Death and Taxes

Brain Still Idling

2009-08-07T09:51:00.003-04:00

The parody of Anchors Aweigh is now as finished as it's every going to be:

Wankers all night, and then . . .
Wankers all day!
You know those Navy men—
They masturbate their lives away.
At first—pre-ejaculate;
Then—creamy foam.
(Keep whites immaculate
By shipping all your dirty laundry home.)

Lyric © 2009 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I'm fond of the repeated then, which gives the thing some balance. And, while it may mystify my public (if any), nothing tickles me like ribaldry expressed in "high" language: masturbate and pre-ejaculate. One of my favorite limericks ends, And they argued all night/As to who had the right/To do what, and with which, and to whom. That prissy accusative, whom, always sends me into ecstasies of merriment.

But enough. A blog is no place to express oneself.

Facebook Fallout

2009-08-06T17:54:00.002-04:00

The subject of birthers has arisen on Facebook, and today prompted the following, with apologies to Dorothy Parker:

A roving American mama,
While sojourning one day in Kenya,
Gave birth to Barack H. Obama--
And I, folks, am Vincent Gardenia.

Verse © Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

An Idle Brain Is The Devil's Workshop

2009-08-05T16:31:00.003-04:00

This morning, while I was waiting for a bus, the following slowly oozed into the ol' cerebrum like warm molasses. To the tune of Anchors Aweigh:

Wankers all day, my boys;
Wankers all day.
When naval duty cloys,
We masturbate our lives away.
So first—pre-ejaculate;
Then—creamy foam.
(Keep whites immaculate
By shipping all your dirty laundry home.)

Lyric © 2009 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

It's a rough draft, I suppose--I don't much care for cloys, and so is mere filler; but I don't regret having added three extra syllables in place of the original day-ay-ay-ay.

A few scraps of ideas came to me a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't had time to work 'em out. You may watch this space for further developments, but don't hold your breath while doing so.

2009-05-12T10:11:00.003-04:00

The Nyok Times reports that, with the assistance of the United States, John Demjanjuk is to be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb.

Of course, little has changed in Germany over the past 75 years. But I'm a bit chagrined to think how much has changed Stateside.

Scandalous!

2009-04-29T17:34:00.005-04:00

This in today from the Nyok Times. About a bank robber who accidentally let his gun go off during a heist, and copped a heavier sentence in consequence.

How can a nation be enlightened enough to elect That Guy in the White House, and yet still be so benighted as to penalize people for being intensely stupid? It makes no sense.

More Nonce Lyrics

2009-04-26T00:03:00.002-04:00

The Young Idea has been visiting colleges, and a couple of lyrics have popped into the noggin while I've waited around for her. The first was to the tune of--get this--the theme song to Stan Freberg's faux TV western, Bang Gunleigh, U.S. Marshal Field, from The Best of Stan Freberg Shows (and if you're not acquainted with that august album, shame on you!). The tune I can't give you, but the original lyric runs something like this:

Bang Gunleigh,
U.S. Marshal Field,
Riding east, west, north and south:
You can tell he stands for justice
By the way he draws a gun,
And the proud look about his green mouth [from his having eaten the sponsor's product, Puffed Grass, you see].

I deeply regret the obscurity of the melody, but the Muse is too bitchy to be thwarted by a pipsqueak like me; so here goes:

Johns Hopkins
University,
With the pre-med student bod:
It's a cinch they churn out doctors
Like a sausage-meat machine,
Every last one of whom will play God.

Lyric © 2009 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

The next trip was to Grinnell College, in Grinnell, Iowa, which yielded the following, set to the more recognizable Hello, Dolly!:

Grinnell College
Is a swell college,
Though it's way the heck out West in Timbuktu;
The undergrad students
Aren't such bad students--
When somebody
Has to study,
He says, "Whoop-de-doo!"
So spend your last dollar--
Be a real scholar--
Wind up smarter than you were when you were born.
(Though, let me say, people,
Apropos I-o-way, people:
Just to be nice, I won't refer--
Just to be nice, I won't refer--
Just to be nice, I won't refer to corn.)

Lyric © 2009 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

As so often happens with my stuff, it sags towards the end. Ah, me!

Free at Last

2009-02-05T16:40:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I decided that it was high time to get connected to the Internet. It's A.D. 2009, I told myself, and everyone and his brother is websurfing these days; why shouldn't I? Nay--why shouldn't I, ba goom?!

So I canceled my account with Verizon DSL.

Instantaneously, my connection problems have ceased, and I'm now a websurfin' fool.

(This means, of course, that the old parody website is Code 423-Locked. But I took the elementary precaution of downloading its contents before canceling the account. Someday, I suppose, I'll post it summers else.)

So I highly recommend to everyone within eyeshot of this page that canceling Verizon DSL is the only way to go!

P.S. The ol' Ball-and-Socket tells me that a solicitor for Verizon FiOS has already knocked twice at our door this week. I just had to laugh.

What's the French for "Fiddle-dee-dee"?

2009-02-04T09:46:00.003-05:00

An Ottowan recently visited this blog and had it translated by Google into German. For some crazy reason, I've taken a shine to this bit:

King Kong,
Die Riesen-Gorilla
Stellen Sie Godzilla
Mit zwei ließ Daumen.

King Kong,
Die Simian-Wonder
Sein Brüllen ist wie Donner,
Genug zu übertönen die Trommeln.

Fay Wray -
Ihre Busen sind Wurfleine.
Könnte Adam und Eva konzipieren
Die Liebe, die sie erreichen?

Fat Chance!
Ich wette meine bandanna
Das Adam's Banane
Ist kein King Kong.

(Interesting sidelight: when you paste a cutting from a Google translation, both the original and translation appear, side by side.)

Does the translation have all the charm of the original? I think so. In fact, that it does, ich wette meine bandanna.

A New Kind of Democrat?

2009-02-03T14:26:00.003-05:00

Tom Daschle, who had not blotted his copybook in past years sufficiently to alienate That Guy in the White House, has withdrawn his nomination to lead the Welfare Department because of income tax evasion. This, the Nyok Times reports, is the second nomination to be withdrawn today because of income tax evasion.

Is it possible that a new kind of Democrat is at long last aborning--one who concedes, however grudgingly and tentatively at first, that the tax laws apply to Democrats as well as Americans, and that the sacred Welfare State cannot flourish like the greenback tree, unless Democrats also piss their money away on it?

Vulgar Expression

2009-01-28T09:54:00.002-05:00

A capital joke just fluttered into the spacious void between my ears. No point in wasting it, thought I, so here it is.

You're [all?--Petrikov. Dele.--Ed.] acquainted with the vulgar expression for one's wife--the ol' Ball-and-Chain. Well, I've decided henceforth to refer to the Immortal Beloved as the ol' Ball-and-Socket.

Because we're joined at the hip, of course.

Spoken Like a True Ambulance-Chaser!

2009-01-23T09:52:00.003-05:00

From the Land of 10,000 Recounts comes this item. Al Franken, the comic who's ahead by a nose in the Minnesotan Senatorial race, moved to dismiss his opponent's recount lawsuit, and argued that the court could only check the arithmetic, not the actual validity of the votes. The court, naturally, didn't buy this, and let the suit proceed--without expressing any opinion as to the truth of Coleman's allegations. But the kicker was this: Coleman's attorney, Ben Ginsberg, called the decision a "stinging defeat" for Franken.

Now, what in tarnation does that mean? Franken's still 225 votes up; he's still the presumptive junior Senator from Minnesota; Coleman, not he, still has to prove that the electoral system somehow screwed up (which is harder to do than one might think).

All this decision means is that Franken suffers the continued nuisance and expense of defending the suit, and, because Coleman now has two strings to his strategic bow, the increased risk that he'll wind up some number of votes down at the end. Yet Ginsberg speaks as if the decision somehow pressured Franken into settling. Can candidates compromise on election results? Is Franken now tempted to whisper, "Let's say I serve the first four years, and you serve the last two--"?

Do you fancy, Mr. Ginsberg, that this is some trumped-up suit against a tobacco company? Are you now thinking, "If Coleman takes the two years, I'll get me eight months o' dat!"

Question--

2009-01-21T11:53:00.004-05:00

Does anyone out there happen to know what a forbearer is? And before you answer, you ought to know the context.

Yesterday, That Guy in the White House spoke of the ideals of our forbearers. I'm trying to identify those ideals (apart from diction, of course), and thought that a definition of forbearer might provide a clue.

Everybody Outsources Nowadays

2009-01-19T17:22:00.005-05:00

Well, it's a great day for the Race, as blacks prepare to watch the inauguration of one of their own as President. The odd thing is that That Guy isn't the descendant of slaves, but of a a native African.

