The occupant of the casket in this week’s Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan isn’t the only thing that died:

 

The late lamented joke is supposed to have something to do with the idea that traffic cops in old movies used to pull speeders over and ask “where’s the fire?”. May my sense of humour rest in peace.

     You can tell that isn’t a Funsville phone book Sparky’s leafing through. No-one here would greet a caller quite so rudely. It is true that, if you call some households in town, the person who picks up will answer “What?What?What?” like Joe Flynn from McHale’s Navy…but it’s meant in a spirit of good-natured joviality. You see, it’s a holdover from a time when it was recognized by the FCC (that is, the Funsville Commissariat of Calling) as one of our official telephone greetings. Nowadays, we stick to the more traditional “It’s your nickel—start talking” and the ever-popular “Eeeeeeeeyesssssss?”  We never seem to have gotten the hang of simply saying “hello”, somehow.

     For that, I lay the blame squarely at the feet of the publishers of Funsville’s Yellow Pages. This isn’t a directory for businesses, but one which lists every telephone number that someone is likely to answer by saying “y’ello”. People round these parts get unnerved by this particular greeting, believing it to be part of an unfamiliar “knock knock” joke they’ve stumbled upon in progress. Not sure whether they’ve gotten a wrong number or a bad connection, they tend to hang up before saying anything. If you’re listed in the Y’ello Pages, you can be sure to see your social calendar dwindle into non-existence. Not only will your phone conversations cease, but the number of letters, postcards, and e-mails you get will drop off drastically, since your correspondents will be wary of you using “y’ello” to lead off your reply. The mailman may stop coming altogether, on the off chance that you may one day receive a parcel you have to sign for. At least one of Funsville’s postmasters has quit over an unresolved incident involving a letter carrier who was greeted with “y’ello” while attempting to deliver a certified cheque to the winner of a tontine.   

     So, we don’t say “hello” when we answer the phone here, just to be on the safe side. All this preamble was in the interest of preparing you (or softening you up, whichever you like) for the main topic of our virtual 0ne-way chit-chat. Today, February 21st, is the anniversary of the introduction of the world’s first telephone directory, in New Haven, Connecticut. Or so the history books say, anyway…when they have nothing better to talk about. 

     We in Funsville know better…even if what we know, in this case, isn’t even close to true. Still, every civic-minded Funsvillian will attest to the irrefutable belief that the cataloguing of telephone numbers was categorically not the brainchild of some nameless and forgotten New Haven functionary.  Instead, we have it dunned into our heads from an early age that it was the work of the legendary inventor of the phone book, Phonemeous Booker. Ancient lore has it that he chanced upon this momentous discovery while looking for something to prop up a table leg. Our hero was quick to realize that he had something on his hands—now that he no longer had the table on his hands, what with the phone book propping it up and all. It is said that most of the phone book’s current uses were developed during the furious flurry of experimentation that ensued in the makeshift laboratory Phonemeous Booker set up in the room adjoining his in-laws’ spare garage. From this one fabulous weekend’s work sprang such innovations as:

-Standing on it to reach high shelves (or medium-high ones, depending on your height).

-(related) Using it as an improvised booster seat or high chair.

-(sort of related, but not in current use) Giving eligible young ladies a practical way to relieve feelings of inferiority in their gentleman callers, by allowing them to stand on it.

-Using it as a bookend that has the added advantage of also being a book.

-Using it as a functional and informative doorstop.

-Giving circus strong men a new way to demonstrate their physical prowess by tearing it in half.

-Providing something to hang from those little chains in phone booths.

-Furnishing inexpensive goalie pads for young hockey players short on funds.

-Offering a low-cost alternative to a high-priced prosthetic apparatus in a Richard III or Quasimodo costume.

And, last but not least…

-Supplying the general public with a largely reliable way of finding out how many people named “Smith” live in any given town.

