Give Mary a rest, ye gentlemen (or however that goes), I’m here.

Yes, back by popular demand if not utter necessity, it’s me, Milady Madeira M’Dear, brewer of potions and thinker of notions (and applier of lotions, but only by special request). We’ve got us another Friday the Thirteenth, and this one’s just before Christmas, so I’m on duty again, as this space’s provider of aid and succour to the superstitious (and when it comes to superstition, there’s a succour born every minute).

Anyway, you can all uncross your fingers, leave your four-leaf-clovers in the old safety deposit box, and put the horseshoes back on the horse. When it comes to Christmas (and Christmas is coming, after all), thirteen is a very lucky number. Today, December 13th, means that there are thirteen days, counting today, until Christmas, counting Christmas (and who doesn’t count Christmas?). And, don’t forget -- there are only twelve days of Christmas, not thirteen. That’s plenty lucky. If you had a house full of swans a-swimming, geese a-laying, pipers piping, drummers drumming, lords a-leaping, partridges in pear trees, and whatnot, the last thing you’d want to see on Day 13 would be another delivery van pulling up to your door.

But wait -- there's more. There are thirteen notes in the first three lines of “Good King Wenceslas” (well, the first verse, anyway -- that's all I know), and thirteen notes in the first and third lines of each verse of “Away in a Manger”. And I’ll bet you there were only thirteen rooms at that inn with the manger (you know the one), and that it was the thirteenth inn that Mary and Joseph stopped at. Even if it wasn’t, it should have been. And that’s the true meaning of Christmas, now isn’t it?  

With all that in mind, since there’s a few shopping days left (thirteen, counting yesterday, which doesn’t count anymore), I thought I’d give you all some holiday gift ideas involving that lucky Christmas number, 13:

-         A baker’s dozen donuts. Heck, a baker’s dozen of anything that bakers make. Seriously, who sells things in baker’s dozens anymore? Cheapskates...as if we needed any more proof that we’re in a recession.

-         A deck of cards with all thirteen hearts marked, for playing hearts with. This is especially useful if you play hearts for money. (I was Rookie of the Year on the international celebrity pro-am hearts tournament circuit before anyone got wise.)

-         The Marx Brothers made thirteen movies, so a DVD of any one of those’ll do you good. Okay, maybe not so much any of the ones they made after A Night at the Opera. Well, the first half of A Day at the Races isn’t bad, I guess. And their first one --The Cocoanuts -- kind of drags in places, too. So maybe there’s only really five Marx Brothers movies you’d want to get as a gift. Five out of thirteen is a heck of a good average for comedy. You try being funny thirteen times and see if you get five good laughs.

-         Some Louis XIII furniture would be nice to give someone (like me)...if you can afford to give it. If you can’t, just pick up any old wooden chair at a garage sale or a St. Vincent de Paul store or wherever, and scratch “Louis XIII was here” on it. It’s the thought that counts, you know.

-         If you’re a New York Yankees fan, the best gift you could get would be somebody other than Alex Rodriguez inside the number 13 jersey next season. If you’re a fan of any team that plays against the Yankees...well, the opposite of that.

-         A great gift for everyone in Canada would be 13 Conservative MPs pulling a no-show for a confidence vote (especially if it involves a motion of censure or, better yet, a bill of impeachment).

So, don’t get all hung up on thirteens -- like everything else about luck, numbers are what you make of them. Remember, lucky old number 7 is really a 13, as far as base 4 is concerned. The best thing you can do for yourself this Friday, December the 13th is to enjoy a couple of base 4 thirteens -- or, as it’s usually called, a seven and seven. Get right into the spirit of the day (you bet that was a pun intended), and have it in a nice tall 13-ounce glass. I know I’m gonna.

 

Milady M. M’Dear



Vasco da Gama, episode #11 (or, “Boy, does my suit hurt”)

     Here’s what you need to know before you listen to this one: Vasco disappears. That’s apparently all any of us at Vasco da Gama Memories Central have found noteworthy about it. Ian McKay supplied the original idea and some of the material for this episode, which takes us to Vasco’s home (He has a home? Who knew?), a comedy club, and an immigration office before landing us back in the studio. All I can really add to this terse description is an apology to the friends I’ve made among touring comedians since this episode was first broadcast. My description of the meaning and purpose of comedy clubs might be just a bit skewed and unfair.

