Anyone remember singing this song in elementary school?

One dark night, while we were all in bed
Old Miz O’Leary left a lantern in the shed
And when the cow kicked it over, she winked her eye and said,
“There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight.” [Fire! Fire! Fire!]

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Of course, it got me to thinking: why would we sing a hand-clappin’, knee-slappin’, happy song about something that killed between 100 and 300 people, destroyed dozens of city blocks, and left countless children orphans? I guess it’s our way of glossing over the pain. The above song about the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 wouldn’t have a place in any school music curriculum today, I’ll wager. Although … songs about Christopher Columbus sailing the ocean blue in fourteen hundred ninety-two are still all over the place — go figure. I digress.

What do you do when everything is on fire? You run. You leave everything and run. Then, as we saw so often during the coverage of 9/11, you choke. You can’t get away from the smoke; it gets harder to breathe with every gasp.

There were also tramplings, especially with so many folks trying to get out of town in horse-drawn wagons. I can’t imagine the pandemonium. All this while everything you own burns.

According to the readings, Chicago was supposed to have been a fire-conscious city in an age when fire was at the top of everyone’s fear list. I guess nobody told that to the all the wooden structures that served as fantastic kindling in an area ravaged by drought. The whole “Mrs. O’Leary’s cow” story never really stood up, either; rather, officials speculated that it was careless smoking that did the deed.

Growing up in Wisconsin, there was a general feeling that the Chicago fire overshadowed another tragic conflagration that occurred on the very same day: the Peshtigo Fire. which swallowed up 12 million acres of pristine forest, and killed 1200 people up near Green Bay. Why did the Chicago fire get all the glory? Obvious reasons: big famous city, cool cow story. Made no sense to me.

I do love reading about history, though. Don’t you wish everybody did? By the way. Big ol’ Hershey bar goes to the person who sees the product ad in this paragraph. Name the product and the slogan. First one to post it in a comment here is the big winna.

All right, I’m late. Speaking of late…the Finkmobile goes in for repair on the 28th. Of November.

Oi.

While I don’t remember where I was the day JFK was assassinated, I do remember watching the funeral on TV with my dad and being completely terrified of the flag-draped coffin pulled on the caisson. The memory of that feeling has stayed with me my whole life.

I remember exactly where I was standing and what I was doing when John Lennon was shot. Another indelible memory/feeling.

On this day in 2001, I was at school on a beautiful, sunny morning. I had just left the office and was on my way back to my classroom at the beginning of 2nd period, when the band director met me in the hallway and said, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I just heard that someone bombed the Pentagon.” From there, it all went south.

I didn’t have a television in my room, and since 2nd period was my prep, I decided to walk down the middle school hallway and see what was going on. I ended up in the history teacher’s room, where his class sat in silence, watching. When I left at 9:30, it was chaos. When I returned at 10:30, just in time to watch the second tower fall, it was all too clear. It was Pearl Harbor all over again.

Where were you?

Today, 23 April, 376 years ago, school was officially in. In 1635, Boston Latin School became America’s first educational institution funded completely by local government.

• The first headmaster was paid “fifty pounds and a house” from the public treasury.
• Its students were taught to “dissent with responsibility.”
• Five signers of the Declaration of Independence (John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Adams, Robert Paine and William Hooper) received their boyhood training there.
• The main purpose was to teach Puritan values and bible reading.

Well, look at the school now. We’ve all come a long way, baby. But…

• School boards didn’t exist until 1837, so hiring practices were largely arbitrary (and often corrupt — *gasp*).
• School wasn’t compulsory until 1851, when Massachusetts voted to require all children to attend.
• High schools didn’t come about until 1820.

And schools, like countless other American institutions, changed with the times:

• African American children were allowed to attend segregated, “separate but equal” schools after the Civil War.
• The Smith-Hughes Act passed in 1917, and “tracking” was born. Students were pointed in vocational directions via “intelligence tests.”
• In 1954, Brown vs. Topeka precipitated the Supreme Court decision that “separate” was definitely not “equal,” and that segregation must be abolished. We all know how that went over in the South. Eisenhower had to call in the National Guard to keep the peace.
• In the 1980s, the first charter school popped up in Minnesota, and to some, signaled the renaissance of segregation.

And everything old is new again.

