And someone paved me over

Stephen Colbert went out with a bang.

It seems ever since the announcement last summer that CBS had decided to pull another Smothers Brothers-type smother (saying it was for financial reasons, of course), the Late Show has been steadily inching off the rails, getting crazier, and more defiant as the remaining weeks wained.

As a result, I was almost hesitant to watch last night's finale. 

However, Colbert's previous gig The Daily Show posted a video of Colbert's "funniest moments" - which indicated that Colbert has a history of being a bit off the rails in terms of his humour: ribald, outrageous, and darkly satiric. (Also scatological and quite a bit off-colour.) 

I must have missed most of this because I had young children at the time.

The last Late Show was pretty damn surreal, featuring a stream of celebrity interruptions, a last-minute "cancellation" by the Pope, and a surprise interview with Paul McCartney.  This last item was pleasant enough, but I felt a dropping in the pit of my belly, as I saw Sir Paul reach out to the host's desk for balance as he made his way to his seat.  (McCartney turns 84 next month.)

After a couple of ominous green flashes, accompanied by rumbles and static, everything and everyone got sucked up into a wormhole.  Colbert got spat out into a dark room with a tumbled chair and a ghost light. 

He began singing, accompanied by Elvis Costello, former Late Show music director Jon Baptiste, and current Late Show band leader Louis Cato.  It was a song that sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.  It turns out to be "Jump Up", a rather obscure ditty by Costello, that's nearly fifty years old. 

I much prefer the Late Show version; they should record it.

For a grand finale, Paul McCartney lead everyone in "Hello/Goodbye" - including the Late Show staff and Colbert's family.   Really appropriate. 

Then they went for a bit of a St Elsewhere ending.  Also quite appropriate.

I'm posting a Late Show YouTube video of those two closing songs, but you'd probably better watch --before CBS smothers it.

Everybody's talking like they can't sit down/ And looking like they can't stand up/It must be the latest style/ And they've seen a lot of things that you never see/ Back on the mile up to the hanging tree

Some people can't keep their fingers clean/ Just clicking their heels to the beat of the scene/ Trying to keep current until the first edition of last night's obituaries

Jump up, hold on tight/ Can't trust a promise or a guarantee/ 'Cause the man 'round the curve says that he's never heard of you or me

No tombstone would ever surprise me /When I'm locked in a room about half the size of a matchbox/ Got holes in my socks/ They match the holes that I got in my feet/ I put my feet in the holes in the street/ And someone paved me over

I was a statue standing on the corner/ Tell me, how else can a boy get to see those pretty pleats?

Candidate talking on the radio from the "Cheaters Jamboree"/ It must be their latest fool/ 'Cause it's a two-horse race, and he changes bets/ Like it was just another brand of cigarettes

Some people judge, then they just guess the rest/ They can't understand, it don't mean that you're blessed/ They oughta catch the express, next stop nowhere/ That way you can't forget

As you finally get rid of them (Rid of them!)

It's the Ninth Day of Christmas, not the Second, but it's been about sixteen years since I last posted the lyrics to this Elvis Costello ditty (co-written with Paddy Moloney of The Chieftains), and it's been playing in my head a lot this holiday -- not that anyone got drunk, I hasten to add, and we finished the tourtières days ago:

I knew of two sisters whose name it was Christmas,

And one was named Dawn of course, the other one was named Eve.
I wonder if they grew up hating the season,
The good will that lasts til the Feast of St. Stephen

For that is the time to eat, drink, and be merry,
Til the beer is all spilled and the whiskey has flowed.
And the whole family tree you neglected to bury,
Are feeding their faces until they explode.

There'll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias,
Mixed up with that drink made from girders.
’Cause it's all we've got left as they draw their last breath,
Ah, it's nice for the kids, as you finally get rid of them,
In the St Stephen's Day Murders.

Uncle is garglin' a heart-breaking air,
While the babe in his arms pulls out all that remains of his hair.
And we're not drunk enough yet to dare criticise
The great big kipper tie he's about to baptise.

With his gin-flavoured whiskers and kisses of sherry,
His best Chrimbo shirt slung out over the shop.
While the lights from the Christmas tree blow up the telly,
His face closes in like an old cold pork chop.

And the carcass of the beast left over from the feast,
May still be found haunting the kitchen.
And there's life in it yet, we may live to regret,
When the ones that we poisoned stop twitchin'.

The Second Day of Christmas (Shopping, Murders, and Doctor Who)

Boxing Day, in the years of the misspent childhoods of both the Resident Fan Boy and myself, was a visiting day. In my case, the day was rarely spent at home, we usually visited someone else. In the RFB's case, being the son of Anglican church rector, it was the day that people descended on the rectory, and my husband and his sister circulated with platters of cookies, tarts, and rumballs. The RFB and his sister have been known to perform a dance of their own creation which they call "Doin' the P.K." (Preacher's Kid): "Pass-pass, pour! Pass-pass, pour! Pass-pass, pour! Pass-pass, SMI-I-ILE!"

Neither the Resident Fan Boy nor I miss those days much, especially when I got pressed into tray-passing duties as the persona non grata girlfriend and later daughter-in-law. However, stilted fellowship seems an improvement over what Boxing Day has become in Canada over the the past twenty-five years or so -- an orgy of shopping. It seemed to start in the late seventies to early eighties, a few stores holding Boxing Day sales, while those out walking would look on in bewilderment at the line-ups. By the late eighties, it had become a staple of the news broadcasts on December 26th, the annual film of people camping out all night and storming the electronics and music stores to get stereos, VCRs and televisions half-price. The so-called "Boxing Week" ads turn up on TV and in the papers a couple of days before Christmas. I was nonplussed to find a "Boxing Month" ad on my Facebook page yesterday, for a pizza place, of all things. However, the nadir came a few years ago, when Canadian Tire (a sort of super hardware store, which is, appropriately enough, a box store) came up with an ad campaign that started with a choir in the background: "The season for giving is almost over....Now, it's the season for getting!" I nearly broke the television in response, but I didn't want to camp outside Future Shop on Christmas night to purchase a replacement.