     My view on something skewed? Unfair? The mind boggles. Actually, I think the word I’m looking for here is something more along the lines of “Marxist”. The representatives of the artisan class who ply their trade on the comedy club circuit don’t get much of a break in the “control of the means of production” department. I don’t want to say that comedy club owners are bourgeois capitalist oppressors, but I also don’t want to say that they rival Robin Hood exactly when it comes to sharing the wealth. I also don’t want to say that comedy club owners fall into two categories, but if I did, I’d characterize them as follows: 1. Failed comedians; 2. Failed comedians. Those who can, do; those who can’t, charge admission and collect the profits.

     Yeah, I know, that puts me just to the left of Trotsky. Hey, he had to be in charge of the Soviet Red Army before the club owners would let him do a set on anything but open mike night.

     Other than that, you’re on your own for this one, comrades. There’s the link below—click and listen:

Vasco da Gama, episode #11

     And no, I don’t remember what the deal was with that running gag about the Swiss, either. Maybe Ian or I was thinking about sealed trains and Lenin in disguise. Probably not, though.



P.S. Ever self-deprecating, Ian has this to add: “I look forward to a MacSnoopeigh-heavy episode. It makes for a good drinking game. One sip every time I swallow a word, two if it is a punchline. A shot for every time I mispronounce a word or stumble on a line.” Actually, the comedy club scene is pretty much a two-hander between Ian and Kel, so there’s a fair bit of MacSnoopeigh in this episode, but I don’t recall any stumbles. This may be because I was busy deliberately stumbling over my jokes as one of the stand-up comics heard in the background. You can all drink to that if you want to.

 

 

 

 

Greetings, Children of God,

     And I call you that because I don’t know you…I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. You could all be the illegitimate children of Wilt Chamberlain (whatever that means), as far as I’m concerned. In case you don’t know (and you obviously don’t, or I’d have heard from all of you…greeting cards and so forth -- baskets of fruit, exotic cheeses, that sort of thing), I am St. Nicholas, and this is my day.

     Yes, today -- December 6 -- not Christmas. I am NOT Santa Claus. What I am is the patron saint of children, among other things, those other things including (but not limited to) fishermen, sailors (the International Seafarers’ Union found out I was representing the fishermen, and charged me with restraint of trade…do not mess with the I.S.U., if you know what’s good for you), coopers (those are wooden barrel-makers, not wooden movie actors who needed to empty their minds of the wit and wisdom of Ayn Rand and fill them up with a few pointers on delivering their lines with conviction), broadcasters, the falsely accused, repentant thieves (same basic category for those last three), merchants (same as the last bunch, minus the “falsely” and “repentant” parts) and druggists (a group I find I have to seek out altogether too much after dealing with all those other ones). My one and only connection with Christmas is that I’m also the patron saint of pawnbrokers. I’m not talking about that O. Henry story with the watch and the combs, either -- these days, the true meaning of Christmas seems to be to get as far into hock as possible before the fiscal year draws to a close.

     As for Christmas, yes, I used to have the job of handing out presents, but thankfully that’s been handed over to that revoltingly jovial fellow Santa Claus -- who, I repeat, is not me, and bears as much resemblance to me as a mall Santa does towards…well, towards any recognizably human form of life. He can have the job, and he can keep it, and if he wants to give it back, he can go to some exchange counter with his gift receipt, and leave me holly-jolly well out of it.

     It’s not as if I asked to do it in the first place. I was…I believe the phrase I’m looking for is “army volunteered”. I should have known that something was up when I got wind that they were planning on giving me a feast day in December. (This is where St. Christopher has it over all the rest of us -- if I’d been patron saint of travellers, I’d have booked myself an extended vacation where no-one could find me.) One thing led to another, and after a lot of “since we’ve done something nice for you this close to Christmas, we thought you wouldn’t mind”, I’m stuck with a sack on my back and a list of addresses, and all without so much as a by-your-leave or a would-you-like-a-truss-to-go-with-that.

     It’s not as if other saints don’t have feast days a lot closer to Christmas -- but wouldn’t you know that St. Rufus, St. Lucian, St.Theodulus, St. Ammon, St. Bodagisil, St. Hunger, and all the rest of those goldbricks were conveniently absent when roll call was taken. (By the way, how does a saint named “Hunger” even rate a feast day? I really should speak to someone about that.) No -- what I got, along with a bag of trinkets and a hernia, was the lame explanation that I was the biggest sainted celebrity among December honorees, and thus to me fell this signal and dubious honour. Star power, and all that.