So as I say--everybody outsources nowadays.

What Recession?

2008-12-19T18:05:00.004-05:00

Lest my faithful reader fret, allow me to assure him or her as the case may be that, in my neck of the woods at least, there are no signs of increased unemployment. Three cases in point:

1. Every work day, I discover a pipsqueak of a man on the platform where I catch my daily PATH train. He's dressed in the togs of a laborer, but with no insignia to identify his employer. He sometimes has a soft bag of tools lying at his feet, and sometimes not, but I have yet to catch him working, with tools or otherwise. Sometimes, he leans against the wall, watching the trains come and go. Sometimes, he steps forward and chats with the conductor of one of the trains as it pauses at our station. More often, he's chatting up some sweet young commuter; his idleness affords him ample time in which to befriend the more photogenic members of the traveling public. But he never actually does anything. And yet I cannot overcome a powerful suspicion that he's on the clock. Somebody's clock.

2. The crowds of commuters leaving the World Trade Center PATH Station who are headed south or east of Ground Zero are herded into the little intersection where Vesey and Church Streets meet. There stands a construction worker, complete with hard hat and fluorescent vest. In his hand is one end of a chain. The other end of the chain is attached to the fence around Ground Zero. The links of the chain are coated in yellow plastic. When the light is green for traffic on Church Street and pedestrian traffic is halted, he stands next to the fence, chatting with a companion. When the light changes, he strolls about twenty feet out into Church Street, until the chain is taut. By so doing, he creates a boundary between the traffic waiting on Church and the crossing pedestrians. When the light changes again, he retreats with his chain to the fence. And so it goes. Someone is paying this man; I feel sure of it.

3. Just north of Beaver Street, blocking northbound traffic on Broad Street and preventing it from approaching the New York Stock Exchange, sits a pickup truck. In it sits a man. Guards in front of the truck review the credentials of all vehicles seeking to pass beyond the pickup to the sensitive areas beyond. From time to time, the guards grant admittance to someone; whereupon the man in the pickup comes to, shifts into gear, and backs the truck up just far enough to allow the vehicle to pass. After it passes, the pickup returns to position 1. I cannot help thinking that the man in the pickup truck supports himself in this manner, and perhaps a family, as well.

I have not yet discovered who employs these men. But I greatly fear that I do.

All Together Now, Folks--!

2008-12-12T07:13:00.002-05:00

Bernard Madoff has been arrested in a $50-billion Ponzi scheme.

Wow--he sure madoff with a lotta dough!

I don't need your pity.

Er--Changest-er?

2008-12-06T20:43:00.003-05:00

That Guy really is turning the clock back 75 years. I suppose That Guy is hoping that no one now alive can actually remember what a hash of things That Man in the White House made. If, by chance, those who can't remember take the trouble to look That Man in the White House up in a history book (and that's cheating, folks!), That Guy's probably prepared to argue that no one really gave the ideas of That Man in the White House a fair chance.

May God have mercy on America.

Tyranny, in the Good Ol' Orwellian Fashion

2008-12-02T12:36:00.002-05:00

The Rev. George M. Docherty has cashed in his chips. I, for one, must temper my grief for the death of this unwitting friend of tyranny.

And why do I call him so? Because he induced that pack o' ho's that we call Congress to add the phrase under God to the Pledge of Allegiance. I don't object to the phrase because it twists an affirmation of Caesar that every American can endorse into an affirmation of the Deity that some Americans cannot, although that is what it does; nor do I object to it because it turns the phrase one nation indivisible into one that is either meaningless or redundant, although it does that, too; nor do I object to it because it destroys the beautiful rhythm of the original, although it also does that. No, I object to it, because it represents an assertion of power on the part of the aforesaid pack o' ho's that scares the living daylights out of me.

Nowhere in the United States Constitution is the power given to Congress to re-write works of authorship. The man who wrote the Pledge, whom I shall call Francis Bellamy for the sake of convenience, is an author. The same, in essence, if not in stature, as Shakespeare, Dante or St. John. What he wrote is what he wrote. Neither he nor any other author should have his work re-written by the State to suit itself. If the State doesn't like Mr. Bellamy's Pledge, let the State write its own dam' Pledge!

I could fulminate for pages, but it is enough to say that what Congress did is what the Ministry of Truth would have done in the same circumstances.

Here's the real Pledge. Paste it in the lining of your hat:

I pledge allegiance to my flag
and the republic for which it stands:
one nation indivisible
with liberty and justice for all.

Changest

2008-11-26T12:04:00.003-05:00

At last! We have an Economic Recovery Advisory Board, or ERAB (that's BARE back)!

Odd to think that no one had ever proposed this solution before. It's so much cheaper and more humane than starting a world war, and not nearly as effective.

Changer

2008-11-23T13:24:00.004-05:00

Well, Baracko is wasting no time, says The Nyok Times. He's cooking up a spending plan, a tax-cut plan, a two-year economic stimulus package guaranteed to create 2.5 million jobs, and a fœces-load of other remedies to bring swift recovery.

To save us all breath and ink, the shorthand for this panacea will be The National Recovery Act of 1933.

Change

2008-11-20T14:49:00.003-05:00

The Independent reports, "Hillary Clinton is being talked about as the next US Secretary of State . . . even as the incoming Democratic administration fills up with throwbacks from her eight years with Bill in the White House."

Yep, folks, it's business-as-usual, and more of the same, old same-old, down in the brand-new D.C. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose!

Which is French for "The electorate has been hornswoggled again."

Shocked!

2008-11-17T15:55:00.002-05:00

I ran across this site—quite by accident—and was profoundly shocked by its content. I hope and pray that responsible parents everywhere will install the appropriate filters to prevent their impressionable children from seeing this sort of disgusting material. (I refer, of course, to the grammar and spelling, much of which is absolutely appalling.)

Kids Still Say the Darnedest Things

2008-11-10T10:31:00.003-05:00

On Friday, I was tooling along I-95 with my oldest (and youngest) child, when the subject of rock-and/or-roll music came up. I wondered aloud, "Hmmm—and/or? What do you suppose and divided by or is?" As so often happens when I try to be witty, my effort was met with awkward silence. Being used to that by now, I simply went about thinking of a new topic of conversation. I was still thinking, when she ventured, in the hesitant tone of one groping for the light, ". . . 'and' or'ths?"

I almost drove us into a guardrail.

All A-Twitter

2008-11-05T15:31:00.001-05:00

Just signed up for twitter. We'll see.

Marking Time

2008-11-05T09:56:00.003-05:00

Well, that was a hiatus!

If anyone knows anything about the election results and can fill me in, I'd be much obliged. So far, I've heard absolutely nowt, and I'm becoming a mite curious. Not morbidly so, since it doesn't matter a hoot to me who wins; sort of like it don't matter a hoot to ol' George whether white folk gwine to have a Depression. As a taxpayer, I'm screwed, whoever wins.

The Mills of God

2008-09-26T10:22:00.003-04:00

I'm still rational, of course; I understand perfectly well that Washington Mutual has folded as the result of general economic conditions caused by wellmeaningbutmisguided social engineering on the part of our beloved Congress, which is now scrambling to fix what it broke.

And yet I can't help feeling that the death of Washington Mutual is a just punishment for its cultural sins: an ad campaign with the smarm of an Obama stump speech; and a nickname, WaMu, and a slogan, Wahoo, as racist as Chief Noc-A-Homa.

No bank, incidentally, was more uncooperative and bureaucratic about releasing the funds of its dead depositors: all decedents' accounts would up in a black hole in the benighted burg of Northridge, California, whence it was almost impossible to extricate them.

Good riddance to WashMutt, say I!

Now, if someone could only teach HSBC Bank USA how to add and subtract, we might actually build a banking system worthy of the 21st Century.

Life in the Old Dog Yet?

2008-09-23T11:05:00.004-04:00

Remember Howard Keel and Kathryn Grayson, or was it Alfred Drake and Patricia Morison, as they gazed down on the Jungfrau? Well, then, you'll know what I'm talking about, when I say that a lead-in to Wonderbra has come to me, as if in a nightmare:

Gazing down past your neckline,
One can tell you're no Katie Price.
If there's not much to see
Where the headlights 'd be,
May I offer one word of advice—?

Wonderbra, Wonderbra! etc.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

The problem with this verse—yep, there's always a problem—is that Katie Price is not as well-known Stateside as her spectacular, and endearingly artificial, assets would justify. Since the allusion may be lost on a lot of y'all, I've added the link.

(So does this mean the honeymoon is over? Not so, but far otherwise!)