The agrarian school calendar has repeatedly come under fire. Personally, I think it would take a huge influx of cash and a systemic overhaul of union practices to pull off year-round schooling, so I don’t see it happening nationwide for a long time. And further, if you’re really a stickler for semantics, we don’t have a truly “agrarian” calendar. According to Dartmouth professor and researcher William Fischel:

The “agrarian calendar” was not the current calendar of fall-winter-spring. [C]ities in the late 19th century had school in the summer. Nobody had AC back then, so going to school or working in a hot factory was not a big deal. The real reason for the Sept to June calendar is the widespread adoption of age-graded schooling. Rural schools of the 19th century did not have age-specific grades, and so they could have a “term” of school whenever they wanted for as long as they wanted. But age-grading required coordination among different schools. You had to start and stop at the same time so the third graders could start fourth grade together with those from other schools.

Well isn’t that interesting. Teaching all these years, and never knew that. And if you’re still with me by now — did you enjoy this little Saturday lesson? Feels like school, no?

I think I’ll break with tradition and have some coffee this day. Resolutions, shmesolutions.

On 8 December, 1980, I was pacing my living room floor while watching a football game, with a sleepy six-week-old Seamus in my arms, when the news broke sometime in the late evening. Howard Cosell said something like, “It’s hard to go back to the game after reporting this.”

Strangely though, I remember nothing else about that night, except the tears that followed.

Those who know me know that the Beatles — John Lennon, especially — occupy a deep, private, important place in my heart. Heck, my soul. Their music spoke to me first in the late 60s, as a confused pre-teenager. I knew their earlier songs because my aunts used to play their records when they’d come to babysit Mavis and me. As I got older, I delved deeper into their stuff, and before long, I knew (and eventually owned) all of their mainstream albums.

But John’s voice and lyrics always held the top drawer space. There is no voice on the planet like his, although his son Julian’s comes pretty close. I can’t believe it’s been 30 years.

Speaking of dying: that’s what I felt was going to happen last night. I was closing up my classroom around 8:45 p.m. to go home after watching the first half of the  basketball game. I forgot about the presence of a big cinder block, which I sometimes use to prop the door open. I tripped over it and went down, hard, on my hands. Everything in my arms went flying. The good news: I can type this morning. As long as I don’t put any downward pressure on my right hand — like, oh, trying to play the piano or move the gearshift in the car — I’m fine. Today’s rehearsals should be interesting. Oi.

Imagine there’s no Christmas music…

USS Arizona

But that’s just me.

I don’t make light of Pearl Harbor, or trivialize it in any way. I can’t imagine the horror of that morning. Final death toll after the 90-minute attack: 64 Japanese, and 2,386 Americans. War is not funny.

This week has two important historical tragedies; one more tomorrow. But for now, I hit the shower and the snowy road. Christmastime is here, happiness and cheer…

Shyeah right. Bah!

We know that once you buy shoes that are scientifically fitted, you will shop at <<STORE NAME>> all of the time.”

I’ll bet. Of course, we’re talking about the Shoe Fitting Fluoroscope — a contraption into which a customer slid his feet to view the bone structure inside a new pair of shoes. Children and women used it most, along with the salesmen, all of whom were blissfully ignorant of the dandy effects of scatter radiation.

The latest use of this gadget predates me by about 10 years, but I’m surprised that I never heard about them from the adults in my life (especially since I lived in Milwaukee, where many of the things were manufactured). Mavis, do you remember anyone ever talking about them? I don’t.

Anyway, the salesperson would fill out a card on each customer, thereby enabling him/her to recommend the right shoe. Again, brilliant marketing. If you could get a Fluoroscope in your store, the trap was set. All you needed to do was wait for the fish to take the bait.

Many of the comments I’ve read about them come from people now in their 60s and 70s, who thought it was fun as kids to line up in the shoe department and play on the Fluoroscope while Mom shopped. I imagine it would have been a hoot back then to look into the viewfinder and see your foot bones — like you were Ray Milland in The Man With the X-Ray Eyes, a movie that scared the snot out of me when I was ten years old.

Fortunately, by the time that movie came out, the medical community had wised up and the FDA banned the Fluoroscopes.

