More Tweaking

Trying to improve the choruses:

Callipygia, here I come:
Liposuction for my bum.
My figger
Gets bigger,
Try as I might;
Last Easter,
My keister
Lost a fight
With cellulite.
So now my buns are "Super Size,"
Poised above two thunder-thighs.
Plastic surgeons put me wise:
Callipygia, here I come!

Callipygia, here I come!
(Then I might start getting some.)
My hiney
Was tiny
(Not that you'd know);
A hypo,
Some lipo—
Back I go
To status quo.
So feed me fries with mayonnaise;
I don't need no diet craze!
Lipo means that, nowadays,
Callipygia, here I come!

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I don't like the looks of figger, but it's more intelligible than the old line, and so will have to do till something better comes along.

Struggling On

I was never happy with the lyric to Callipygia, Here I Come, and this morning, after an evening of wheel-spinning followed by a restful night's tossing and turning, yielded the following tweakage:

Callipygia, here I come!
(Liposuction for my bum.)
It's hopeless;
I'm copeless,
Try as I might:
Last Easter,
My keister
Lost the fight
With cellulite.
So now my buns are "Super Size,"
Poised above two thunder-thighs.
Plastic surgeons put me wise:
Callipygia, here I come!

Callipygia, here I come!
(Liposuction for my bum.)
My hiney
Was tiny
(Not that you'd know);
A hypo,
Some lipo:
Back I go
To status quo.
So good-bye, dadgum diet craze!
I can feed on Hollandaise,
Pringles™ chips and doughnut glaze.
Callipygia, here I come!

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I'm not sure what that closing means, exactly, but there's a vague thought there that might turn into something eventually.

Flooded with Offers

A chance to perform before a live audience has again arisen, for I may be asked to join a comedy group. The gig (if—) would be on October 24, 2007, at Don't Tell Mama. Short notice.

The topic, I'm told, should be addressed to the Baby Boomer Generation, which troubles me a bit, since nothing nettled me more as a wee bairn than performers who spoke only to the geriatric crowd. Still . . .

My contact suggested doing something anent Viagra, but the thought of doing so much work left me, well . . . limp. So I went to the trunk and pulled out an ancient parody of a single chorus of California, Here I Come, regarding the American preoccupation with plastic surgery. Here's a draft of one verse:

Too much beer and too much sitting,
And my backside's getting pretty wide;
Every pair of pants is splitting—
Which is none too healthy for my pride.
Callipygia, nothing less—that's the Key to Happiness!
Just last week, I had a fitting,
And my tailor simply up 'n' died;
So—

Callipygia, here I come, etc.

Lyric © Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I have no idea what I'll do for music, though. This may not happen.

Pax, Wo Bist Du?

On the ground floor of the building wherein I earn my daily bread is one of those New Age greasy spoons that are all the rage these days. You know the sort of thing: International Food Exchange, Au Bon Pain, Pret A Manger, and so on. Featuring sissified coffees at Starbucks prices, gourmet soups straight out of an industrial-sized can, sandwiches filled with fattening yet still unpalatable foodstuffs in grotesque combinations. The lineal descendant of that diner in Edward Hopper's Nighthawks.

The greasy spoon under advisement bills itself as Pax Wholesome Foods. And it's that word, wholesome, that I wonder about.

The place is part of some sort of chain or franchise, so I imagine that anything posted on the window of the shop must have been approved by a lofty board of directors, after consultation with the marketing wallahs. But what did they mean by it? Surely, they can't be boasting that their inventory complies with the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906? Are they subtly suggesting that their competitors' products do not? Perhaps it's soft-sell; an arch affectation of modesty, after the manner of those old Avis and Volkswagen ads. It seems unlikely that the chain (or franchise) is governed from some remote country, where the natives are less than hep to the nuances of English, since the shops seem to be confined to Manhattan. Does one actually want to eat in an establishment that feels it necessary to inform its patrons in haec verba that its food is wholesome?