Common Sense Temporarily Prevails

2008-09-18T17:01:00.004-04:00

The Ninth Circuit has got it right in upholding a "stop hiring illegals" law, if this blat is to be believed; not that any blat is to be believed, of course.

No one but a lawyer would say that such laws, designed solely to protect public health, safety and morals--the traditional province of the States' police power--, amount to "meddling" in Federal immigration policy (if any). These laws regulate employers, not illegals; forbid acts by employers, not illegals; punish employers, not illegals.

No, if anyone's been overreaching, it's Washington, which since 1986 has forbidden Americans to work, unless they can prove their right to do so. A remarkable instance of post-9/11 mentality before 9/11: discouraging crime by assuming everyone to be a crook who can't prove his innocence.

Do I sound curmudgeonly? I certainly don't mean to!

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, Of Course

2008-09-16T16:47:00.003-04:00

The inspiration for Robert Shaw's character in Jaws has died, apparently with his boots off.

"It was the funniest and the stupidest movie I’ve ever seen, because too many stupid things happened in it," Mundus's website says. How true, how true, of course; certainly, if I'd directed the flick, I wouldn't have fed a Luscious Babe to the shark at the very outset. And the whole sequence was so poorly lit, too!

But what gives me an all-overish feeling reading this obit is finding out that Mundus had set up a website that discussed Jaws, as if, for the past thirty years, he's gone mad pursuing Benchley's tale, like Ahab hunting the Great White Whale.

Sometimes, Life imitates Art. Sometimes, Art irritates Life.

It's a Small World, Dammit

2008-09-10T16:25:00.002-04:00

As my blogger profile will tell you, I'm a boondoggler by profession. Well, it turns out I'm not alone.

One siva is also a boondoggler--apparently the only other boondoggler in all the blogosphere. According to him, he's also a Japanese Faulknerian, and if that's what I think it is, I want no part of him. Who wants to read Absarom, Absarom! or As I Ray Dying or even Randing in Ruck?

Besides, what kind of a title is reticence for a blog, f'gosh sakes? Is that some sort of irony thing, or what?

Cost-Benefit Analysis

2008-09-10T14:35:00.007-04:00

I don't know about other metropolises—er, metropoli—metropolides?—oh, hell, cities; but in Nyok, commuters have for some time now been confronted daily with a choice of two free newspapers: Metro and AM New York.

I never read 'em. Frankly, I can't afford 'em; they're just too darned expensive.

Being the upstanding citizen that I am, you see, I wouldn't dream of leaving a newspaper behind on the train or littering the platform with it; and the PATH system has done away with all trashcans, out of an understandable fear that saboteur airliners might take to lurking in them; so that means I have to find some place to throw the newspaper away when I'm done with it. The cost to me of one of these blats, as I figure it, is:

Cost of Newspaper $0.00
Reading Value of Newspaper $0.00
Cost of Annoyance in Disposing of Newspaper -$0.50
Total Cost -$0.50

So, overall, I don't even break even on the deal; I'm out a whopping fifty cents.

I figure when Metro and AM New York start paying folks fifty cents to take the rags off their hands, I'll step up to the plate. But not until then.

Here's a Switch

2008-09-08T18:38:00.003-04:00

How many of you, faithful reader, have come across people who use flaunt for flout? If you need reminding, google he flaunted the law, and you'll see what I mean.

Well, in today's Nyok Times, Janet Maslin does the reverse:

“The Army of the Republic” is a high-strung, hyperbolic novel about American rebels fighting their own government, tackling a political hierarchy that flouts its contempt for democracy.

Janet's editor must have told her, "Kid, I don't never wanna see you write flaunt! Dammit, the word is flout! Ya read me?" It would certainly be fun to befriend a woman as complaisant as Janet seems to be.

Flash!

2008-09-08T11:40:00.002-04:00

As of moment of going to press, have yet to hear any jokes about Sarah, Palin and Tall. The media are certainly treating her with kid gloves!

Of course, I haven't googled it. That would be cheating.

News to Me

2008-09-08T10:27:00.002-04:00

So have you heard about David Spade and Jillian Grace? (Again.)

All together now:

But I thought David was spayed!

Sarah the Untouchable

2008-09-04T09:44:00.002-04:00

Who knew the G.O.P. had a sense of humor?

How else can one account for the Divine Sarah's nomination as Vice President, but as a satire on the Democrats' Weltanschauung? Here's a woman with a full-time career who still manages to have a family; the wife of an Eskimo with a substance abuse problem; the mother of five kids with names so bizarre, they could have been coined by Brangelina itself, including one unwed mom and one mentally retarded child. Alec Baldwin must now be feeling like a Christian Scientist with appendicitis, as Tom Lehrer used to say.

Each party criticizes the other for nominating a candidate who lacks experience, as if the purely ceremonial position of President required any experience whatever. Well, what price Theodore Roosevelt, whose ascent would have been meteoric, if it weren't that meteors descend? A short stint as Assistant Secretary of the Navy; one term as Governor of New York; and one charge up San Juan Hill, according to his memoir, Alone in Cuba. Not much of a resume; but the guy made a name for himself.

Mark my words: there's a market waiting for the enterprising soul who manufactures the first Sarah Moose.

In A World Where Nobody Lives Forever . . .

2008-09-02T18:31:00.004-04:00

Miss Sallie Parker, who does a creditable impression of Walter Cronkite, among others, might be saddened to hear that one of leading lights of her vocation has signed off at the green young age of 68: Don LaFontaine, the Bert Parks of movie trailers, or "Trailer Parks," as we used to call him.

Then again, she might not. Miss Sallie Parker can be hard to read, at times.

Strategy

2008-08-23T18:20:00.003-04:00

So Mr. Obama has chosen "Gunner Joe" Biden as his running mate!

What better insurance could there be against the possibility of right-wing assassination?

Our Story Thus Far

2008-08-14T17:21:00.003-04:00

By my calculation, I've now been re-married nineteen days and counting, and those nineteen are among the happiest I've ever known.

This partly comes of finding someone with a powerful inclination to make herself pleasing to those around her, and then taking particular care to be around her.

And, of course, happiness is implicit in the word honeymoon.

It also helps to be over head and ears in love.

But the dramatic justice of the thing accounts for much of my feeling of bien-être. Finally winning the heart of one's first mature love--indeed, being confirmed in the secret suspicion one always had that it had been no mere crush, but one's first mature love, indeed--is about as satisfying as anything in this life can be. At the wedding luncheon, an old friend told me that she knew no one who'd lived a life as romantic as mine, or words to that effect; and, on reflection, I can well believe it.

I expect this marriage to enlarge my soul beyond all recognition. As the past, present and future strive within me, I'm discovering that love, hope, pleasure, optimism and all sorts of other good feelings can exist side by side with regret, sorrow, guilt, and a sort of existential yearning that defies expression. To hold all these feelings at once in my breast without absolutely going 'round the bend is going to require a deftness of psyche that, up to now, I've not been called upon to exercise.

I'll be posting further comments during lucid intervals, if any.

ROTFL

2008-08-07T11:09:00.003-04:00

Maureen Dowd writes:

Obama didn’t even tell Harvard Law School that he was black on his application.

Maureen, honey, the committee's not likely to think that someone named Barack Obama is one of the Braintree Adamses. With a handle like that, checking little boxes becomes superfluous.

Whew!

2008-08-04T19:44:00.002-04:00

Have been continuously on the go for the past ten days; first figuratively, as the Immortal Beloved and self got our respective ducks in a row against our nuptials on the 26th ult.; then literally, as we motored back East, there to commence our life of wedded bliss.

But soft! She comes. More later.

Dona Ei Pacem

2008-07-10T16:02:00.003-04:00

It's been a long time since I've posted an obit, but the one of John Simon moved me. Read and reflect.

"I Want to Cut His Nuts Off"

2008-07-10T09:50:00.003-04:00

I've been struggling to parse this gnomic utterance, and as near as I can make out, what the Rev. Jesse was expressing was this:

He wishes to discourage members of Move On and similar fringe liberals from interfering with Sen. Obama's move to center; and he proposes to do so by refusing to acknowledge them when he meets them in public.

If anyone has a more likely interpretation, I'd be interested to hear it.

Go Figyah!

2008-06-21T17:31:00.003-04:00

As my faithful readership may have noticed, there's a wee globe at the bottom of this page. Clicking on it leads one to stats (very, very modest stats) regarding the persons who visit my blog. And I've perceived (without actually counting) that the strangers who come upon my site do so after searching one of the following:

castration fantasy
patron saint lawyers
and
bahar gidwani

Yep, Bahar Gidwani. Apparently, some small sliver of mankind has NOTHING BETTER TO DO than to google Bahar Gidwani.