Interesting, ja? Now I’m going to be ooky for the rest of the day. Ray Milland. *shudder*

Images: Oak Ridge Associated Universities Museum (orau.org), Wisconsin Historical Society

The Paratrooper

Anyway.

I laugh when I remember the ridiculous “safety” precautions of roller coasters at the Adventureland and Riverview amusement parks in suburban Chicago back in the mid-60s. I was scared to death of coasters — always had been. But somehow I was talked into riding one on one of our trips. It was the last time I did so for several years.

It was called the Comet, and I don’t even remember who rode with me. The cars were shaped like mini rocket ships, or some kind of streamlined contraption, and all I remember was being thrown by G-force clean out of the miserable excuse for a safety restraint and landing — screaming bloody murder — on the floor in the front “cone” section of the car. The shape of that conveyance was, I’m sure, the reason I didn’t fly completely out. I remember being slightly airborne, then shrieking MOMMY!! over and over for what seemed like an eternity. What was I, seven/eight years old? I think so. Riverview closed in 1967, so it had to be then or before.

I didn’t ride a roller coaster for some years afterwards. Having just moved to Ohio and finally making some friends (it might surprise you to know that I was extremely quiet and reserved in school until I discovered musical theater), I went to the Cedar Point amusement park for the first time as an eighth grader in 1973. Upon entering the park and seeing what looked like a snarl of serpentine wooden evil, I experienced a minor flashback to my horrific coaster ride years ago. Then my friends said, “Hey, let’s get in line for the Blue Streak before everyone else does!”

Yikes. It was do-or-die time. Was I supposed to tell my new friends I was askeered of a stupid roller coaster? No way. So I swallowed my fear (and its accompanying bile) and queued up for my rematch with wheels on metal.

We rounded the initial curve and the chain grabbed and yanked us up the first hill. The downward thrust was kind of thrilling, and I thought Hmmm…I might make it through this. Then, on the second hill, we’d gotten up a head of steam beforehand, and as the train crested the top and started the hard pull into the descent, I will be shot, stabbed, hanged, beat up and buried alive if my little 4-foot-11, 95-lb. body didn’t come clean up out of the seat and over the safety bar, nearly sprawling over top of the people in the car in front of me. I am not kidding you: I dang near fell out. The horror.

It took me a long time to conquer that fear. I finally did, but not until I was well into my 30s. Crazy, eh?

And I won’t even go into the “Ghost Train” nightmare at Riverview, where the train ride stalls in a pitch-black tunnel and all manner of scary creatures — played by real people — emerge from the walls, reaching and grabbing. All this at seven years old…no wonder I’m a flippin nutcake.

FO

Photo credit: Chicago Tribune

They all laughed at Christopher Columbus when he said the world was round.
They all laughed when Edison recorded sound.
They all laughed at Wilbur and his brother when they said that man could fly.
They told Marconi wireless was a phony, it’s the same old cry.

When Bernie took his idea for suitcases on wheels to major retailers in New York City back in 1970, they thought he was nuts.

He’d received an epiphany while standing in line at customs in Puerto Rico and watching a man move some machinery on a wheeled platform:

I said to my wife, That’s what we need! We need wheels on luggage.”

Macy’s finally saw the light, and the rest is history. Where would we be without these wheely wonders today? Schlepping our stuff a lot slower. And it’s such a simple concept; one that definitely belongs in the “Wish I’d Thought of That” category, ja? Yep, happy birthday to luggage on wheels.

Who’s got the last laugh now?

It’s Wednesday. We’re halfway there, luvs.

FO

If you’ve never heard of Fatty Arbuckle, you’re probably not alone. His persona has basically been lost to history for decades. But boy, was he a contenda — until the wheels fell off and he was destroyed by innuendo and sensationalism.

In 1918, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle became the first Hollywood actor to sign a contract for $1 million. His physical grace and athletic abilities despite his huge size were legendary. His contemporaries (Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and a very young Bob Hope, to name a few) admired him. The world was his oyster.

Then he went to a party in San Francisco over Labor Day in 1921. Several hours into the bash, a girl named Virginia Rappe ran screaming from a bedroom in the house. Four days later, she came down with an infection and died. Arbuckle was arrested and arraigned for rape and murder.

