkey business with it and she's the woman who took Gary Hart down, especially if you add in some Baby Snooks for good measure and keep your fanny out of it. The last part (come to think of it all of that line) is meant for a demographic much older than my usual. BTW, did I say I was soon to be performing on the retirement communities stand-up circuit? "Take my walker, please!" "I just got out of bed today, and boy is all of me tired!" "Why did the chicken cross the road? He doesn't know, he's got Alzheimer's too!" I'm going to kill them--just like an Obama Death Panel! Sorry, got pulled away from my initial goal as if I was tied to a speed boat helmed by Mario Andretti. The good news is I never got to what I did find on the internets--that water skiing can cause either a "water skiing douche" or "water skiing enema" (not medical terms). I'm such a pussy that I'll just have to leave that discussion behind.

(7 of 31 in the drive to 2500)

So Little Time and So Little to Do

Friday is, sadly, the 37th anniversary of the passing of one of the wickedest wits of the west--Oscar Levant. Piano-playing pal of the Gershwins, wise-cracking sidekick to Gene Kelly in An American in Paris and Fred Astaire in The Band Wagon, Levant said lines like, "“A pun is the lowest form of humor--when you don't think of it first,” and therefore is sort of an idol of mine. How can one forget his cameo in The Cobweb as a psychiatric patient in a straitjacket singing "Mother"? Here are some other choice Levant quotes:

"The only difference between the Democrats and the Republicans is that the Democrats allow the poor to be corrupt, too."
“I'm a study of a man in chaos in search of frenzy.”
“Underneath this flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character.”
"What the world needs is more geniuses with humility, there are so few of us left."
"I only make jokes when I am feeling insecure."
“I envy people who drink--at least they know what to blame everything on.”

Following from that last quote, here's a clip from The Band Wagon that occurs after the initial show they're trying to put on is a huge disaster. There's not a ton of Levant, but the song 2 minutes in is one of my favorites from the Hollywood musical canon, as light on its feet as Astaire himself.

(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Fetchit

July 16 isn't just the date the British humor magazine "Punch" was first published in 1841 (in fact, it began when the British boxing magazine "Guffaw" folded). Nope, it's also the day that Jimi Hendrix gave up trying to convert the nubile young things of America. Yes, it's the day of his last spot opening for the Monkees on their 1967 U.S tour. Turns out he got tired of the crowd shouting "We want Davy!" in the middle of "Purple Haze," although the alternate reality where Hendrix goes to the prom with Marcia Brady is too rich not to ponder. So he gave the crowd the finger, stormed off the stage, didn't even bother to put out the fire on his guitar. America got the last laugh, of course, remaining resolutely uncool and very very white for a long time. Rumor has it there might still be places where the Hendrix lesson has never been learned.

Ox Me No More Questions

Charles Newbold knew he had to be an inventor or he'd let his surname down. What's more, Newbold didn't settle for inventing the bong/vibrator that finally lays to rest the question "do you smoke after sex?" or the weed cutting golf club that allowed duffers to say "rough? what rough." Nope, Newbold opted to be Mr. Plow. For on Friday 212 years ago he patented the cast iron plow. (Note: if you patent something, do it on a Friday so you have a weekend to celebrate.) Oxen were pulling for (haha) the plow to be made of Styrofoam, of course, but no one had yet invented the ox-voice-decoder, so their grunts were hard to understand. While his invention broke new ground, the cast iron plow didn't sprout up like weeds on farms throughout the land as farmers worried cast iron would poison the ground. In fact, many complained loudly about that as they spread the latest fertilizer from Monsanto.

How I Day-ed Your Father

Friday is the 99th anniversary of Father's Day, which you would think would make it Grandfather's Day at the least by now but what do I know having not spawned myself. (People have made colorful suggestions to me along those lines--"go spawn yourself, George"--but I've never taken them up on it. Or do I mean take myself up on it?) Prior to 1910 there were no fathers, but on the other hand storks had more work. Of course, it's hard to fit more than one stork on your hand, unless it's a baby stork, or storkling, as they're called, but not by their fathers, at least not before 1910. Unable to get "I Am Not a Crook" Day approved by Congress, President Richard Nixon established a permanent national observance of Father's Day in 1972. Luckily we do not have to call it Tricky Dick's Father's Day. Although the Monday after the third Sunday in June is still called "Scrub Till It Hurts in the Shower" Day in many states, perhaps the queasy one you're no doubt in right now.

