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Site guru Billy Ingram has compiled features both over-the-top and museum worthy, blissful nostalgia for those born in the '40s or the '80s. New Treasure Hunt. Advertising Privacy Policy. Superman on DVD! Batman on DVD! The Flash on DVD!

Super Friends on DVD! Superman Doomsday! Wonder Woman. Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade full. Magoo, Bing Crosby and all the rest. What were your favorite holiday specials? Read and watch more Alan Young, Mr. On January 5, , Alan Young was having dinner with friends, when they all stopped to watch the premiere of his new comedy, "Mr.

Conrad was right, and today "Mr. Ed" is still in re-runs and celebrating its 50th anniversary. Next weekend, Alan Young celebrates his own personal milestone when he turns I interviewed Alan by phone recently, and we talked about his life and career. Disney's Merriest Christmas Special! Glowing like a color console yule log and glistening not with tinsel but with animated delights, "From All of Us to All of You" was a not-quite-annual Yuletide TV gift, Disney style.

Though many animated specials celebrated Christmas, this special-like episode of the Disney TV hour predated those cartoon extravaganzas by years the first, Mr. This specially-produced Disney program was the first to bring newly-produced, prime-time animated Christmas festivities to the electronic hearth. Read and hear more But can we help it as children growing up in America that many of our warmest family Christmas memories are wrapped around watching something on television?

Known primarily for two things - as a copy of Saturday Night Live and for a riotous appearance by Andy Kaufman - Fridays was so much more than that. See for yourself the evolution of automotive advertising, from the fifties to the seventies. He said Froggy's disrespectful behavior towards adults, which he demonstrated every show, influenced the kids who were watching him and those kids grew up to become the protesting college students of the sixties who likewise showed disrespect towards their elders.

While there were several different men playing Bozo in various TV markets across the United States, only one actor was the national face of the whacky but good-natured clown. He was radio and TV announcer actor Frank Avruch. Fabulous Lola Falana! This one woman blast of dynamite ignited the stages in Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe, a multi-talented beauty attracting high rollers searching for entertainment of the highest magnitude.

So much so, Lola was billed as "Miss Las Vegas" on the casino marquees. Ross Car 54 was dropped after two terms and a few years later Joe E. The kooky combo of Joe E. Ross and Imogene Coca was hard to resist. Again his co-workers complained about his loutish behavior and that one season wonder was the comedian's last primetime series.

Jack Sheldon! Jack Sheldon - you may not recognize the name but you'll recognize his voice from those wonderful Schoolhouse Rock segments from Saturday mornings.

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Share Shares Copy Link. Funkymix Anniversary Issue Funkymix Vol. Classic, down insulated jacket with high-loft baffles and a boxy silhouette. Funkymix mp3 Funkymix mp3 Diva - Live: Funkymix Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there.

The sugar is in the bag. And when I makes water I makes water. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. Do you think she was? Quite charming! Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:.

But, hising up her petticoats He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly.

Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.

Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she slights. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried:. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty. Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in. He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour:. Stephen said. The problem is to get money.

From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. Damn all else they are good for. To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip. And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief.

I want puce gloves and green boots. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:. Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it.

He put the huge key in his inner pocket. He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. But ours is the omphalos. Wait till I have a few pints in me first. Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes.

And it is rather long to tell. Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father. Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety.

With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree. Goodbye, now, goodbye! What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God. Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone.

He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it. Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands. He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side.

Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.

He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes. You are your own master, it seems to me. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly.

It seems history is to blame. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger.

Idle mockery. The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am. They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.

I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her. Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots.

An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth. Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.

Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen. The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking. Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:. I will not sleep here tonight.

Home also I cannot go. A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. Fabled by the daughters of memory.

And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey. All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter.

Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.

A thing out in the water. A kind of a bridge. Kingstown pier, sir. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle.

No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?

Weave, weaver of the wind. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:. It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy.

Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily:.

The cock crew, The sky was blue: The bells in heaven Were striking eleven. They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook.

His tangled hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart.

But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field. Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors.

Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me.

Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned. He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.

When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache. Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be.

And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table. He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong.

It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table. And now his strongroom for the gold. These are handy things to have. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. You just buy one of these machines. The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same.

Three times now. Three nooses round me here. I can break them in this instant if I will. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? Put but money in thy purse. He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. Mr Deasy cried. A French Celt said that.

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