     Ironically, “Smith” is one name you will not find in a Funsville phone book. (As far as names go, “Smith” is simply not quite fun enough. “Smitty”, on the other hand, is. Newcomers named “Smith” are required by law to change their name to “Smitty” if they want to take up permanent residency.) To make up for a lack of Smiths in the phone book, Funsville has what must surely be the largest number of different phone books of any municipality worthy of the name. There are listings for every imaginable sub-group of the human race…and for some you couldn’t imagine if you stayed up for a week, chewing raw espresso beans and drinking mezcal laced with mescaline. In addition to the already-mentioned Y’ello Pages are such things as…

-A directory of people who thought about being put on the “do not call” list for telemarketers, but then thought better of it, figuring “what’s the use—they’ll call anyway”.

-A directory of people who got put on the “do not call” list, talked to those other people, and wonder if it’s too late to change their mind.

-A directory of people who only answer the phone on the fourth ring, and only then if they think it’s from someone they know.

-A directory of people who only answer every fourth phone call, whether it’s from someone they know or not.

-A directory of people who believe that the first long-distance rates were set by a man named Alexander Graham Bill.

-A directory of people who think that a candlestick phone is something you use to call the San Francisco 49ers.

 

-A directory of people who think jokes like that belong in Tank McNamara.

-A directory of people who don’t understand why a Google search of Robert the Referee from Tank McNamara yields not one single solitary image of that character.

-A directory of people who wonder whatever happened to the character “Sweatsox” from Tank McNamara, and if the same thing happened to Robert the Referee.

-A directory of people who’ve heard quite enough about Tank McNamara for one day, and think we should move on.

-A directory of people who answer the phone with “Hello—Duffy’s Tavern—sorry—Duffy ain’t here”, even though nobody’s known what that refers to for at least 60 years.

-A directory of people who answer the phone with their best Bob Newhart impersonation, then repeat any lines from their favourite Bob Newhart routines that seem to have anything at all to do with the conversation.

-And, last, but again not least…a directory of people who haven’t got a phone at all. (This one has no names or addresses in it—just pictures. You can ask them who they are and where they live when you see them.)

     Old Phonemeous Booker would be proud. And with that, I’d better go. I hear the Fortress of Funitude hotline ringing. I’ll leave the last word to Sparky and Moose.

Uncle Fun

 

 

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan has a heads-up for all of you who got ambushed by a Valentine’s Day proposal:

 

“ ‘Til death do us part” could turn out to be a Christmas puppy…if you get my drift.

     Well, that’s just too absolutely cute for words, so I won’t bother using any. I’ll save my breath, or ink, or pixels, or whatever it is you save when you’re in the blogosphere, to reintroduce myself--the name’s Milady Madeira M’Dear, sorceress-at-large, and everything else at extra-large, and proud of it.

     So now the Emily Post part of this post is out of the way, I’ll get down to the nitty-gritty of it. As if I didn’t have enough to do right at the moment, I’ve been army-volunteered into giving all of you out there (are there really three of you now?) some sort of Valentine’s Day pep talk or Cupid coaching or whatever-all it is I’m supposed to do. I’m not really in the mood, but Uncle Fun sweet-talked me by whipping up one of his usual cotton-candy spiels about how if there was ever an expert anywhere in affairs of the heart, it was me. That fact it’s true didn’t hurt, either...the “heart” bit’s optional, but anything for an old friend. (Seriously--anything. Don’t ask me any more questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.)

     If I sound a little brusque and tired, it’s because I’ve been run off my feet these past few days. What with Mardi Gras falling on the same day as Ray Manzarek’s Birthday this year, things got a little more celebratory here in Funsville than even I can handle. Ordinarily, I’m all in for the “what happens this day, stays on this day” atmosphere of both occasions, but the two at once is about half a hair short of being a bit beyond too much.