The rape was particularly brutal (I won’t go into the details here, but you can research it yourself to learn the nauseating facts), and many figured that the only person with the requisite size and strength to pull it off was Roscoe (his friends never called him “Fatty”). People assumed and figured, concocted and presupposed, and before long, Arbuckle was persona non grata in Hollywood. His career was over. There was just one little issue, however.

He didn’t do it.

He endured not only the scorn of his erstwhile adoring public, but the systematic deconstruction of the career he’d spent years building through touring with burlesque and vaudeville companies. Close friends refused to believe he’d done such a horrible thing, but with the combination of an overly-ambitious prosecutor looking for reelection, and a maniacal publisher (Wm. Randolph Hearst) dying to sell newspapers, Arbuckle was doomed. It was the first time that a major movie star was involved in such a spectacular scandal, and everyone wanted their piece of the action.

It was also the first time in the history of American justice that a jury later issued a formal, written apology. Even though they acquitted Arbuckle (at his THIRD trial) for the crime and set him free, they knew his life was irreparably shattered. In their letter to him and to the public, they said in a desperate plea for people to forgive and forget:

Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle. We feel that a great injustice has been done him … there was not the slightest proof adduced to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime. He was manly throughout the case and told a straightforward story which we all believe. We wish him success and hope that the American people will take the judgment of fourteen men and women that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame.”

Too bad it didn’t work out that way. He never recovered from the scandal. He died in 1933.

So, it’s no wonder people like Reggie Bush are counting their blessings today, Heisman or no Heisman. It could have been a lot worse.

But hey, let’s end this on a positive note: BOOMR ARRIVES TONIGHT!!!

As I was clicking through the Amazing Fact Generator at Mental Floss, I came across this factoid:

Of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, 3 fell due to earthquakes, 2 due to fires, 1 probably never even existed, and only one stands today—The Pyramid of Khufu.

I thought to myself: can I even name the Seven Wonders? So I came right to Finkville and opened up a new post without looking anywhere else. In all transparency, here are my guesses:

1. The Great Pyramids (well obviously)
2. Stonehenge
3. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
4. Um, lessee…those creepy, monolithic, huge stone face thingies on Easter Island
5. The Sphinx?
6. Yikes…
7. Moo.

eek. I’m dumm.

So now I shall research properly, if for no other reason than to retain the distinction of being your one-stop shop for useless tripe.

The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World are:

#1. The Pyramid of Khufu. The first and largest of the pyramids at the necropolis in Giza, Egypt, this monument was erected for the pharaoh Khufu. Known as the Great Pyramid, it rises about 450 feet (having lost about 30 feet off the top over the years) and covers 13 acres. (Description courtesy CNN Destinations)

I thought the Sphinx was a separate wonder, but it’s just part of the necropolis. So I wasn’t all wrong, ja?

[But I was completely wrong about Stonehenge. If I'd read the factoid carefully, I would have noticed that it said that only one Wonder still exists. Helloooo.]

#2. The Colossus of Rhodes. It must have been a sight to behold: a 110-foot-high monster of stone columns, iron bars and bronze outer skin. It stood tall for over 60 years, until an earthquake toppled it in 224 BC. Cut Helios right down at the knees, actually. Ptolemy III offered to pay for its reconstruction, but an oracle was consulted and he advised against it.

#4. The Mausoleum at Halicarnassos. Built by Artemisia, wife of the ruler Mausolus in what is present-day Turkey, this tomb featured gorgeous friezes and sculptures. At 143 feet high, it stood over the city of Halicarnassos for some 17 centuries, until a series of earthquakes shattered the columns and sent the whole thing crashing to the ground. By 1404 AD, only the very base of the Mausoleum was still recognizable.

#5. The Temple of Artemis. The gods apparently did not want this structure to stand, as it was built three times and destroyed three times. Built in 550 BC in the city of Ephesus, it stood in honor of Artemis, goddess of the hunt. Some guy named Herostratus, who wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, burned the structure to the ground in 356 BC. It was rebuilt, then destroyed again — twice.

#6. The Statue of Zeus. Built at the city of Olympia in 435 BC, the statue was added to a temple in order to gussy it up a bit. Made of ivory, the gold-robe-draped Zeus had a wreath around his head, and held a figure of Nike, his messenger, in his right hand. The statue was later moved to Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul), where it was destroyed by fire in 462 AD. Of all the Wonders, it ranks third in longevity.