     To that I say “and what exactly is St. John the Apostle doing until his feast day on December 27th?” I can tell you what -- he's pulling rank on me…not to mention sitting with his feet up, sipping Galileean port, and having a grand old apostolic laugh at my expense, while I schlep around playing UPS man to an ungrateful human race. Forget a helping hand from any of the other Apostles, either -- loaves and fishes they can pitch in with…for me, nothing. Too busy speaking in tongues in an attic somewhere for the likes of me, I suppose.

     Would you like to know all the aid and comfort I ever had with all of this holiday haulage and cartage?

     I had a horse.

     A horse.

     One. Singular.

ONE.

Lousy.

HORSE.

     No sleigh, no team of reindeer -- just one single, solitary, broken-down, exhausted horse. If it wasn’t broken-down before Christmas, I can tell you that it finished as a total write-off. I went through a horse a year -- and with no chance of a decent trade-in, thanks to the condition they wound up in, thanks to you greedy lot.

     So Santa Claus can have the job, and six or seven others like it, if he wants to. I’m content to have this day (which nobody notices anyway -- would an e-mail kill you people? A text message? I’d settle for something that said nothing other than “LOL”, or was composed entirely of those little smiley faces made out of punctuation), get it out of the way, and spend the next two-and-a-half weeks looking for someplace to be where I don’t have to hear sleigh bells, hoofbeats on the roof, or any of the rest of that claptrap. The rest of you can have Santa. You deserve each other. Anyone who laughs “ho ho ho” should be relocated to a padded cell…or at the very least, be put to work selling frozen vegetables.

     Matter of fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if that nutcase was moonlighting as the Green Giant. You can’t switch that level of jolliness on and off…it needs an outlet the other 364 days of the year. I mean, honestly -- do you know how giddy you would have to be to put up with living at the North Pole?

     Yours, etc. (oh, what do you care? I know I don’t),

Nicholas

(Saint and Christmas Present-lugger Emeritus)

 

P.S. A postcard...one miserable little postcard -- is that too much to ask?



Vasco da Gama, episode #10 (or, “Café Coincidence”)

     Allow me to show you to your table at the most transparent framing device ever. It’s all pretty simple, really—Rob and MacSnoopeigh go to a restaurant where everyone they meet is somebody they know. Not only that, but every one of those somebodies has a story that segues into a completely unrelated scene.

     A cheap cop-out? A way of recycling old or unused material? A testament to my laziness as a writer? Well, only partially. I knew in advance that Kel wasn’t available for this episode. No Kel means no Mrs. Vasco da Gama, and no Mrs. Vasco da Gama means no “Vasco” scene, since the “Vasco” scene is basically all about Mrs. Vasco verbally cutting her husband down to size. This is the only essential difference in basic format between this episode and Episode #4 (“Occupation: Unemployed”). It may be that one of the scenes in this Vasco is a leftover from a draft of that earlier episode—it’s about Rob interviewing for a job.

     Another scene is a definite Vasco first—well, two firsts, actually. It’s the first face-to-face (voice-to-voice? Take your pick; it’s radio) meeting between Science Boy and Professor Proteus, and the first time in Vasco that I played against myself in the same scene. And I do mean the same scene—what you’ll hear is not the result of intercutting or overdubbing, but almost-careful writing. The Expositron machine in this scene should really have been called the Let-Rick-Take-a-Breath-and-Switch-Characters machine. That’s what it’s there for…other than getting off a few sarcastic sallies at the expense of Science Boy, of course.

     I haven’t much else to say about this episode. (This is a testament to my laziness as a chronicler.) For his part, Ian has “a hazy memory of Kel and Rick doing their Mel and Flo from Alice”. That’s pretty hazy, alright…Kel wasn’t there, and I think we’d all have remembered her telling us to kiss her grits.

     I’ll add one more thing about framing devices, though: blame it on Joseph Conrad. I was a quite the Conrad nut at this time in my life; a lot of his major works are structured around the framing device of people sitting around swapping stories. So, while you’re listening to “Café Coincidence”, just imagine that everyone’s on a boat instead of at a restaurant, and is talking about mysterious goings-on at sea, or merchant captains gone rogue in the far reaches of the African jungle. And, while you’re at it, see if you can spot the framing device that frames the main framing device for…  

Vasco da Gama, episode #10

     That last bit wasn’t a framing device, folks—it was just a cheap hand-off to a link. Joseph Conrad, eat your heart out.