     It doesn’t help that I’m Funsville’s semi-official unofficial permanent Queen of the Mardi Gras and all-purpose Shrove Tuesday Hostess of No Fixed Abode. The perks of the office are well and fine, but I never miss having to give the duties up for Lent--especially this year. Even with the help of magic, making stack after stack of pancakes shaped like Ray Manzarek is not the easiest thing in the world, I can tell you. (It's his glasses that makes the job nigh-on impossible for me...are they square with rounded corners, or round with squared-off corners? Aw, who cares?) If I had one more skillet and spatula pointed in my general direction, the joker responsible was going to have to put down a month’s rent on a kissing booth with a “for princes and/or princesses only” sign on it if they wanted to break the spell I had in store for them. My disposition wasn’t made any better by all the “moral support” I got from Ray Manzarek’s Day revellers wearing “WWJD” bracelets. (In this case, “WWJD” stands for “What Would Jim Drink?”, the answer to which turns out to be “you name it”.) I’m glad something like this doesn’t happen again for a while...I’m all for a feast, but the moveable kind can ruin your appetite from chasing them around.

     Meanwhile and more to the point, this whole foofaraw has put a serious crimp in my schedule, at one of my busiest times of the year. Like countless witches the world round, I count on Valentine’s to help me start putting a dent in my Christmas debts by selling an old family recipe for a potent but largely non-toxic love potion.

 

     I’ve been distributing it under the name “Amour Propre”, which I thought was French for “love between discreet acquaintances” or something along those general ooh-la-la lines. Now Uncle Fun tells me that it really means something closer to hard-core egotism. (Where were you when I needed you, Funsie? Oh well, it’s still French enough to sound all classy and je-ne-sais-quoi.)

     Anyway, I was going to say something else, but I forget what it was. In addition to having a Mardi Gras hangover so bad I wish Easter was here already so someone would roll the rock away from my head, I’ve got a Love Boat-load of potion back orders to get out -- and neither me nor my finance company is keen on giving refunds. (Why can’t I just magic up the wherewithal, like by spinning straw into gold or other negotiables, you ask me, Smarty-Pants? Yeah -- if that old gag ever came off the way it was supposed to, you think Wall Street would look like such a shambles, huh?)

     Sorry -- I’m supposed to be giving you love advice or something. How’s this: always do a background check, but don’t snoop so much you forget to have a good time.

     I guess that’s not the greatest Valentine’s message. Oh well, it’s at least as good as the one the silly Cousins boy had Sparky make for him to give to his wife:

     I couldn’t say it any better myself…mostly ‘cause I don’t have the first clue what he’s saying. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have time to tell you what it was. All those bottles of potion aren’t gonna ship themselves by magic. Well, actually, they are, but I’m the one who’s got to get that started, so I’d better get at ‘er. And with that, it’s back to the old cauldron for me, and Happy Valentine’s to you. Don’t take any wooden heart-shaped bon-bons...unlessthat's what turns your crank.

Hugs, kisses, and apologies for going through the motions,

Milady M. M’Dear

P.S. That last part wasn’t for you folks -- it was for Uncle Fun. (Seriously, honey-bunch...I owe ya one when this is all over.)

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan investigates fundamental questions of ontology and eschatology from a Manichean perspective…

…or maybe it’s just a cheap sight gag that even I don’t get—and I drew it.

     No, that isn’t a hat Mr. Cousins is wearing. This is the way his hair grows out when he has other things on his mind than having it cut (having his hair cut, that is, not his mind...that's been pretty much pared down to the bone already). All of us have been otherwise occupied lately: right now, I’m occupied with giving you an apology for the tardy and scattershot nature of the remarks which follow.

     The illustration above was inspired by (and drawn at) the University of Toronto’s Festival of Original Theatre (a.k.a. “FOOT”), where Mr. Cousins successfully defended his title of Single Strangest Person to Speak at an Academic Conference Without Mentioning Any Theory Related to Post-Structuralism. By all accounts, his presentation went well. I credit this to a series of judicious and well-timed appearances by myself and Sparky, which furnished badly-needed clarification, and kept things rolling along. (They really got rollin’ when he started swearin’ an’ chuckin’ things at us. –Sparky)  Although there is no video or audio record of this little firesign chat, there is a rumour that it may one day be published in a collection of works derived from the conference proceedings. There is every chance that rumour will become reality, since it’s the one rumour concerning the weekend’s events that wasn’t started by Sparky.

