It’s supposed to snow Wednesday! White Christmas, as is our due. Of course the snowblower is on the fritz, and I’ll have to shovel wearing this restraining boot, but hey hey holly jolly.

Slight stuff today because I decided to post tomorrow, and I’ve another column due. Three so far this week. Makes a man want to turn to drink.

Did I say drink?

Yes! Heartfelt seasonal messages from the HOUSE OF BOOZE! The first paragraph of boilerplate does not exactly follow, logically.

It is good to be at peace: you can tell it's post-war.

The first brand in the ad is one that's lost a bit of its luster.

The second brand is no longer with us; wonder why. The British connection may seemed to implausible. King Arthur didn't drink gin.

Pedigree, in the handy book-shaped container:

My grandparents had that glass! The one on the right. They used it for wine. Horrible sweet Kosher wine.

Ancient Bottle Gin? More ancient than King Arthur?

The VO is still going strong, but again, it's not top-shelf.

And the difference between Seven Crown and Five Crown was . . . well, I'm guessing it was "price" and "quality."

They still make Crown Royal, of course. It's the one in the purple bag. It's the best-selling Canadian whisky in the United States, It's technically bourbon, but they can't say that, because it's Canadian.

I wonder if there's a town in the French-speaking part of Canada named Bourbon, so they could say it was from the Bourbon region.




It’s 1929, again. I keep coming back to this year.

We’re in LeGrande, Oregon.



Harold’s grave. He died in 2006. His wife’s maiden name was Wanza Savage, which is pretty cool. There doesn’t seem to be much obit info on Florence. The full picture of the two, here.

  What they didn’t know at the time was that this fellow . . .
  . . . was one of Al Capone’s triggermen.

The full story:

The "West Michigan connection" was hit man Frederick "Killer" Burke. Burke, also known as Frederick Dane, fled Chicago after the massacre and settled into a home in Stevensville. Burke kept the guns, bulletproof vests and shotgun shells from the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and hid them in his home.

They tied the guns to the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.

Burke was tried for Skelly's murder, sentenced to life and died in Marquette State Penitentiary. He never implicated any other killers involved in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, but he did express regret for killing Skelly.

"I'm glad it's all over. I'm terribly sorry for everything," Burke said. "Not because I have to serve my time, I don't mean that, but I'm sorry that I killed that boy.”

Well, there's that.


The editorial page round-up of wisdom and points to ponder:



Now: some piece of electronics that talks to satellites and identifies music and gives you the lyrics and provides a link to download it from a massive computer array.

Then: socks

Falks Socks, that is.

Don't forget to get the girls some flapper hose!

Now we have to read it twice, because we’re not trained to detect two distinct japes in the same paragraph, neither of which relate to the illustration.


  Now we have to read it twice, because we’re not trained to detect two distinct japes in the same paragraph, neither of which relate to the illustration.


Little has changed, except perhaps dad’s clothes.

Close up:

Not a lot has changed in 100 years - and isn't that something of a comfort?


That'll do. Have I primed the Christmas pump sufficiently? It's all up to you now. See you tomorrow.

Oh, and there's a whole year of 80s ads. Fourteen pages!



blog comments powered by Disqus