Being too lazy to investigate, I suppose that I shall simply go on wondering. A pity that there still are mysteries in life that do not yield to googling.

Polynesia's Progeny

Now, Here's an obit as is an obit.

And at the tender age of 31, too. Tragic.

As I Was Saying . . .

. . . before the server shut down on Friday evening: the shape of many rock songs, taken from folk music, makes them less susceptible of parody than popular standards (at least, parody by me). A popular standard may have a verse, but it's not the crux of the song; it may be used to set up a gag, but it can be ignored, if it gets in the way.

The chorus of a popular standard is the meat of the song, and it's what everyone remembers, or used to remember, before the Baby Boomers formed the Great Resolve to Forget Everything That Happened Before We Were Born. Rock songs, however, often alternate verse with refrain, and then repeat the refrain ad nauseam. An excellent way to sell gramophone recordings, and that is the name of the game; but it's hell, as far as comedy is concerned.

Inching Towards Modernity

Again, with the partial parodies. But this is what comes of spoofing material when I don't know the original. Yet a friend has written to suggest that I try parodying something more recent than Sonny Boy. And he's absolutely right.

So I bethought me of a Billy Joel song, For the Longest Time (hey, it's only twenty-four years old!). His tunes and rhythms frequently please my ear, and—this will sound odd—though his lyrics are as unintelligible as those of every rock star since Elvis was a pup, I have a sneaking suspicion that they actually approximate American English and fit the music. And those are qualities that I admire like billy-o, if you'll pardon the pun.

So here, in a rough order, are a few verses, set to the principal theme:

Broadway shows mean standing in a queue;
Hours and hours of nothin' much to do.
If all the waiting
Is rather enervating,
Then why not simply form a conga line?

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh—
Form a conga line.
Ooh, ooh, ooh—
Form a conga line.

Leap years bring a slate of candidates:
TV spots and tedious debates.
I think campaigning
Would be more entertaining,
If nominees would form a conga line.

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh—etc.

British pomp is something of a bore:
Slow march; drum beats; pageantry galore.
With Princess Di dead,
The Queen has now decided,
"We are resolved to form a conga line."

Ooh, QE2! etc.

Someday, all will perish in the dust:
Pride, wrath, sloth, greed, gluttony and lust.
But never fear, eh?
We'll meet on dies irae;
And, when we do, we'll form a conga line.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Now, this points up the difficulty with rock songs as material for parody, even songs as appealing as Billy Joel's: the repetition is simply not a fit vehicle for comedy. Rock songs too often are in ballad form: verse, refrain, verse, refrain, and so on. Gotta go; the server's shutting down.

Meanwhile, I've made four abortive attempts to parody Windmills of Your Mind, in obedience to the suggestion of another friend. Easier said than done, Toots.

Obsessing, Slightly

Sen. Larry Craig's surrender at the first sign of trouble has done nothing to take my mind off the situation. Today, on the way to the orifice, bits of patter popped into my head, to set up Do Yer Business Virch'ally for an audience; an audience (schniff!) that will never be:

"What I can't get over about this whole Larry Craig business is—why Minneapolis-St. Paul? Nobody actually goes there, except to change planes for somewhere else, or to inspect bridges, or something. So what possessed Craig to try his luck in a gents' 'way out there, of all places?

"I can understand trolling for tail in Washington, D.C. In Washington, you have to stand in line if you want to pick up a stranger in a restroom. The whole place is right out of the pages of history—or is it pages with history? Anyway, getting a little breaks up the monotony of all those committee meetings.

"Or why not wait until you're back home? Picture Craig back in Idaho: Congress has adjourned, he's sitting at home with nothing to do, he's at a loose end—so he goes out cruising for a loose end.

"But no. He chose the Twin Cities. And now he's paying the price for not learning what the rest of us learned long ago: if you want to get your rocks off, go online. That's why we have an Internet. That's what it's for." [Segue into song.]