50% Off... With His Head

"Embalmed Head of King Henry IV Found!" says the headline.

And the article goes on to discuss how ol' Hank had lost his head in the confusion of the French Revolution-- like, way literally-- and how the cast from the French version of Bones was called to identify him, in an exciting Sweeps Week two-parter. (Spoiler: he's not Gormagon.)

But what the Reuters article neglected to say is just where this decapitated head was all this time. And that really bugged me because I was sure I saw someone Tweet that it was found in...

Get ready for it...

A garage.

Yep, that's right. A 400-year-old embalmed head in your garage. (And-- ah!--  HERE it is: Time Magazine...)

So I'm guessing this French retiree's garage-- where the dead French dude's mummified noggin was stashed since the 1950s-- must be a lot like my family's place growing up. I mean, we weren't quite ready to star in an episode of Hoarders, but we did manage to retain some pretty weird crap.

Honestly, does the average homeowner really need a tarantula in a formaldehyde-filled jar? Or 300 Victorian doorknobs? Or a full-sized Early American spinning wheel? Or a pickled eel?  

I mean, really, how many times do you find yourself wishing, "Oh, if only I had a pickled eel handy! Drat it, now I'm going to have to figure out where I put that canned lamprey I was saving for Christmas."

Tim Burton could be my cool, normal uncle or something.

So I can see it now... France 2010...

Back behind the box of rat-eaten medieval mille-fleurs tapestries, past the rusted-out bicycle, the spider-infested baguette boxes, and the Jerry Lewis VHS tapes, there the solo-flying head of King Charlie Four has been quietly hanging out amusing himself for half a century. Playing "I-Spy" and "King of the Mountain" and whatnot.

So one day, the retiree's wife gets sick of the fact that the only thing that currently isn't stored in the garage is the Renault. 

And she announces, "We are going to have a garage sale and get rid of some of this junk." Only she says it in French, so it sounds a lot classier.

"Wee air go-wing to ave a gawage sell, and geet reed of some of zis jjjunque..."

(See that-- four-and-a-half years of French really paid off.) 

And so out come the mille-fleurs tapestries... ("Aren't zees Belgian?")

And the rusted-out bicycle... ("Movie prop from Amelie... We weell sell eet on ze EBay...")

And pretty soon, the wife shrieks:

"Mon cher, you weell not beeleeve what Ah jjooost found!"

"Eez eet beegger zan a baguette box?"

"Oui."

So,  soon Saturday morning comes, the garage sale is on, and folks are looking for a bargain.

"Mon cher," calls the wife, "'ow mush deed you want fair zis yooman mummy 'ead? Zere eez no price tag on eet."

"Eet keeps falling off. Five francs. And tell eem Ah weell throw in ze Jjjerry Lewis tapes."

And that's how I like to think the good folks in France were able to put King Henry back together again. 

Of course, now that I'm thinking about it... I wonder what Dad ever did with that tarantula in a jar. As I recall, he kept it back by his electronics worktable...

Y'know, just propping up Vinnie Van Gogh's ear.

Moctopussy

They want revenge. Or national treasury bling. Or weapons. They want to destroy the planet with assorted lasers. Or robots. Or giant sharks. Or giant robot sharks with lasers.

Some of them want a big-ass promotion.

But it occurred to me that very few movie villains, if any, ever want what so many highly obsessive folks teetering on the precipice of sanity seem to want...

An excess of cats.

So I was thinking, just once, I would love to see an action picture where the bad guy gets on the video comm-- which they all seem to have--

(Tech companies must make big bucks setting up satellite communication systems for Evil Overlords)

He picks up his pre-prepared evil guy speech--

(Because so often they toil for decades to achieve revenge and world domination, yet don't seem to have their evil monologues memorized. You'd think they'd be rehearsing in front of the mirror along with brushing their teeth every morning.)

-- And he tells our heroes something like this:


"This is Professor Heinous. My giant robot laser sharks are everywhere, and as you can see, I have you, citizens of Earth, right where I want you. So now that I have your complete and undivided attention, I will issue my demands..."

"By 12 midnight tomorrow, I want the major leaders of Earth to assemble and present me with the world's entire supply of...."

—You can hear a bead of sweat roll—

"...Persians!"

Here the leaders of the major nations, on each of their individual monitor screens, exchange glances with their advisors. Eyebrows are raised. The Secretary of Defense gives a meaningful look to the President and twirls a finger around one ear symbolically.

"Um," the President of the United States turns calmly to the monitor. "I believe they're called 'Iranians' nowadays."

