Exciting news (for those with a low threshold of excitement)!

     We here at Uncle Fun and Sparky Land are pleased to announce…well, we’re always pleased to announce things; it gives us a sense of accomplishment without an excess of exertion.

     Anyway, this time, we’re pleased to announce the impending return to this space of an old friend—one you haven’t heard about in a year-and-a-half. You may remember that, in our travels, Sparky and I crossed paths (and fortunately, nothing else) with a bellicose adventurer by the name of Vasco da Gama.

     Vasco may well be the Portuguese explorer who sailed around the Cape of Good Hope at the end of the 15th Century, or he may just be someone who thinks he is. Since he always carries a sword which he’s never shy about brandishing, it’s best not to interrogate him too closely on the subject of his identity…or any other subject, if it comes right down to it. If you need a refresher on any (or, most likely, all) of this, you can read about our encounters with Sr. da Gama here, here, and here.

     Now, on to what this announcement’s really about. This fall marks the 20th anniversary of the end of a radio comedy series about and featuring our friend Vasco da Gama, entitled (it should come as no surprise to anyone) Vasco da Gama. Every Wednesday starting Oct. 2, we’ll post a link to an episode of Vasco da Gama. Each one will be introduced by notes, quotes, comments and reminiscences by our own Mr. Cousins, as well as some of the other parties responsible for what you’ll be hearing. (All the parties connected with Vasco da Gama were responsible—to the best of our knowledge, nary a one of them woke up the neighbours, or was broken up by the police.)  Here’s a foretaste of what to expect, from the horse’s…well, from Mr. Cousins himself.

Uncle Fun  

 

     Well, I can’t top a buildup like that. Instead, I’ll leave you with something to whet your appetite (I hope). Vasco da Gama is not so much a show about Vasco da Gama as it is a show about a show about Vasco da Gama. It’s also a show about everything but a show about Vasco da Gama…not to mention a show about everything but a show about a show about Vasco da Gama. There—if you’re not confused now, it’s not my fault. Expect more of the same in the weeks to come. It’ll come at you every Wednesday from next week until the end of January. As Uncle Fun would say, don’t say you haven’t been well and duly warned.

 

 

 

 

 

Ol’ Green Eyes is Back!

    And not a moment too soon…or so he says. Others may have different opinions on the subject. If you don’t know who I’m talking about by now, you’re almost anybody in the entire world, so I’ll just come right out and tell you. It’s that perpetual ray of sunshine, Frank the Alligator. The upcoming change of season has done nothing to clear the cloud cover away from Frank’s overcast outlook on life—for him, the transition out of summer has less to do with the autumnal equinox than the School of Hard Knocks. But I’ll let Frank speak for himself. He’s going to, whether anybody likes it or not.

Uncle Fun    

You bet your sweet you-know-what I am. Hi, losers, Frank the Alligator here again. Of the four seasons I really hate, the one I hate the most right now is fall, mostly because it’s the one that’s coming up. It’s not just the weather—although that’s a good start. It’s bad enough that the weather starts getting colder, but then you have that abomination of nature called “Indian Summer” to contend with. “Indian” anything comes across as kind of a racist thing to call the weather, except that it gets so hot that you feel like you’re actually in India—specifically, the Black Hole of Calcutta—more specifically, the Black Hole of Calcutta during an overbooked period that happens to coincide with a deodorant shortage. As far as I’m concerned (and why do I have to be?), if it’s going to get cold, it can just stay cold. Why tease us when we know better?

And that’s just how I feel about fall when the weather’s dry—which isn’t nearly often enough. Don’t get me started about fall rain. For one thing, when it starts, it never seems to stop. Fall rain is that kind of rain that makes you think about how lousy summer rain is, then makes you wish that the rain that’s raining on you was that lousy summer rain, then rains on you for three straight days and nights just to get the point across. Don’t get me wrong—fall rain would be fine except for two things. It’s cold and it’s wet. Other than having the two worst characteristics that rain can have, fall rain is fine. Especially if it doesn’t fall on me, which it never does, so I don’t know why I even bother to bring that up at all. Fortunately for those of us who hate the fall, there’s something about fall that’s worse than the damn rain.

That’s right—you know what I’m talking about...

THE DAMN LEAVES.

Now, I get that things falling is what fall is all about. Leaves falling to the ground and not going away softens us up for a winter of snow falling to the ground and not going away. I just damn well wish that someone else within a fifty-mile radius of me would help out with clearing away all the stuff that falls and doesn't go away unless I get at it with a shovel or a rake or some other implement better used in the service of agriculture or cemetery maintenance.

