"...we should pass over all biographies of 'the good and the great,' while we search carefully the slight records of wretches who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the gallows."
~Edgar Allan Poe

Friday, December 19, 2014

Weekend Link Dump


It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas to everyone we know.


Everyone.

Here's a peek at what Santa will be bringing to all the highly peculiar little boys and girls on his list:

Who the hell owns Lee Harvey Oswald's coffin?

Who the hell painted the Virgin on the Rocks?

Where the hell did our water come from?

What the hell happened to the 1962 Alcatraz escapees?

What the hell happened to the 1937 Alcatraz escapees?

What the hell are these Peruvian holes?

What the hell is the Royston Cave?

What the hell is the Shugborough Inscription?  Now we know?

Watch out for the Hat Man!

Watch out for Killer Folding Beds!

Are you a resident of Cornwall?  Watch out for those possessed cars!

Are you a resident of New Zealand?  Watch out for the Taniwha!

Are you a resident of America?  Watch out for those baffling codpieces!

Are you a cat?  Watch out for Lord Eldin!

As someone who has read more wretchedly-written, insulting Poe novels than I really care to think about, all I can say is, oh hell, yes.

Fighting over a dead American in Ireland, 1867.

Okay, so Zanzic the Necromancer plays pimp for a ghost, and winds up with a dead body on his hands...Oh, never mind.  Just follow the link.

From attempted assassin to condemned man to Emperor all in one Christmas and now you know why it was called the Byzantine era.

George VI saved the British monarchy, and when his ghost looks at Prince Charles it must seem like a Pyrrhic victory.

A reminder that you always have to have somebody fact-checking the fact-checkers.

Because you can't have too many Bad Santas.

Here's your big chance to own Cromwell's corpse plate!

Christmas and mourning in old Russia.

The dam that is stealing time.

It's the Million Mummy March!

The sad tale of the Stag of Arbigland, who gave his life to provide a lousy Christmas dinner.

The unsolved mystery of the Baby in the Mine, 1901.

"Tsimequor, indigenous Snuneymuxw." And it only got weirder after that.

Is this Jane Austen?  Or a con?

There's more to the Easter Island statues than you might think.

Christmas with George Cruikshank.

The importance of being able to tell your Banshees from your White Ladies.

Some heroic firehouse dogs of old New York.

Here's another historic NYC dog, this one forever standing guard outside an apartment building.

Why "He's a Jolly Good Fellow" is one of the most depressing songs ever.

How Marie Mancini's bed became a tourist attraction.  Uh, don't worry about clicking the link; despite what you're probably thinking right now, the story's safe for work.

The amazing photographs of "Snowflake Bentley."

How Charles Dickens got one of England's first personal post-boxes.

Medieval book advertisements.

Some New England snow lore.

A 17th century female alehouse "good fellow."

Saki provides some helpful tips on Christmas present dos and don'ts.

A look at Jay Gould's swimming pool.

Earth lights in 19th century Norfolk.

"Female husbands" in Georgian England.

That time tulips caused an entire country to go barking mad.

And, finally, meet Derby the 3-D dog.



And we're done for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll be looking at an evocative Christmas suicide.  In the meantime, a brief introduction to our music video of the week:  Back in the day, one of my aunts worked with a woman who was married to the leader of a struggling young rock band.  The group was having a hard time getting gigs, and money was pretty tight for them.  The wife was always reminding my aunt that if she knew of any weddings or parties that needed a band, her husband's group was eager for the work.  My aunt had heard their music, and privately didn't think they were very good.  She felt sorry for her co-worker, because she figured that band just wasn't going anywhere.

As it turned out, the group wound up doing all right.



Every so often, I remind my aunt of this story, and she just shrugs and says, "I still don't think John Fogerty can sing."

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