Speaking of whom, I removed the back of a picture frame today and found hidden therein a receipt for dues of $100 signed by Bahar Gidwani. For a moment, I felt all Nicolascagey-like.

Apparently, Bahar Gidwani must have served as treasurer of some organization or other to which we both belonged; though I wonder: what organization could possibly have been so lax in its membership requirements, as to have admitted both of us?

Almost Getting It

2008-06-08T17:17:00.002-04:00

Mark Halperin and John F. Harris write in the Nyok Times:

Mr. Obama’s narrow victory came from a powerful combination of two constituencies. The first was white, highly educated, reform-minded Democratic elites. It’s easy to forget how skeptical this bloc historically has been toward the Clintons, whom they view as slick and scandal-stained opportunists. They rooted for the improbable Paul Tsongas in 1992, and for Bill Bradley over Al Gore in 2000.

Almost, I'd say. A person who happens to be "white, highly educated and reform-minded" is no more apt to have smelled Ms. Clinton's wooden insincerity than anyone else. Anyone old enough to have been conned out of his milk money has developed the instinct by which juries are able to recognize perjury and news audiences could smell the phoniness of the "tearful pleas" of Susan Smith back in 1994.

I suppose that Mr. Bush fils has so alienated traditional conservatives, that they'll refuse to give his nominated successor a chance to resuscitate the quaint old notion of America, allowing Mr. Obama to win in November. (Time, of course, may make a monkey out of me for saying that, but so I think.) Still, worse things could have happened. After twenty solid years of Presidents to whom English seemed a second or possibly third language, Mr. Obama will come as rare and refreshing fruit.

Hopeful News

2008-06-02T17:48:00.000-04:00

I now learn from the Nyok Times that rock-and/or-roll had a beginning, and that the appearance to the contrary is deceptive. Perhaps, then, it one day will have an end, as well.

Let us pray.

Agendum

2008-05-21T18:56:00.002-04:00

Singular, of course, because holy wedlock is the first and last item on the list. At present, the Immortal Beloved and self are aiming for July 26 in the West's Most Western Town.

But there are sub-headings. Tomorrow, I fly thither to be interviewed by the local deacon and to make dashed certain that our ducks are in a row re applying for special dispensations to enter into a mixed marriage, and to do so as speedily as dammit. On June 13, we meet in Colorado Springs for what the Church calls pre-Cana. An evening and two days of communication, reflection and who knows what.

Meanwhile, we're spending the Glorious Fourth in Flavortown.

The more I think about this; the more we e-mail; the more we visit each other; and the more we telephone; the more I believe that this is a Good Thing in the deepest, holiest, Sellar-and-Yeatman-est sense of the term.

Hot dog! Nay; hot diggety dawg!!

Crazy 8's Addendum

2008-05-10T16:02:00.003-04:00

Now that I've slept on it, I realize that I met my first wife in 1978 and that Our Own Miss Sallie Parker, the One Who Got Away (Hi, Sal!), was born in 1958. So actually, all this "8" stuff amounts to the Ten-Year Itch. What I'm afraid of is that somebody's going to wind up dead, divorced or worse, come 2018.

Crazy 8's

2008-05-09T18:31:00.007-04:00

What is it about years that end in 8? Nothing, as far as my legions of faithful readers are concerned, perhaps; but for me, years ending in 8 are epochal.

2008: I become a Christian, and I expect to marry before the year is out. 1998: I cremate my first wife, as I must now call her. 1988: I marry my first wife. 1978: I decide to flunk out of law school (which I fervently believe has spared me immeasurable amounts of agony in the years since) and meet the woman who found me the job I've had ever since (which I fervently believe has caused me immeasurable amounts of agony in the years since). 1968: I meet my second wife.

But what of my first 8: 1958? From that year, I remember one event: at the tender age of four, I bested my grandmother in an argument over geography. It happened thusly and vizwise:

My father was taking a business trip to Dayton, O., in November of that year. By that mysterious process of consultation and consensus that adults have, he decided to take me with him, hand me off to my grandparents, who lived near Waverly, O., and push on to The Client. Once business was concluded, he'd retrieve me and take me home.

The trip to Ohio was the first flight I remember. I seem to recall that we had to change planes, and that Delta, an airline I'd never heard of until then, carried us on the second leg to Cincinnati. It was during the trip that my father taught me the mysterious mantra, Défense de Fumer, which appeared at the foot of the porthole next to which I sat. For the average flier of that day, I suppose, there was nothing mysterious about it; everyone who flew in those days probably could speak French. But on the off-chance that the airplane might carry an ignorant little boy like me someday, some foresighted airline employee had added No Smoking. Lest I light up out of ignorance. (I suppose the signs didn't apply to total illiterates.)

As we made our approach to Cincinnati, my father pointed out objects of interest through the porthole and revealed a curious fact: Cincinnati was, of course, in Ohio (that much I knew); but the airport was (get this!) in Kentucky. He took longer to explain it than I've taken to tell it; for my infant mind had difficulty grasping the idea of a municipal airport being in an entirely different State from that of the municipality it served. I simply couldn't fathom a not-in-Ohio Cincinnati Airport. Nevertheless (my father gravely declared), Such Was Indeed the Case. I was forced to accept his word on faith. But I refused to understand it, and nothing was going to make me, either.

But mark the sequel: during my sojourn in Waverly, my grandmother took me to Portsmouth for the day. Did we shop? Did she have her hair done? How can I tell, fifty years later? But I do remember that she took me along the bank of the Ohio River, and directed my gaze across its waters to the land beyond. That, she told me, was Kentucky.

A light went on in the infant dome, and, in a childish treble, I replied, "That's where the Cincinnati Airport is!" My grandmother was having none of this. She perceived Error, and was determined to squelch it. The Cincinnati Airport, she told me, was in Cincinnati. Cincinnati was in Ohio. The Cincinnati Airport, therefore, was in Ohio. Q.E.D.

I tried to contradict; she brooked no contradiction. I soon yielded, but not before we had ruffled each other's feathers a bit. And how could I not submit? I saw the utter illogic of my position; it was indefensible. And my grandmother was so certain. And she actually lived in Ohio.

When my grandmother learned the truth, she apologized. It must have been the first time in my life that an august personage had condescended to acknowledge superior worth in me, a mere egg. I've never forgotten it, and have endeavored to live up to her example in dealing with today's mere eggs, now that I'm an august personage myself. And, many years later, when I learned the expression noblesse oblige, I at once divined its significance. Thanks, Grammie!

Or did all that happen in 1959? Let me call Mutti . . . whose diary confirms that (a) it was 1959 (drat!), and (b) Dad's business was in New York. So when did he do Dayton, whence I learned that there was such a place as Dayton? Hmmmmmmm.

A Modest Candidate

2008-05-03T22:36:00.006-04:00

Seeing a TV commercial this evening touting record-your-own-message Mother's Day cards inspired this not-so-off-the-cuff parody of Harry Ruby's Father's Day:

Today, Mother, is Mother's Day—
So we're giving you a card.
There's no need to sob;
We just want to corrob-
Orate: our psyches are not very scarred.

You amplified our Oedipus Complexes
With your psychobabble, mind games and lies;
So if we've become polygamists in Texas—
It should come as no surprise.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Feel free to record this for your mothers, folks! Only too happy to spread a bit of cheer.

Addendum: I may vomit. A bit of googling reveals that these new Hallmark cards allow ten seconds of vocals, followed by a whopping fifteen seconds of pre-recorded CRAP. Now, why in hell wouldn't they permit twenty-five seconds of recording space? (Well, we all know perfectly well why. To keep Phil Collins off the breadline, of course.)

Addendum: I've tweaked the lyric a bit. Too much of the original is a Bad Thing, and besides, I was having trouble not singing Ruby's original words after showing you.

Addendum: Tweaked it again. Only after about twenty run-throughs did it dawn on me that no one says Oedipal Complexes. The trouble is, the lone word Oedipal fixed itself to those notes early on, and clung to 'em like a lyrical barnacle. By the time the line was complete, it seemed as if I'd never heard of anything but Oedipal Complexes.