Beat Out a Compromise My Ass

Friday is the 153rd anniversary of the kind of moment that makes one proud to be an American--for it was on May 22, 1856 when a man hailed by one biographer as "perhaps the least racist man in America in his day" was nearly beaten to death on the floor of the US Senate. (No, Dick Cheney isn't that old, plus he never does the violence himself, unless you're a friend who looks passingly like a quail, of course.) Abolitionist MA Senator Charles Sumner had given a vituperative speech against slavery two days prior, pulling no punches (no pun intended), even mocking the stroke-induced speech deformity of pro-slavery SC Senator Andrew Butler along the way. Turns out Butler had a cousin (no, not one he was married to) named Preston Brooks, who was a congressman from SC (SC Motto--"bringing US govt quality since even before Strom Thurmond"). Brooks decided Sumner was even beneath the level to challenge to a duel, so instead opted to beat the crap out of him with a gutta-percha cane with a gold head. (I wish gutta-percha was something better than a Malaysian tree, for it's one cool word.) Brooks' buddy and fellow pro-slavery Congressman Laurence Keitt then brandished a gun, preventing anyone to come to Sumner's aid. All on the floor of the Senate. What's best is replacement canes were shipped from throughout South Carolina, with notes that said beat him again. To this day there is a town in Florida and a county in Georgia named in Brooks' "honor." Two notes: 1) I will never live in the south. 2) Obama is president now.

This May Day Is No Swett

Be sure to trod lightly about your May Pole Friday, or else you might end up like Dick Swett, former Congressman, whose birthday May 1st is. It might strike you as odd he chose that sobriquet over Richard, but I assume "Dick" was thrust upon him as it so often is with Richards. Lord knows he might feel at home in Hawaii, for the day is also the 82nd "May Day is Lei Day" festival in the 50th state. And I'm not just fucking with you--it's an actual festival. Last year Honolulu went balls to the wall for the fete, setting the record for the World's Longest Lei. This made mayor Mufi Hannemann very happy, and not just because Mufi never met Dick. Hannemann was quoted as thanking, "the dedicated and hard working members of our Department of Parks and Recreation for making Lei Day 2008 the biggest and best in recent memory." He then fell asleep. There is no word if former Playboy model and May 1st birthday celebrator Tawnni Cable gave a hand in making the lei. BTW, parents, if you name your daughter Tawnni, neither a heart as the dot on the i or taking off her clothes for a living are optional.

Drive Free or Packard

As ways to get into the history books, there has to be something better than "organizing the largest automobile touring company to cross the continent" up to that date (1908). Maybe "cleaning the most frathouse toilet bowls with a toothbrush in an hour" or "eating the most food made by a tongueless, noseless chef," or "listening to James Blunt for the longest time without retching." OK, that last one is beyond human endurance, but the same might be true of a car ride for 32 days, 5 hours, and 25 minutes (of course they counted the minutes, wouldn't you?) from Pasadena to New York with 6 people including children 16, 14, and 10. But Jacob and Anna Murdock did just that, starting the trip 101 years ago this Friday. Which is how Route 101 got its name. You can't spell murder without Murdock, of course, despite what the denuded -ock might say, and the trip ended badly when Aunt Edna dies and they have to tie her to the top of the Packard. Jacob also became obsessed with Clara Bow driving a souped up carriage, but of course she was only 3 in 1908, so Jacob wound up going to jail. As for me, I need a long vacation.

Mr. Robinson, Are You Trying to Juice Me?

As spring training and the WBC are in full swing, it seems appropriate we commemorate the 104th anniversary of one of baseball's great off-field stories, for Friday is the day A-Rod's great-grandfather first took steroids. Only kidding. It's the day Wilbert "Uncle Robbie" Robinson tried to catch a baseball dropped from an airplane. Robinson tried this stunt 12 years prior, but that was when airplanes where still aeroplanes, and worse, not yet invented. He could never figure out the right balance of paper heavy enough to hold a baseball yet light enough to fly. Plus even Wee Willie Keeler was too big to be the pilot (although Keeler made a great jockey at the annual trout derby). Meanwhile in 1915 (and reality) the plane got to 525 feet and the pilot let loose--a grapefruit. Either he forgot the baseball (and, of course, had a spare grapefruit in his pocket--no, he wasn't just really happy to see you) or wiseacre Casey Stengel decided it would be funnier, plus a good promo for the Grapefruit League. Poor Robinson got hit, the fruit exploded, and between the wet and red, he was convinced he was bleeding all over (turns out his blood, like that of many early baseball pioneers, actually did have seeds). Everyone had a good laugh, and Robinson traded Stengel. When Robinson retired he ended up president of the minor league team the Atlanta Crackers, long-time rivals of the Birmingham Hicks, Tallahassee Ofays, and Carolina Ricketeers.