#7. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. This tale comes out of Baghdad, formerly the ancient city of Babylon. Many historians call it a myth. (Still, the Fink is not here to judge, but to deliver the goods.) According to legend, King Nebuchadnezzar wanted to build for his wife an amazing green retreat in the middle of the desert, so he had workers construct 400 square feet of garden, 75 feet above ground. Water from the Euphrates was carried up to irrigate the greenery — an act which almost certainly would have had a negative effect on the brick structure beneath, and therefore adds to the dubious nature of the story. At any rate, the “hanging” gardens likely did not actually hang; rather than being suspended, they were probably “overhanging” the wall edges, as depicted in the drawing. Chalk that up to faulty Greek translation.

I love that song. One of the all-time best songs of the seventies. If you don’t know it, you have to listen/watch. It’s an emergency.

Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889 by Vincent van Gogh (1853-90)

~

It’s no secret van Gogh had his demons. They eventually cornered him into shooting himself in the chest, making a wound that would kill him a couple of days later. But what’s the scoop on this ear thing? I always assumed (read: believed what I’d read for decades) that he’d done the deed to himself in a rage of despair after Gauguin walked out on him. But according to a new study, reported by the London Telegraph:

Gauguin, an excellent fencer, was planning to leave Van Gogh’s “Yellow House” in Arles, southwestern France, after an unhappy stay.

He had walked out of the house with his baggage and his trusty épée in hand, but was followed by the troubled Van Gogh, who had earlier thrown a glass at him.

As the pair approached a bordello, their row intensified, and Gauguin cut off Van Gogh’s left earlobe with his sword – either in anger or self-defence.”

Muy interesante. Who says you don’t learn anything on the Interwebnet?

Got all your shopping done?

So I decided to treat myself to some coffee and extended quiet time, along with a huge dose of feeling sorry for myself and my sore ribs, janked back and neck, and smashed-up ankle. I ended up on FolkStreams.net, and got lost in a wonderful wildernesss for two hours.

I believe it’s crucial that our myriad social customs in America — age-old and often passed down by oral tradition only — be preserved before they’re irretrievably lost. The people at FolkStreams have put together a large collection of documentary films about anything and everything having to do with the American experience, and they’re all available for viewing online. Easy to disappear for hours, at least for me. From their site:

Folkstreams.net has two goals. One is to build a national preserve of hard-to-find documentary films about American folk or roots cultures. The other is to give them renewed life by streaming them on the internet. The films were produced by independent filmmakers in a golden age that began in the 1960s and was made possible by the development first of portable cameras and then capacity for synch sound. Their films focus on the culture, struggles, and arts of unnoticed Americans from many different regions and communities.”

This morning, I watched three films. One featured a group of black girls on a playground in 1968. The dynamic of play and interaction between them was fascinating. Then I watched a storyteller/singer spin the tale of Frankie Silver, a North Carolina woman who purportedly killed her husband and was hanged in 1833. Finally, I learned about gandy dancers on the railroads during the first half of the 20th century. Amazing stuff.

I highly recommend this site to anyone with an interest in little-known components of American cultural history; anything from old carnival barks to a cappella ballad singing in the Appalachians, to the Sacred Harp or Delta blues traditions. In some cases, these films — with priceless interviews and vintage film footage — are all that’s left.

I know it’s not Avatar or Sherlock Holmes, but satisfying and educational nonetheless. Thumbs up.

Happy Saturday — I’m off to replace the ice in my sock.

Fink ouch.

I really, really hate conspiracies. I just want to know. Ya know? Marilyn’s death remains surrounded in mystery. Did she overdose by accident, or on purpose? Or was she really snuffed by the Kennedys? No one will ever know, I guess. And it’s probably safe to assume that anyone who might have known took the story to his/her grave.

Anyway, it was on this day — 5 August — in 1962 that Marilyn Monroe was found dead in her bungalow.

Tomorrow marks the anniversary of the 1945 bombing of Hiroshima. I don’t think kids today (or even those of us born in the 50s and 60s) realize the true horror of a catastrophe of this magnitude. Honestly. And I’m tellin ya: controlling nukes owned by crazy people = herding cats.