AP Sociology

2008-05-02T06:36:00.004-04:00

Today's topic is Josef Fritzl. Select one proposition and discuss:

1. Any nation that calls itself Oysterreich obviously has a morbid preoccupation with aphrodisiacs.

2. There must be some good in a man who remains faithful to one woman for 24 years.

3. Resolved: that Austria amend its constitution to incorporate Ephesians 5:22-23.

4. Name three men who would risk paying child support for their grandchildren.

5. Compare and contrast Frau Fritzl and Sherlock Holmes. Compare and contrast denial and the Danube.

The New York Post is Fattening

2008-04-21T08:32:00.002-04:00

I've decided that part of my problem, circumferentially speaking, is that I've become addicted to the Times crossword puzzle, as published daily (although two weeks late) in the New York Post. I've been commuting as far as possible sitting down, so that I can solve it—er, try to solve it. This is no way to teach the embonpoint how to take a joke. And if marriage to the Immortal Beloved is doable—and at moment of going to press, a remote chance of it does exist—Something Must Be Done.

So this morning, I sidestepped the butterball Latina who squats outside my station hawking rags, disembarked at Ninth Street, and began the trek. Along the way, I eked out the last 25% of the chorus to Surrey with the Fringe on Top:

Ike once drank on th' Eve of Invasion;
Sometimes, hooch can soothe an abrasion;
It's no crime to tope on occasion,
While the boys talk shop:
But you prolly better worry if you binge till you drop.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

A tip o' the hat to Walt Kelly for that prolly.

Th' Eve is dodgy, I know. The three examples of acceptable uses for booze are disjointed. But it's better than what I had before, which was bugger all.

Despite what you may think, the last line didn't come first; Bombed and blitzed and pissed and polluted did, courtesy of the Coffee Lady. It's just good luck that prolly better worry if you binge replicates the sound of the original line while actually making some sense.

Remedying a Defect

2008-04-13T20:04:00.002-04:00

About a year and a half ago, I posted a parody of Mademoiselle from Armentieres that's been nettling me ever since, because it had no real ending.

Over the past forty-eight hours, a couple of couplets have come to mind that might remedy this shortcoming (how embarrassing is it that it should take forty-eight hours! Such is the downside of ADHD):

What is the meal that always cheers?
Barbecue!
What is the dish that has no peers?
Barbecue!
Butcher a half a dozen steers
And eat till it’s coming out your ears—
Icky, sticky barbecue!

This is the dining protocol:
Barbecue!
Better for you than vitriol—
Barbecue.
Gobble the bad cholesterol—
And do it with lots of alcohol:
Easy, greasy barbecue!

Brisket of beef and baby back
Barbecue;
Succulent, sweet and carbon black
Barbecue;
Make it a feast, and not a snack,
And eat till you get a heart attack—
Polishing off the bill of fare
Will probably mean Intensive Care—
Not that you'll feel a side effect
That angioplasty can't correct—
Ooey, gooey barbecue!

Lyric © 2006, 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Using angioplasty in a lyric is like using peristalsis. So satisfying!

My Hero

2008-04-09T09:42:00.002-04:00

The Last Boy Scout in the World has been exonerated again, according to the Nyok Times. Thank goodness! If someone could only police the PATH and the Subway as John Clifford polices the Long Island Rail Road; just imagine what a lovely world this would be! If Mr. Clifford were here at this moment, I'd offer to buy him a drink.

I find it hilarious that railroad officials treat Mr. Clifford as a threat to the quality of life on the Long Island Rail Road. They have a fucking nerve to pretend that life on the Long Island Rail Road has any quality.

May God's Grace forever shine upon John Clifford; and may He protect us all from those who commence yapping the moment their eyes open in the morning and don't stop yapping until slumber overtakes them at day's end. This we ask, etc., etc.

Half a Parody, Half a Parody, Half a Parody Onward!

2008-04-05T11:31:00.002-04:00

How art thou fallen, O Lucifer, son of the morning! That, at any rate, is the gist of what's going through my head these days. The lyrical flow has been so meagre of late, that I'm reduced to posting half-songs and fragments. I suspect that my Muse is jealous; and Hell hath no fury, usw, usf.

But if one doesn't place these fragments on record when they come, one may never finish them. So, to the tune of Surrey With the Fringe on Top, with a tip o' the hat to my chum, the Coffee Lady, who put the idea into my head:

Bombed and blitzed and pissed and polluted:
That's a fact that can't be refuted,
When you take your drink undiluted
And you fail to stop.

When you're crocked, you write with a scribble;
When you're zonked, you speak with a dribble;
When you're fried, you cry, Ish kabibble!
If they call a cop.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

But what to do for the release or bridge or middle eight? One scratches one's head.

Meanwhile, my DAMP and I last night fixed on four more songs to record, and got some ideas on how to present them. So I've a wee bit of work cut out for me.

Now--Where Were We?

2008-03-27T18:49:00.001-04:00

The following fragment has been slowly working its way out of the noggin today, like some hardened turd. The tune, of course, is Wiv a Little Bit o' Luck:

The Lord above damns gluttony and envy
And pride and sloth and avarice and wrath;
The Lord above damns gluttony and envy, but—
With a little bit of lust,
With a little bit of lust,
You at least might get a nice sponge bath.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Er . . .

2008-03-23T00:16:00.002-04:00

I have no wish to disconcert my few but faithful readers, but I suppose I ought to mention, just for the record--after all, this is a blog, and consequently must indulge the blogger's narcissism every now and then, or be drummed out of the Guild--that, on Saturday evening just past, I was baptized.

If there are no questions, you may go back to whatever you were doing.

As soon as the apoplexy abates.

Sex, Hell!

2008-03-13T08:06:00.003-04:00

"Spitzer Resigns, Felled by Sex Scandal." As usual, the Nyok Times misses the point of what it reports, though it's had four days to get it right.

The sex, as anyone with a sense of humor can see, was there only for comic relief. Nothing's funnier than a prematurely bald man of great power and riches but indifferent personal advantages being Caught in the Act. Laughing about such things is Human Nature.

But that shouldn't distract us from the moral lessons: a Pecksniff has violated laws enacted by his fellow Pecksniffs, including transporting gulls across a staid lion for immortal porpoises; being very, very naughty, 26 U.S.C.A. §6050I(f)-wise; and Paying For It.

And then there's the moral lesson derived from watching the ex-Gov learn that the Law applies to the boys in the Temple, as well as to the congregation outside. The present mess, in fact, has at least one thing in common with Nannygate.

Tenable Theory

2008-03-12T10:15:00.003-04:00

When I heard that Eliot Spitzer, the reportedly soon-to-be-late-Governor of New York, had endorsed Hillary Clinton for President, it all began to make some sense.

Imagine Clinton staffers brainstorming one night, as they try to improve their boss's chances of the nomination. Suddenly, one tired staffer says, "You know, it's Bill that's the problem. His 'po' white trash' image drags hers down. If only we could find some way to make him look like a class act . . ."

HOT Damn!!

2008-03-10T16:45:00.003-04:00

Gov. Eliot Spitzer of Nyok is, perhaps, the most self-righteous, pompous, arrogant, ruthless and pharisaical demagogue to attain public office since the days of the New Deal. For starters, I'm thinking of his plan to thwart national immigration policy by issuing driver's licenses to illegals; his repeated usurpations of federal criminal jurisdiction with self-congratulatory attendant grandstanding that made Senator Chuck Schumer look like a piker; and his unilateral determination to treat tobacco companies as tortfeasors. If this were the 1930's, Frank Capra would be directing Edward Arnold in his biopic.

Well, El's finally 'fessed up to something. A child of privilege, he could not, of course, have hired an honest working girl to haul his ashes, oh, no, no, no; his bit of crumpet had to be a gold-bottomed, diamond-encrusted whore.

Beggin' yer pardon, Guv'nor, but them gels is too good for the loiks of us!

Marking Time

2008-03-05T20:17:00.002-05:00

On Monday evening, I was scheduled to rehearse the two anti-war songs from the Obama fundraiser for an encore performance. While waiting for the advent of my accompanist, an idea occurred to me for a parody of the traditional song, Little Liza Jane, if that's what it's called:

Are you shocked by what you dreamt?
Analyze your brain!
Does it make you feel verklemmt?
Analyze your brain!

Analyze it—
Analyze your brain!
Analyze it—
Analyze your brain!

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

What in tarnation it means is anybody's guess. Whether anything will come of it, ditto.

Back to Madison Avenue

2008-02-29T22:25:00.002-05:00

At long last, a lyric. Technically a lyric, anyway. To the tune of Sammy Fain's 1949 smasheroo, Dear Hearts and Gentle People. It's in honor of a pseudo-Brit drinking establishment at Liberty and Nassau Streets in Manhattan:

If you want beer, darts, and genial people,
Then come to Pound & Pence;
Because with beer, darts, and genial people,
It all begins to make some sense.

You've had a long day—they just aren't biting,
However hard you slave;
A soothing mood tune and recessed lighting
And ambience are what you crave.