"Not, people, you dimwit!" shouts Professor Heinous. "What am I going to do with people? I hate people. People make me sick. Persians! Persians!"

"Oh!" interjects the British Prime Minister. "Well, that can certainly be arranged. What color scheme are you going for?"

"Color sch--" A vein throbs in Professor Heinous' neck as he sputters. "Are you insulting me with talk of textiles?! This is a concrete stronghold cut into an isolated volcanic island. Do I look like I need rugs here?"

"Well, actually," says the Prime Minister, nodding hesitantly, "I wouldn't recommend the world's supply, but my wife indicates just a few would really tie the—"

"Persians!" shouts Professor Heinous. "Cats. Fluffy ones. That are soft and furry and go by names like Tiddles and Mister Whiskerton, and eat Fancy Feast out of crystal goblets. Persians, you fools! That I can talk to and pet and watch frolic after a feather on a stick. And which will never, ever leave me, largely because I will lock them in the Evil Compound and plus this is an island and they can't swim."

"Ah," said the Prime Minister of Japan, "'kay. Sure."

"And now for my second demand," says Professor Heinous. "I also expect to receive.... the world's supply of tinfoil, and all copies of the Sacramento Bee newspaper dating from 1982, February, back to 1960, July. I'm missing those copies for my collection and now that I rule the world, I'm thinking the time is right to really flesh it out."

The camera pans and we see that in most of the Evil Conference Room, there are stacks and stacks of hoarded yellow newspapers, piled high to the ceiling, many of them still in their original plastic wrappers.

"And don't send any of those Clean House people here when you drop them off. I hate that Niecy woman. She's obnoxious. I guarantee you, she will be the first to die."


So-- tell me, folks: what would you like to see a movie villain do that hasn't been done yet?

Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome

Heavy snow accumulation. The words escape the weatherman's lips. It reaches the ear. It travels to the brain.

And it triggers a jittery, uncontrollable need for bread and milk.

Why, even if we're so lactose intolerant we'd get irritable bowel from one lonely Milk Dud....

Even if we're Living La Vida Gluten-Free...

...We Pittsburghers still grab the keys, revv up the car and roar to the closest Giant Eagle supermarket to stock up for three months of total geographic isolation, by buying things that mold and spoil if you look at them the wrong way.

It's tradition.

So, I go to the store and, in an attempt to strike a note of stoic individuality, I buy hamburger buns and coffee creamer.

"These are not milk and bread. They are non-dairy creamer and sandwich fixin's," my shopping basket proclaims proudly. "Judge not, lest thine Wonderbread and Colteryahn 2% be judged."

And, well, while I'm there at the store, I decide I'd better just pick up some more toilet paper, too. Because what if I suddenly develop dysentery during my seclusion? Or... or... scurvy? (Does scurvy involve intestinal issues? No time to look it up, but why take chances?)

Why, I'd be forced to use... I don't know... sheets from the Pennysaver!

And not only would that clog up my drains, but the print would transfer itself in ways I'd prefer to not think about. There are just certain places on the body that do not need ads for purebred pitbull puppies decorating them.

So with toilet paper in tow, I realize I might want also to cook myself a nice hearty breakfast before digging out. To give myself the superhuman energy to move the artic ice caps that undoubtedly will be moving into my neighborhood.

And so I'll need eggs...

And bacon...

And, well, if I want toast, maybe I'll need that loaf of whole grain wheat after all...

I stack it in the basket with a furtive gaze, and in an instant, I feel a flash of chilled hands and frozen toes.

Dear God! Post-shoveling I'll want a cup of tea. Do I have tea in the house?

And in spite of some sense that there's actually stack of tea in the pantry so towering that Earl Grey himself would say "pip-pip" to it, I secure another box. Safety tea, really.

So by the time I've done, my basket is a low-rider and my 12-items-or-less has somehow transformed into the fully-stocked freezer of the Overlook Hotel.

And I can see, by the bulging grocery bags of my fellow shoppers, that I am not the only one. This behavior really needs itself a name. And I'd like to suggest "Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome."

I suspect it's borne of some innate fear that one day, lack of preparation and an Apocalyptic dose of Mother Nature will mean we'd be force to dine on... oh... Grandpa Al to survive.

We know deep down that even if we made it through the crisis ourselves, the post-dinner guilt of noshing on beloved relatives would kill us.

Plus, Grandpa Al is a little stringy.

It's just safer to buy the bread and milk.

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Question of the day: In your area, do you see the bread aisle pretty much cleaned out at the first sign of flurries? And are you one of those snowstorm stocker-uppers?

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