On the 7th is the anniversary of the foggy morning in 1974 when French athlete Philippe Petit illegally stepped out on a wire he and his mates strung between the two towers of the World Trade Center in New York. The Thriller and I finally got to see the movie about it, Man on Wire. You must see it to believe it.

The intrigue, blind faith, incredible audacity, celestial alignment and just plain dumb luck that combined to facilitate this stunt are simply not to be believed. Go rent this film today.

And on the very next day in the very same year (1974), Richard Nixon resigned the presidency. I vividly remember watching a replay of the announcement on the news the following evening, sitting with my dad in the living room. Another good movie: Frost/Nixon. We’ve seen it twice. Brilliant performances by Frank Langella as Nixon (he was nominated for an Oscar for the role) and Michael Sheen as David Frost.

Crazy days indeed. And now I’m off to my own crazy day. Ugh. Have a goody!

FO

Photo credits: 20th Century Fox; Magnolia Pictures

I noticed these images on a couple of blogs yesterday, and followed some links. It’s amazing (and gratifying) how visual art, after several millennia, still moves people to all manner of emotions.

A gaggle of different feelings will serve as reactions to the following picture. (You know the Law, so I ain’t interested in what those particular reactions are for you personally, or why. Just be nice and play my little game for today, k?)

Maybe this evokes less of a “convicted” response. I think it’s funny, myself:

Art has been controversial for centuries, but there was a time not too long ago when it was the only commercial visual stimulus available, and much attention was paid to its viewing, criticism and social commentary. I like art history — especially the periods which coincide with music history (Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, Romantic, Impressionistic, Contemporary).

I won’t go into the whole of it, as I’d be writing all day instead of planning my glorious return to the school house, but imagine the shock of looking at this painting up close, when you hadn’t been raised on watching realistic reenactments of it on television:

Judith Slaying Holofernes, by Artemisia Gentileschi, 1618

Interesting stuff.

Still, look at the determination on the women’s faces. Then look at Holofernes. How do you think the men of 1620 Italy reacted to it? And the women (though likely in secret)?

Did I mention I like visual art? It was the subject of one of my very first posts here at RtB. I could talk about it all day, really. Alas…

I found this quote from Artemisia herself:

An artist’s feeling is the white-hot core of painting…You’ve got to use your own emotions and paint with your own blood if need be in order to discover and prove the truth of your vision.”

If only we all felt that way about our own visions, eh?

FO

And no, I’m not writing a post about the Association of Free Trojans — if there actually is an Association of Free Trojans. Rather, I’ve deliberately misplaced the modifier to confuse you. Kidding again. I just have stuff to say about the word “trojan.”

Last night, while reading/researching, I ran into the word no fewer than three times. This, I surmised, was a sign: time to free-associate about trojans. [OK, I'm not *really* free-associating, but...you know.]

You hear the word “trojan” a lot; many times in connection with computer issues. There are three definitions one must keep separate in the virus/trojan/worm game, however (squeaky-clean, freshly-manicured Mac users, you can skip this section, although the Mighty Blue Apple has been known to get the occasional worm):

• Virus: something your computer catches from an infected source, like media (CDs, portable drives, files).
• Worm: a kind of virus spread mostly via networks.
• Trojan: a bad piece of programming masquerading as something else

There are lots of schools that feature a Trojan warrior as their mascot. My school does. But I wonder how many people, when they think of a Trojan, first think about how the citizens of Troy got their collective butts kicked via the ultimate humiliation of the Trojan horse joke.

I would imagine a person’s first thought upon learning of the ruse dreamed up by Odysseus would be, What a buncha wankers. Well, if the knee-high strappy sandal fits…

They really bought it, lock and stock. Amazing. Different culture then, though. And really, how do we know Virgil didn’t make it all up? But still, I have to wonder when I see athletic teams called “Trojans” — why did they choose that mascot? I’m sure there were brave and powerful Trojan soldiers. But that’s not really their claim to fame.

Thus ends my Trojan association, but not my fondness for all things old. Take today, for instance. Tis a special day indeed. Behold the email I received from my fiend PK:

Hail, Mistress well met! I would remind thee that Thursday bringeth Talk Like Shakespeare day withal, to honor his birthday revels. Mayhaps it behooveth thee to visit yon web site:

http://www.talklikeshakespeare.org/