And here's the sweet part: the prices they charge
Don't insult the clientele's intelligence.
So if it's beer, darts, and genial people . . .
You'll find 'em all at Pound & Pence.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I told you not to hold your breaths!

Alors! et Bugger

2008-02-27T18:26:00.003-05:00

From an unexpected source, I learn that Miles Kington, the creator of Let's Parler Franglais, died on January 30, 2008.

Moi, j'avais only une de his books, but it's trop funny! And parling Franglais is a lot harder than it looks. Of course, a bit of O-level somewhere in one's past helps, I suppose.

An idea for a jingle came to me on Monday evening, but no quiet time to focus on it. Watch this space for further developments, but don't hold your breaths while doing so.

The Story Vouchsafed to Us, Thus Far

2008-02-18T18:00:00.002-05:00

All right. I've figured out this much:

People in sports aren't allowed to use steroids.

No one explained that to me; I divined it on my own by reading between the lines of a rash of pretty opaque newspaper stories. But it raises more questions than it answers.

Who invented this rule? Certainly not the sovereign, or law enforcement would be arresting jocks right and left, and they're not. On the other hand, Congress has lately displayed a morbid curiosity regarding steroid use, so perhaps there are criminal implications. But then, why isn't anyone going to jail? And so we go, 'round and 'round in circles.

Why does the rule exist? Steroid use doesn't seem to harm the players suspected of using them; on the contrary, it seems to create superstars who rake in the dough like nobody's business. On the other hand, if steroids are harmful, surely these players, with their brains, brawn and bux, are one class of persons who are the least in need of such paternalistic protection. Nor can it be a question of fairness, whatever the hell that is, for steroids are freely available to one and all.

Why does anyone care? This is the "Quiz Show Scandal" question. Who cares, if the game show is rigged? So's professional wrestling; what of it? Who cares if the DJ takes payola? Payola has oiled the wheels of entertainment since the 1890's. Who cares, if the ball player uses steroids? How does that in any way detract from the mindless pleasure to be derived from watching him play?

The whole thing resembles indoor smoking; one of those New Age sins that we've lately invented because we no longer disapprove of murder (say, O.J.), perjury (say, Clinton) or theft (take yer pick), and man is a naturally moral being who has to disapprove of something. But that's not really a very satisfying explanation.

If anyone could enlighten me, I'd appreciate it.

Apropos of Kangaroo Shit . . .

2008-02-13T18:54:00.002-05:00

. . . as a good friend of mine used to say:

What can we infer about the works of Gilbert and Sullivan from the fact that they appeal to so many prigs? Does it mean that the Savoy Operas have virtues beyond comicality, so that they please even the morbidly solemn? Or does it mean that they've so little substance, that they can't convey even the most elementary moral of humor--that we're wise to laugh at ourselves?

I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.

No lyrics lately, dammit. Sorry, folks.

Hail, the Conquering Heroes!

2008-02-05T09:30:00.001-05:00

I arrived in the City today to find the joint inundated with bumpkins in outsized blue jerseys. I hauled my perspicacity out of the trunk in my mental attic, gave it a good shake, checked it for moths, and divined that a ticker-tape parade must be brewing for our own New York Giants, who recently did something-or-other.

O! how glorious!! Lindbergh, Glenn, the Greatest Generation, and now--football players.

To honor Our Boys, I betcha they rename The Canyon of Heroes The Canyon of Boys Who Never Grew Up. And in the middle of City Hall Park, where the parades end, they'll raise a statute of Sir James Barrie, signifying absolutely nothing to anyone who engages in . . . er . . . foo'baw.

"How Gay Is That?"

2008-02-01T17:18:00.000-05:00

Hanging from the ceiling of one wing of the lobby of my office building are four umbrellas: one lavender, one white, one black, and one a bilious green. At first, I didn't notice them, since they were installed around last Thanksgiving, just as the building staff were putting up the Christmas decorations, and those camouflaged them pretty thoroughly. Once the decorations came down, though, the umbrellas became all too obvious. The impression they give is of some division of Citigroup suddenly saying to itself, "Oh, what the hell?" and deciding to camp it up.

A dear friend, after whom I was named, was passing through the lobby with me today. Indicating the umbrellas, he asked, "How gay is that?"

The question stunned me. And then I began to wonder: "How gay is that?" And I realized I hadn't the foggiest clue how gay it was.

Why, I mused, has no clever soul, aspiring to be the very Fahrenheit of sexual orientation, constructed a reliably calibrated device, wherewith mankind might thenceforth measure gaiety? For, indeed, in this Anno Domini 2008, we have naught but the grossest means of assessing local variations in that quality: Noel Coward gay; Arnold Schwarzenegger girlie-man gay; Village People gay; and so forth.

I therefore propose, to anyone who might chance upon this site, that such a device be invented without further delay. There could be big bucks in it; royalties and licensing fees, you know!

And why, you ask, don't I invent the device, if I'm so dashed gung-ho to have one?

Frankly, I can't be bothered.

The Roughest of Drafts

2008-01-27T08:45:00.001-05:00

The less said about last Tuesday's benefit, Bonner for Obama, the better. I've decided that performing is like being drunk: one is on auto-pilot, doing things only because they seem like a good idea at the time; and one is aware of only one thing at a time outside oneself, and even that thing seems unreal. A most unpleasant sensation.

Against the next show, I'm trying to come up with a theme song; and what more obvious choice than Geo. F. Root's hit from 1862, Battle Cry of Freedom? A rip-snorter, if you put your back into it.

The following lyric is a bit repetitive. While that facilitates memorization, it's also apt to bore the audience, especially with the repetitive tune:

When you feel like getting down,
'Cause Life has got you down,
That's when it's time for Bonner's Boomers;
When you need to add some laugh lines
And jettison the frown,
That's when it's time for Bonner's Boomers!

Chorus:
Sarcastic! Satiric!
Ironic, as well!
Show us your foibles—
We'll give 'em hell.
When you feel like getting down,
'Cause Life has got you down,
That's when it's time for Bonner's Boomers!

When you need a bit of funk,
'Cause you feel you're in a funk,
That's when it's time for Bonner's Boomers;
When you find that Life's absurd
And Philosophy is bunk,
That's when it's time for Bonner's Boomers!

Chorus:
Sarcastic! Satiric!
Ironic, as well!
(Al Gore is dead, Bev.—
How can they tell?)
When you feel like getting down,
'Cause Life has got you down,
That's when it's time for Bonner's Boomers!

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Everyone's Favorite Castration Fantasy

2008-01-19T11:04:00.000-05:00

At rehearsal last night, Ron, my DAMP, told me of a new horror flick soon to open, called Teeth.

On my way home, I had a very obvious song idea for it; and this morning, when my offspring brought up the subject again, I thought I'd better bung down a lyric PDQ, so no one could say I didn't think of it myself.

The tune—which is the obvious part—is Hakuna Matata:

Vagina dentata—what a comforting theme!
Vagina dentata ain't no gyno's dream;
The Venus flytrap, carried to an extreme.
Straight from Hollywood,
To please your pud:
Vagina dentata!

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Mind you, I've always found the idea of vagina dentata a pleasing one. Of course, in my mind's eye, the teeth were always my own.

Instant Justice

2008-01-15T16:16:00.000-05:00

AP reports that a man in Kokomo, Indiana, accidentally shot himself in the groin as he was robbing a convenience store. (Ahem):

Then let us draw a moral from the criminal
Who shot himself abruptly in the testicle:
Yea, verily! God's justice is majestical.
(See Retribution in your Luth'ran hym-i-nal.)

Retribution being that verse of Friedrich, Freiheirr von Logau, which Longfellow translated as:

Though the mills of God grind slowly,
Yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds He all.

Oops

2008-01-10T10:11:00.000-05:00

My last post? I take it all back.

The immaculate Nyok Times reports that Hillary won in New Hampshire because she wept. So she's not at all like Ed Muskie, who wept, and therefore lost in New Hampshire. What accounts for the difference, we're told, is that the electorate are less inclined to forgive a woman's exhibiting honest emotion, however calculated it may be, than they are a man's.

Taking into account that the two candidates were divided by a common political party, one realizes that the two events defy comparison.

Still, when you think about it, both are very like a whale.

When the Going Gets Tough . . .

2008-01-07T16:35:00.000-05:00

Shades of Ed Muskie: Senator Clinton is reported to be teary-eyed in New Hampshire, under the pressure of what Senator Obama calls his "Big Mo" (or did someone else call it that?). We'll have to wait and see whether history repeats itself at the polls.

Meanwhile, on January 22, I'll be doing a trio of short parodies at a "fundraiser" (ha!) for Senator Obama, to be held at Don't Tell Mama. And if my faithful readers don't see anything funny in that wee announcement, then my faithful readers are very dull, indeed.