(I resemble that remark. –Sparky)  

     Again, my apologies—in particular for my laxity as a correspondent, and for Sparky in general. (By the way, Sparky—you really should have known that there’s a by-law against referring to the author of Understanding Media as “Marshall McClueless” within fifty metres of the University of Toronto campus…civic pride for a hometown boy made good, and all that.)

     I would have reported on all this to you sooner, but our return to Funsville from The Big Smoke (if anyone still refers to Toronto by that nickname) saw us caught up in the annual whirlwind that is the run-up to the festivities that commence with the Ray Manzarek’s Birthday Jubilee on Feb. 12 and end with Residents' Day on whichever Monday follows it. (Click here for the posting that explains, as best as can be expected, what all that involves.) As is my privilege this and every year, I am emceeing the Ray Manzarek’s Birthday Promenade Concert and Celebrity Funkfest. Unfortunately, preparations for the event have unravelled somewhat, due to the late delivery of the sheet music for the evening’s main showpiece—transcriptions of Debussy’s “Children’s Corner Suite” for four-handed Vox Continental organ and Fender Rhodes keyboard bass. Things have consequently, shall we say, gone to hectic in a handbasket. The organizing committee has decreed that this is absolutely, positively the last time they commission works from anyone who advertises on Kijiji.

     Speaking of matters musical, while in Toronto, visiting his friend, the composer and lively arts polymath Alex Eddington, Mr. Cousins learned that his handiwork was circulating in places other than a campus lecture theatre. The Canadian Music Centre, a repository for all things progressively Canuckish in orchestral, chamber and art music, has picked up on Cousins’ animation of “Countdown”, one of Mr. Eddington’s vocal compositions, and is proudly displaying it on their website. Or it will be, once the site is no longer undergoing maintenance. For the time being, you can see it here, for the low cost of one quick click on these blue letters...or these ones...or these ones.

     Being tangentially referred to in circles where actually important artistic activity takes place naturally made Mr. Richard J. Cousins, Esq. humbly proud. It’s not everyone who can boast of being a footnote in the grand narrative of a nation’s culture. It also brings to mind a cultural footnote which was in the news this week, involving another rather better-known and certainly more well-liked man named Richard. A team of historians and facial reconstruction experts (It’s always a team, izzent it? One guy cooden jus’ come up wit’ this stuff in his basement an’ keep ta himself. –Sparky) …er, yes, well, they’ve unearthed the remains of Richard III and, using methods like what you’d see on CSI, have painstakingly reassembled a definitive version of what the much-maligned English monarch actually looked like.

 

 

     It seemed to me I’d seen this face somewhere before. A quick rummage through Mr. Cousins’ pile of oddball British comedy on VHS and DVD (by me. –Sparky) unearthed the answer. Forgotten and dismissed (and deservedly so) for a host of reasons, the false start at creating a trademark persona for Rowan Atkinson which goes under the title of The Black Adder nonetheless has a character who could pass for the New and Improved Richard III in conditions more exacting than a dark alley or a blind date. No, it’s NOT their version of Richard III:

 

 

     I’m not sure if this family resemblance puts the line of succession of British royalty into question, sheds valuable light on the unseen influences behind historical revisions, or just illustrates the value of being lazy and watching a lot of TV. Team Richard III won’t have time to ponder any of these matters—they have more urgent and valuable work to do. I hear the next item on their agenda is determining the current depreciation on the exchange rate of a kingdom for a horse.

Uncle Fun

P.S. Because you also haven’t had much in the way of listening material from us lately, I’m going to link you to a short fable, read by Mr. C in one of his gallery of guises. “The Engineer and the Bumblebee” seems appropriate for a posting with a recap of a scholarly conference—it’s all about what happens when Big Ideas are tripped up by Annoying Little Facts…well, more or less.



This week’s Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is late for Robert Burns Day, and late for Groundhog Day:

It’s early for Charlie Rouse’s birthday—if that means anything at all to you.