These years, Boxing Day usually means going out to a movie, but it's a little difficult this year with the buses on strike (grrrrr), and we had a challenging Christmas Night. Nothing but crap on television, so we played two favourite DVDs: A Child's Christmas in Wales (a Canadian/Welsh 1987 co-production) and Scrooge, the 1951 version of A Christmas Carol which has yet to be bettered. Younger daughter joined us for the latter, before the Resident Fan Boy took her upstairs for bed --- and she spewed the Christmas dinner all over her bedroom. She's never had a problem with rationing her sweets before, over several Hallowe'ens and Christmases, but for some reason, she had gorged herself on the contents of her stocking. Oh well. I'd made the purchase of one of those wonderful mops with the exchangeable and washable microfibre pads, so we corralled younger daughter in the bathtub and quickly cleaned up the hardwood floors, and started the laundry run to the basement. All of which meant I was still awake at midnight for the sole showing of Carols from King's which used to be a staple of Christmas Eve viewing and is now mystifyingly broadcast in the middle of the night following Christmas interspersed with car and hair product commercials...

It must be time for my favourite Boxing Day song, The St Stephan's Day Murders, written and sung by Elvis Costello:

I knew of two sisters whose name it was Christmas,
And one was named Dawn of course, the other one was named Eve.
I wonder if they grew up hating the season,
The good will that lasts til the Feast of St. Stephen

For that is the time to eat, drink, and be merry,
Til the beer is all spilled and the whiskey has flowed.
And the whole family tree you neglected to bury,
Are feeding their faces until they explode.

There'll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias,
Mixed up with that drink made from girders.
’Cause it's all we've got left as they draw their last breath,
Ah, it's nice for the kids, as you finally get rid of them,
In the St Stephen's Day Murders.

Uncle is garglin' a heart-breaking air,
While the babe in his arms pulls out all that remains of his hair.
And we're not drunk enough yet to dare criticize,
The great big kipper tie he's about to baptize.

With his gin-flavoured whiskers and kisses of sherry,
His best Chrimbo shirt slung out over the shop.
While the lights from the Christmas tree blow up the telly,
His face closes in like an old cold pork chop.

And the carcass of the beast left over from the feast,
May still be found haunting the kitchen.
And there's life in it yet, we may live to regret,
When the ones that we poisoned stop twitchin'.

We staggered downstairs at 8:30 this Boxing Day morning to discover elder daughter had pirated the Doctor Who Christmas special. That's my girl! David Morrissey was particularly magnificent and at 6'4", there are not many actors who can make David Tennant look short. (Silly story, though.) More presents under the tree; we spread them out over the twelve days of Christmas and I wonder if I can face any chocolate today...

Thy will be done

I've found it somewhat difficult to blog this past week, not for lack of opportunity nor topics, but I really don't want to turn this blog into a moanfest. Which is a challenge during February in Ottawa. The sad thing, February isn't Ottawa's worst month; it's worsted [in no particular order] by July, August, April and March. And January. Actually, June and September aren't that much fun either...

Whoops! This is sliding into Moandom. Anyway, how do I battle the miseries here in the Nation's Capital? Well, for one thing, there was an interview of David Tennant by Catherine Tate on BBC Four today. It was much too short, but thanks to the "Listen Again" feature on the BBC website, I can listen to it for the next week, providing our computer doesn't pack up which it's showing signs of doing...

Erggh! Sliding, sliding... So, um, David Tennant. Imagining David Tennant would find me fascinating. Self-delusion. Very very good for February. Uh, in a related and slightly related vein, finding well-made and witty Doctor Who fanvids on YouTube (or just well-made and witty).

You think less of me now, don't you? What else? Well, I bury myself in family history research. It is fortunate, in the midst of a rather bleak week both meteorologically and spiritually, that among the many queries I get online about my family tree (seriously, I get one or two a day) came a message from a distant cousin of my husband's who is interested in seeing my collection of wills downloaded from the National Archives. Fortunate, because after two or three years of gathering dust, these wills are finally being transcribed. I take myself down to the coffee shop with my trusty (and rather beautiful) magnifying globe to decipher "secretary hand". Now, you might say that wills are boring, legalistic, and morbid, especially ones from the eighteenth century. Only the middle term applies and one can ignore a lot of that in favour of all sorts of family shenanigans. The latest one I've just completed is one of my favourites so far. The Resident Fan Boy's 5xgreat-grandfather was feeling rather under the weather in the late spring of 1773, so decided it was time to make out his will. It's a very meticulous will, dividing the tablespoons and teaspoons between his two surviving daughters, making sure his wigs and shoes would be delivered to his brother after the funeral. Two sons get the money, livestock and land. Trouble is, he had three surviving sons. Three days after the first will, he drew up a lengthy codicil giving a sum of money to the third son, to be handed over seven years after Papa's death. In the meantime, eldest son is given the pleasant task of paying out three shillings to naughty son every Saturday Night. No other way. Or else all is forfeited. Crikey, I wonder what naughty son did? He shows up in later wills, administering and providing for his relations.

You think I'm an absolute dork now, don't you? Ah well, I always was. I leave you with another of my greatest comforts: music. Here's my favourite Elvis Costello song, sung by Aimee Mann of 'Til Tuesday (with EC on backing vocals). And there's a Doctor Who theme with it. Lovely.