As it is, I spend most of the fall—valuable time I could be spending anywhere but up a ladder, doing anything but fishing wet leaves out of my eavestroughs and downspouts—up a ladder fishing (guess what?) wet leaves out my eavestroughs and downspouts. It wouldn’t be so bad, except I live in the apartment (i.e., attic crawlspace) over the bar where I work—and my El Cheapo landlord/boss thinks he’s doing me a favour by letting me fish wet leaves out of my own gutters in exchange for the occasional promise of a break on the rent. It’s enough to drive you to drink—which I can’t do after a night of tending bar and watching what being driven to drink does to other even more hopeless saps than me.

So, what I do instead is wait ‘til the boss goes home for the night and pour my sorrows out in song. (If you don’t like that mental image, you can bite my less-than-golden tonsils. Tom Waits and Lou Reed have gotten good coin for carrying a tune not much farther than I can.) A pint of medium-grade gin is all it takes to get Professor DeLuxe to hang around and accompany me on the oversized doorstop that masquerades as the joint’s piano.

Here’s a little number we’ve worked up, paying tribute to the joys of the season. The tune is “Autumn Leaves”. Google it or don’t—I couldn’t care less. We’re starting now.

 

 

Okay, so I ain’t Ira Gershwin. He didn’t have to fish wet leaves out of his gutter. He probably had George do it. I’ll give you dollars to donuts that’s what gave him the brain tumour.

And if you don’t like that remark, guess how much I care. Now divide that by about a hundred thousand, and you’re getting close. Be like Humpty Dumpty, and have a great fall, for all I care. If you can have a great fall, then you definitely are like Humpty Dumpty—completely and totally cracked.

Frank

 

 

 

 

 



     Sparky’s birthday isn’t the 13th of any month--as far as we know, anyway...but little Moosie can be excused for thinking that any day spent with Sparky has a little Friday the 13th to it.

     So much for the preamble. Now, for the introduction...yet again. You remember me--Milady Madeira M’Dear (that’s me, pictured centre), past master of magic and past mistress of...well, never you mind. Let’s move on.

     This is my regular Friday the 13th gig, where I give you a handful of hints, tips, notions and whatnots to ward off the expected evils of the day. This time around, I’m answering a special request...and for a change, one that I can answer in mixed company, and in front of people’s parents. Speaking of which, the extended family of The Cousins Gentleman is chock full of relations with birthdays on the 13th. Every once upon a year, one or other of these birthdays will fall on a Friday, which brings a special set of challenges for everyone. Besides the obvious precautions you need to take with the party--such as keeping the balloons from spontaneously combusting or causing the house wiring to short out when you rub them on your head and stick them to the ceiling--there’s the age-old question “what do you get for the person who has everything, including a birthday with its own built-in hot-and-cold-running bad luck?”

     Here’s where I ride to the rescue on my magic broom. During my career of warding off curses, maledictions, jinxes, hexes and hoodoos, I’ve come up with a few anti-whammy devices that work as excellent gift ideas for all the Friday the Thirteeners in your life. Here’s a selection of my top sellers:

-An unbreakable mirror made of highly polished vulcanized rubber. You’ll have no worries about seven years’ bad luck, but they do have a habit of bouncing and rolling under furniture when you drop them. (Warning: the manufacturer’s warranty doesn’t cover head injuries sustained from standing up too fast after retrieving one of these from under a table.)

-Genuine imitation rabbits’ feet made from four-leaf clovers.

-Four-leaf clovers made from genuine imitation rabbits’ feet.

-A coupon entitling you to break someone else’s mother’s back when you step on a crack. (Some forms of bad luck can’t be avoided, but there’s no reason you can’t pass them on to someone you’re less fond of...assuming you’re fond of your mother, of course.)

-A custom-made voodoo doll of yourself. Use it on Friday the 13th, and it works in reverse. Keep it well away from pins and other sharp objects every other day of the year, though.

-An autographed picture of John Kerry. (It doesn’t get rid of bad luck, but you can hang it in a prominent place, as a reminder that there’s at least one person with a better knack than you of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rumour has it Hillary Clinton has one in every room of her house.)

-A horseshoe made from seven kinds of delicious imported cheese. There’s no actual luck in this one, either, but sometimes comfort food is better than nothing when things aren’t going your way. (If you’re lactose intolerant, I can make one out of assorted deli meats.)

      Well, that’s about as much space as I feel like using up on this claptrap. It’s time I got back to my day job. For starters, Miley Cyrus wants me to undo the spell that’s turned her into a hapless publicity-hungry flash in the pan. Genetics probably has more to do with that than magic, but her money’s as good as anybody else’s. Then, I’ve got my usual backlog of Halloween orders to deal with. This year, a lot of folks in Canada are asking me to do something about--or to--the Conservative Party. I may be out of my league against the darker forces that gang has made their deals with, but it’s worth a try.

Milady M. M’Dear