The Really Big Shew: I Could Have Been a Contender

Regarding Ed, Time in 1955 stated that “Sullivan resembled a cigar-store Indian, the Cardiff Giant and stone-faced monument just off the boat from Easter Island. He moves like a sleepwalker; his smile is that of a man sucking a lemon; his speech is frequently lost in a thicket of syntax; his eyes pop from their sockets or sink so deep in their bags that they seem to be peering up at the camera from the bottom of twin wells.” Four years later, a five-year old me would watch a monologuing Ed as he prefaced a comedian whose jokes would sound to me like the garble dogs probably hear when humans talk (but I did like his violin), named HennyYoungman, during which I would go against the Critics’ grain by thinking Mr. Sullivan and I would indeed be fast friends, if ever our paths were to cross.

“EVEN THOUGH I was their captive, the Indians allowed me quite a bit of freedom. I could walk freely, make my own meals, and even hurl large rocks at their heads. It was only later that I discovered that they were not Indians at all but only dirty-clothes hampers.” –Jack Handey

HAPPY
Jack Handey
FRIDAY!

. ♥ . ♥ . ♥ . ♥ . ♥ .

MY HEAD ALWAYS RESERVES the first weeks of February for ♥-shaped reminiscey purposes. Right about now would have been when a long time ago teacher would be bringing out “The Special Bins”: scuffed-from-years-of-service pasteboard boxes filled with lacy this and thats; pink and red construction paper; patterned coloured-tin foils (the likes of which I have only been able to find again sometimes in my Good Night dreams. Yep, that indeed is when waking up is hard to do. *sees reader’s eyes rolling* LOL! Uh-huh. Leave it to me to be forever-impacted by flattened, fancied-up aluminum. Altogether now, let’s hear it for The Magic the is Me! *ardently waves an invitation to reader to join in a three-times shout of ‘Hip Hip Hooray!’ but soon turns self-dial to “Simmer Down” and then moves on due to would-be cheerer’s lack of enthusiasm*); teensy-tinsy Cupidy cut-outs; satin ribbons whose hues smack of love; and jars upon jars of every-shade-made-since-the-dawning-of-man (Sister Mary Madeline convinced us kids that it was a byproduct of the wheel, happening when *ahems* Adam first invented it.) glitter (which happens to be my most favourite ingredient to sprinkle on anything! For example: I “snow” it on pizza instead of grated Parmesan. What?! Don’t knock it, because I’m sure you’d at least like the crunchiness, if nothing else. And not to forget how good it looks stuck in your teeth!). Yep, for the next several school days leading up to St. Valentine’s Day, we cut, crumpled, tied, drizzled and

(also a good source of “nutrition” for the Pica-stricken:
Nicholas Jahnke and Kimberly Hiney, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.)
Sanforded

--whatever it took to lavish the shoebox (<–Except for Nic and Kim, who, thinking they’d get more fan mail and because they knew they could get away with not complying with V-Day Rules, because their parents were valuable $chool Board member$, would invariably haul in a couple of cartons emptied of canned goods that they begged off one of a local grocery store stock boys.) each and every one of us pupils (The nuns didn’t call students “students” back in the early days at St Jerome’s, because “that can only lead to head-swelling.” <--Sr. Mary Frances de Sales, Principal, who for some reason thought the word “pupil” was derogatory, and enlisted it to keep everyone 14 and under in their place) brought in, making it love-decorated worthy of receiving the Valentine cards “sent” to us by our classmates, whose delivery was made by Sister Mary Whoever-which-depended-upon-what-grade-you-were-in-that-year.

YIKES! But maybe NOT this one.
GOD, HOW I loved
getting those Valentines!

Of course, for their

heartfelt sentiments,

but mostly because of their phenomenal wordplays!
Yep, as a smitch, I got some of

my best material from the whatever a highly decorated, disgarded-by-the-Webber’s-Shoe-Store receptacle would hold at any given Saint Valentine’s Day school party. Uh-huh, my stand-up comedic dreams were big, Big, BIG! Further cultivated by me, I could go on the road with

this stuff!

Maybe even land a spotlighted gig on The Ed Sullivan Show. Yeah, the act scheduled for after the Anacin commercial (no doubt a product-placementy heads up for parent’s of soon-to-be-screaming girls, but not necessarily directed at me) and right before Mr. S would next be introducing “these youngsters from Liverpool, who call themselves the ‘Beatles’!”

YEAH, ED had a knack for identifying and promoting top talent and paid a great deal of money to $ecure that talent for his show (<–In terms of me, “A free kitten will do,” I thought, excitedly drawing up the necessary contractual agreement in my mind. “Soon I’ll be a household name!” this spinning out of control SparkleFarkle continued, my head swelling bigger than the word “student” could ever dream of doing.

BUT, ALAS, poor Yorick Sparkick, because even though I gave a hand-written S.W.A.Kisser that included “713" (<– our home phone in red) to our mailman, who was quite smiley-smiley receptive when it came to heeding my explicit instructions (“Please, PLEASE, hand it over to him, mister, the sooner the better!” I probably would have phrased my command differently but, back then, I hadn't yet met up with the "Deliver da letter" line.), Eddie (a name I started to refer to him as in 1963, because

Topo Gigio did.),
it was

TWO WORDS:

(Andrew Dice Clay in The Valentine’s Day Massacre)
No dice.

Instead, I find myself blogging...

NONETHELESSLY, I
haven't stopped collecting Valentines,
because

you never know.

Paper-doilied-with-tons-of-glitter-sprinkled-on-it love,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace, my Mollo and Zuzie.

Image Credits:
Mr. Ed’s Autograph, doctored = Time Machine Toys
Eddie, Kiss me Good Night photo = iOffer
Andrew Dice Clay in The Valentine’s Day Massacre = IMDb
Sanford "food" for the Pica-stricken = LobsterLu.com
Assorted St. Valentine's Day cards are from two locations: HERE and HERE.