Still, anything for publicity. As the granddaddy of American humor said, My perlitical sentiments agree with yourn exactly. I know they do, becaws i never saw a man whose didn't.

Sleep

2007-12-26T16:41:00.000-05:00

That's what my recent life seems to contain everything but. Up till 2:00 ack emma the past two nights, and up at 6:00 ditto the past two mornings. I'm getting too old for this routine.

Running around Christmasing hasn't stopped me from finally fixing an error in scansion in A Kickback From You. The original release runs as follows, and all good Porter fans know:

I get a kick ev'ry time I see
You standing there before me;
I get a kick, tho' it's clear to me
You obviously don't adore me.

To which I wrote:

I get a kickback for making calls
To line up girls named "Lola";
I get my cut, just for having balls
Enough to extort payola.

The problem was the usual: I had relied on my own lousy memory for the melody of Porter's release, instead of consulting the sheet music, as God and the United States Forest Service intended.

For what Porter (the li'l rascal!) did was to put the last syllable of obviously on a downbeat, of all things; followed immediately by a cakewalk-like accent on the second beat for don't. Absolutely wrong by every rule in the book, and yet so obviously right. One more drop in the sea of The Master's genius.

My parody, in consequence, had the singer EX-torting. As soon as I discovered the screw-up, I substituted a hasty line up for extort, but I was never happy with it. How could I be? Line up only served to hide my Secret Shame.

Well, after weeks of intermittent brainstorming, I've come up with the following substitute. It's a pedestrian gag, but the scansion pleases my ear:

I get a kickback for bribing knaves
With babes like Babs and Lola;
I get a kickback for hosting raves
With coke that ain't Coca-Cola®.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

As a final note, Happy Boxing Day, folks! And don't forget that today (or was it last night?) is the anniversary of the day on which Good King Sauerkraut looked out, on his feets uneven. (Thank you, Churchy La Femme, wherever you are!)

I Used to Have More Time on My Hands

2007-12-18T17:21:00.000-05:00

Cleaning the ol' hard drive this afternoon, I chanced upon the following purple passage from an imaginary travel brochure, written many, many years ago:

At Hurling Street Station, across from the Cathedral of St. John the Repeater, we board the Porcelain Goddess Express, which carries us nonstop from the sprawling City of Regurgitopolis through the shady suburbs of Vomitsville, Barfsburg, Puketon and Whoopshampton. As we follow the course of the turbulent Rio Emetico through arid Dry Heave Gulch, we pass the mouth of the fabled Lost Cookie Mine. Up, up, up we climb to the very pinnacle of Mount Projectile, which affords a spectacular view of the entire County of Upchuck.

Eheu! fugaces, as the man said.

The Latest Throwaway

2007-12-11T11:09:00.000-05:00

The first three lines of the following presented themselves last night, to the tune (obviously) of God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen; but this morning's conclusion is makeshift, at best:

God damn you, merry gentleman!
You're making too much noise!
You act as though you've never had
A night out with the boys.
A little more decorum, please;
A modicum of poise!
That's enough Southern Comfort,™ sweetie-pie.
(Comfort, my eye!
Just how many Southern Comforts™ did you buy?!)

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

O Fame! Thou Bitch

2007-12-04T21:27:00.000-05:00

I googled Have Yourself a Mercenary Christmas today, and a couple of pages popped up, whereas there were none at all when I first penned the thing. Could this be fame's first trickle?

Alas, no! The other uses, quite clearly, are picking up on the Blackwater scandal. Not my take on the carol at all.

* * * *

Last night, dragooned by Cap'n Queeg, I donned a monkey suit and attended a lawyers' do. Too noisy; too crowded; nowhere to sit; no one to talk to; no attractive women; indifferent cuisine; and no wine with dinner (at a yard-and-a-half per diner, if you please!). I ducked out before dessert, but that doesn't mean I didn't suffer the smug speechifyin' coming from the dais, for the organizers very cannily scheduled it before the food arrived. The bastards!

Now, you must excuse me. My child has just professed an ignorance of John Philip Sousa, and I must go administer the rod.

Stir-Up Sunday, and a Throwaway

2007-12-02T15:58:00.000-05:00

Today is Stir-Up Sunday, after the first words of the collect for the First Sunday in Advent, as given in the Book of Common Prayer.

Such being the case, the Young Idea and self made a quadruple batch of plum pudding, a pious work if ever there was one. We began at high noon. and they weren't ready to steam until 3:30. Steaming takes six hours, and even with a modest quadruple batch--it was sextuple in my heyday--the steaming has to be done in two rounds. Whatever will I do when she goes off to college, an evil day which fast approacheth? Perhaps take the following Monday as a personal day thenceforth.

To get us into the spirit--not that yesternight's inch of snow hadn't already done its wee bit to put us in festive mood--we turned the Kid's retro radio to a station playing nonstop Christmas music. It's surprising how often the station repeated certain songs, while ignoring others. It's not that they omitted all reverent music; O Holy Night got its fair share of airtime, for instance. But I'll Be Home for Christmas is a bit old-fashioned for a folk that no longer can remember living through the real thing. And Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas have been played so often, they've become the subject of parody (ahem).

It was during the second or third performance of Winter Wonderland that the following lyric popped unbidden into the brain. For those of my readers who missed my college career, I ought to mention that, while the student body was populated almost entirely by Pecksniffs, two in particular stood out as self-important, pretentious pigs: one Bahar (accent on the second syllable) Gidwani (hard g; accent on the second syllable), of Columbus, O., and one Tom Magnell, of Scarsdale, N.Y., who would have lost his shirt if he'd ever betted anyone he knew the lyrics to The Nightmare Song. Unfortunately, I met both of them within a week of arriving at college, and they soured the subsequent four years for me.

But their names! For reasons too deep for words, Bahar Gidwani and Tom Magnell struck me as names to conjure with; I've used them ever since for dummy lyrics, to fill lacunae in works-in-progress.

Today's off-the-cuff lyric, to the tune of the release of Winter Wonderland:

I abominate Bahar Gidwani;
He, in turn, abominates Magnell;
By the Law of Transitive Abhorrence,
I detest the latter pig, as well.

Later on, we'll perspire, etc.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Meanwhile, I'm working on something to the tune of It's Still Rock and/or Roll to Me, which is bogged down at the moment, owing to my lack of familiarity with the original song and the tedium of the subject I've chosen. I was going on about it to my Muse the other day, when she suddenly shouted, "Oh, f'God's sake, who gives a rat's ass?" I'll bet she never spoke to Arthur Guiterman that way!

"Let Ahmed Do It!"

2007-11-30T19:53:00.000-05:00

The Nyok Times opines as follows--and I want y'all to read this very, very slowly and in a single breath:

. . . Consider this all too familiar horror: yesterday, police said they pulled six bodies from the Tigris River about 25 miles south of Baghdad. They were handcuffed and showed signs of having been tortured. And five, including a child, had been beheaded.

Perhaps 160,000 American troops could hold down the overall casualty numbers indefinitely, but they cannot wipe away that sort of hatred. That’s the job of Iraq’s leaders.

The Nyok Times ought to have someone read this stuff in cold blood to catch the dissonances, before they actually go to e-press.

Whatever makes ye Ed. think that Iraqis are better able than we to "wipe away" hatred like that? I'm no apologist for the War; oh, no, not so, but far otherwise. I've no illusions about the Allies' ability to bring peace to the warring tribes. But the notion that natives can solve their own ethnic problems sooner than we can is simply laughable.

Remember how Reconstruction bound up the Nation's wounds, virtually overnight? Remember how the Brits batted 1.000 in Northern Ireland? Remember when the Civil Rights Acts of the 1960's put an end to racial tension in America?

Neither do I.

It's all but certain that the Allies won't solve the problem, but we're the only hope Iraq has. Tolerance (that once and future virtue) cannot be taught, except by example. The Allied Forces are likelier to do it than the present Iraqi government, or any government that Iraq can expect to field hereafter.

The subtext of the editorial, it seems to me, is this: Lift not a finger, O White Man, to stop the benighted Arab from destroying himself! In this, perhaps, they're right; who knows? But it would be refreshing if they simply came right out and said so.

Amendment

2007-11-16T23:05:00.000-05:00

I've made an improvement (I hope) to the cross-talking lull before the big ending of the parody of When the Foeman Bears His Steel (entitled Of Mice and Menopause):

So why the smirk?
Oh, just be-cuz.
Was that a jerk?
Perhaps it was.
It starts to perk?
It starts to buzz.
You think it'll work?
In fact it does!
Good gravy! what a stick!
Good gravy! that was quick! etc.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

That comes a good deal closer to my original idea. The whole good to go thing still seems a bit limp, but nothing to replace it has presented itself.

