SCIENCE/TECHNOLOGY: On Pins and Needles: Stylist Turns Ancient Hairdo Debate on Its Head

By day, Janet Stephens is a hairdresser at a Baltimore salon, trimming bobs and wispy bangs. By night she dwells in a different world. At home in her basement, with a mannequin head, she meticulously re-creates the hairstyles of ancient Rome and Greece.

Ms. Stephens is a hairdo archaeologist.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324900204578286272195339456.html

HUMOR: Pirate Translation Of A Christmas Classic

Bein' a fan o' th' language, Pirate, last voyage I presented two Buccanneer versions o' Th' Night Before Christmas. Followin' that tradition - admitted a wee days late, I present a Pirate translation o' th' openin' an' closin' o' Charles Dickens` A Christmas Shantey. I had helped wi' this Buccanneer translator.- Dirty Sam Read of the good ship, The Hate Of The West (aka OlderMusicGeek)

A CHRISTMAS SHANTEY
by Charles Dickens

I be havin' endeavoured in this Ghostly wee book, t' raise th' Ghost o' an Idee, which shall nay put me readers ou' o' humour wi' they's self, wi' each other, wi' th' season, or wi' me. May 't haunt the'r houses pleasantly, an' nay one wish t' lay 't.

The'r faithful Matey an' Servant,
C. D.
Decembree, 1843.

Stave 1: Marley`s Ghost

Marley be dead: t' begin wi'. Thar be nay doubtwhatereabout that. Th' register o' his burial be signed by th' clergyman, th' clerk, th' undertaker, an' th' chief mourner. Scrooge signed 't. An' Scrooge`s name be good upon `Change, fer anythin' he chose t' put his hand t'.

Old Marley be as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I dasn't mean t' say that I know, o' me own knowledge, what thar be particularly dead about a door-nail. I might ben inclined, myself, t' regard a coffin-nail as th' deadest piece o' ironmongery in th' trade. But th' wisdom o' our ancestors be in th' simile; an' me unhallowed hands shall nay disturb 't, or th' Country`s done fer. Ye will therefore permit me t' repeat, emphatically, that Marley be as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge be knowin' he be dead? O' course he did. How could 't be otherwise? Scrooge an' he be partners fer I dasn't know how many voyages. Scrooge be his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole matey, an' sole mourner. An' e'en Scrooge be nay so dreadfully cut up by th' sad event, but that he be an excellent man o' business on th' very tide o' th' funeral, an' solemnised 't wi' an undoubted bargain.

Th' mention o' Marley`s funeral brings me aft t' th' point I started from. Thar be nay doubt that Marley be dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothin' wonderful can come o' th' story I be goin' t' relate. If we be nay perfectly convinced that Hamlet`s Father sank t'Davy Jones' locker before th' play began, thar would be nothin' more remarkable in his takin' a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than thar would be in any other middle-aged
gentleman rashly turnin' ou' after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul`s Churchyard fer instance -- literally t' astonish his lad`s weak mind...


Scrooge be better than his word. He did 't all, an' infinitely more; an' t' Wee Tim, who did nay sink t'Davy Jones' locker, he be a second father. He became as good a matey, as good a master, an' as good a man, as th' good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in th' good old world. Some swabbies laughed t' be seein' th' alteration in th' lad's, but he let them yo ho ho, an' wee heeded them; fer he be wise enough t' know that nothin' erehappened on this globe, fer good, at which some swabbies did nay be havin' the'r fill o' yo ho ho in th' outset; an' knowin' that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought 't quite as well that they ortin' ta wrinkle up the'r one good eye in grins, as be havin' th' malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: an' that be quite enough fer th' lad's.

He be havin' nay further intercourse wi' Spirits, but lived upon th' Total Abstinence Principle, ereafterwards; an' 't be always spake o' th' lad's, that he be knowin' how t' keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed th' knowledge. May that be truly spake o' us, an' all o' us! An' so, as Wee Tim observed, God be blessin' Us, Ever' One!

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CULTURE/SOCIETY: A Pirate Translation

This har post be by me, not som' reprinted piece. - Dirty Sam Read aka Mad Tom Storm aka OlderMusicGeek.

If ye be readin' my blog afore, ye be knowin' me interest in the language of pirates! I be supplyin' a numb'r of translations afore, so I be givin' ya all anot'er. This har is Hamlet's siloquy translated to Pirate speak. I be havin' halp from this har translator - Talk Like A Pirate Day translator.

A sea dog says 't this way:
Ta be, or nay t' be--that be th' question:
Whether `tis nobler in th' head t' suffer
Th' slings an' arrows o' outrageous fortune
Or t' take arms against a sea o' troubles
An' by opposin' end them. T' sink t'Davy Jones' locker, t' sleep--
Nay more--an' by a sleep t' say we end
Th' heartache, an' th' chestfull o' natural shocks
That flesh be heir t'. `Tis a consummation
Devoutly t' be wished. T' sink t'Davy Jones' locker, t' sleep--
T' sleep--perchance t' dream: ay, thar`s th' rub,
Fer in that sleep o' Davy Jones' locker what dreams may come
When we be havin' shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. Thar`s th' respect
That makes calamity o' so long life.
Fer who would bear th' whips an' scorns o' time,
Th` oppressor`s wrong, th' proud man`s contumely
Th' pangs o' despised love, th' law`s delay,
Th' insolence o' office, an' th' spurns
That patient merit o' th` unworthy takes,
When he hisself might his quietus make
Wi' a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
T' grunt an' sweat under a weary life,
But that th' dread o' somethin' after Davy Jones' locker,
Th' undiscovered country, from whose bourn
Nay traveller returns, puzzles th' will,
An' makes us rather bear them ills we be havin'
Than fly t' others that we know nay o'?
Thus conscience does make yeller bellies o' us all,
An' thus th' native hue o' resolution
Be sicklied o`er wi' th' pale cast o' thought,
An' enterprise o' great pitch an' moment
Wi' this regard the'r currents turn awry
An' lose th' name o' action. -- Soft ye now,
Th' fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all me sins remembered.
Ya landlubber!