Googling Moi

2007-11-15T19:20:00.001-05:00

One thing the old website had, which the new website hasn't, is a sensitivity to search engines. Type in a phrase from one of my lyrics, and Google returns a link to the old site (99% of which, of course, no longer exists). The way the new website is arranged, Google just doesn't pick 'em up.

Google a phrase from one of my lyrics (as I sometimes do, in my narcissistic way), and you may find that even a dull one is unique in the virtual world. Take the recent phrase, When you're pushing fifty-nine. When you're pushing . . . is idiomatic enough, certainly; and the notion of subtracting one year from a round decade out of vanity, after the manner of Jack Benny's perennial age of 39, doesn't require a very big leap. So one would think (all right, I would think) that someone, somwhere, must have used the exact phrase at least once in the past fifteen years or so. But no. The new page at the old website is the only thing Google returns.

My feelings of alienation from the entire human race are sometimes very acute.

Clearing the Palate

2007-11-15T09:55:00.000-05:00

To get the infernal double chorus from Pirates out of my head, I bethought myself of other tunes on the way to dinner last night, and the following nonsense wrote itself:

When Amish eyes are smiling,
It's without a contact lens;
In the av'rage Amish driveway,
There is no Mercedes Benz;
An Amish nose that's runny
Doesn't know from double-ply:
So when Amish eyes are smiling—
One is tempted to wonder why.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Why the Amish popped into my head is anyone's guess. And it did no good. This morning, I was once more exhorting myself to take the pill and we'll have crazy, monkey sex. Ooh, that siren Sullivan!

What Gilbert Wrote Was . . .

2007-11-13T22:08:00.001-05:00

. . . When the Foeman Bears [sic] His Steel. Oops. And for years, I've been construing that line (not having really looked at the libretto since high school) to mean, "When the foeman draws his blade from its sheath." Whereas Gilbert, apparently, was thinking of bearing arms. Well, that's just one more reason for my intense hatred of All Things Gilbertian.

Must go fix the website now.

Short-Circuiting My Own Klutziness

2007-11-13T14:14:00.000-05:00

Well, the heck with it. I've posted a parody of When the Foeman Bares His Steel at the old Peterson's Parodies site, and you can view it there, if you've a mind to.

Whatever you do, don't ask me what We jumped the shark means. It rhymes, dunnit? Seems a bit unreasonable to expect it to mean, too.

There's a midi file at The Gilbert and Sullivan Archive, so open another window, turn your computer speakers back on (you do keep 'em off most of the time, don't you?), and sing your little heart(s) out!

After all, what the hell?

For What It's Worth

2007-11-13T09:46:00.000-05:00

Needless to say, the ending just won't come. So I've plugged in whatever I could manage to fit, just to be rid of the damned thing. Perhaps something better will suggest itself eventually.

I'm rather pleased with myself that When the Foeman Bares His Steel instantaneously came to my mind, away back when. It's hard to imagine an apter vehicle for comment on the subject of superannuated sex.

. . . Well, I take it back. I've got to figure out how to convert the sucker to a jpeg, 'cause pdf don't wash. Stay tuned, folks!

The Hours Creep on Apace

2007-11-11T15:13:00.000-05:00

Don't think I haven't been working on a parody of When the Foeman Bares His Steel, because I have, and I've made progress, too, though it's taken more mental energy than I've devoted to anything in years. It came in bits and pieces, and for the longest time seemed to have no wit, direction or even point, when one day I awoke to find that everything was done, right up to the Major General's first interjection, Away, away. It was not so much written, as sculpted.

And the results aren't half bad, if I say so myself. Several problems to solve, like what to do about those pesky Tarantaras, and how to fit anything but the original lyric to Go, ye heroes, etc. The solution to the latter was to eschew melisma as far as I could, so the result doesn't scan on paper. All that's needed now is an ending, and while I have the idea for one, turning it into a lyric to fit the moment when Sullivan has dissolved Gilbert's into the granular We go, we go is going to take some doing. Nothing comes to mind so far.

I'll present the final version, if it ever comes, to the comedy club mistress, and I daresay she'll dismiss it out of hand. Then I might post a message on Savoynet, offering to send it to members privately (it wouldn't do to post the lyric itself; while the stuff is not smutty for its own sake, as was my ribald G&S song cycle, If They Ever Decide to Re-Release "The Naughty Victorians," it probably speaks too matter-of-factly for some folk).

I Have No Idea What This Is About

2007-11-03T20:08:00.000-04:00

As I rode up to the Wings Theatre the other night, a Thought crossed my mind: a parody of When the Foeman Bares His Steel, from Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance, regarding Viagra.

One member of the comedy group had suggested Gilbert and Sullivan as an appropriate subject of parody (she must have been watching an episodes of Dick van Dyke recently; as a child, I distinctly remember Rob Petrie suggesting them as a good candidate for parody), and another, the guy who dragooned me into doing the lights, had suggested Viagra as a proper topic.

At the time, the combination seemed absolutely perfect. But I've been struggling with it now for weeks, and it Refuses to Yield to Treatment. Lines come, rhymes come, sections come; but no comedy, no wit, no humor. If you wish, you may watch this space for future developments; but don't get your hopes up.

"I'm Ready for My Close-up, Mr. DeMille"

2007-11-02T11:20:00.000-04:00

Here's The Nyok Times, writing of Barack Obama in the breathless tone of a mid-Victorian maiden contemplating the young Prince of Wales:

“If I am the face of American foreign policy and American power,” Barack Obama mused not long ago aboard his campaign plane, “as long as we are also making prudent strategic decisions, handling emergencies, crises and opportunities in the world in an intelligent and sober way. . . .” He stopped. He wanted to make sure he got this just right, and he had got a little caught up in rebutting the claim, which Hillary Clinton has artfully advanced, that he is not prepared to handle emergencies. Obama stopped picking at his grilled salmon in order to stare out at the sky for a few moments. “I think,” he said, in that deep and measured voice of his, “that if you can tell people, ‘We have a president in the White House who still has a grandmother living in a hut on the shores of Lake Victoria and has a sister who’s half-Indonesian, married to a Chinese-Canadian,’ then they’re going to think that he may have a better sense of what’s going on in our lives and in our country. And they’d be right.”

Something about this little speech scares the living bejesus out of me. Actually, two somethings. The first is the way in which he speaks of governing like a child telling someone what he wants to be when he grows up: making prudent strategic decisions, handling emergencies, crises and opportunities in the world in an intelligent and sober way. Lookame, Mom! I'm George Washington!

But the other thing is his narcissistic preoccupation with his own bizarre genealogy. As if the several nations of the world gave a rat's ass whether the President has nappy hair, or an epicanthic fold, or any other ethnic peculiarity! You just know that one thought of that li'l ol' grandmother on the shores of Lake Victoria, and Iran will kiss its nuclear program good-bye.

So if this man is elected, don't be surprised if he moves the White House to Sunset Boulevard.

Well, I Never!

2007-10-25T20:02:00.000-04:00

Last night's show, as it turned out, was not at Don't Tell Mama, but the Wings Theater on Christopher Street. And it's a shame that I didn't badger my nearest and dearest into coming to see it, because (you will hardly credit this, but I give you my solemn word), upon arriving at 6:00 p.m. for an 8:00 p.m. show, I was dragooned into running the Booth. I, who have never dared to touch a strange button in my life--at least, not mechanical ones. I spent the two hours before the show as nervous as two virgins, and for the two hours after that, I was as nervous as three.

Now, let's not make too much of this: since no one for this down-and-dirty show actually did any lighting (nor could we have done; the theatre was doing another show on other nights, and all the equipment was set to its specs), there was little to do but bring the lights up for the whole stage at the beginning of the scene, then black 'em out at the end of the scene. The cast, thank God, were very conscientious about remembering their exit lines and the lines leading up to them. Not a one did they miss.

But the computer was not as sensitive to my touch as an old-fashioned light switch would have been, and it wasn't easy to get into the rhythm of the thing--to have the lights fully up before the first line was spoken (but not before the scenery and players were settled), and to black 'em out after the last line ASAP, to prevent tableaux vivants. I shudder to think what the videotape shows.

The one stage-light catastrophe occurred near the beginning. After the opening number, which went reasonably well, I prepared to bring the lights back up when the characters for the first scene on my cue sheet had taken their places. At this point, a body, quite obviously not that of any of the scheduled actors, appeared onstage. I assumed this body was setting up chairs and props, and watched intently, my finger hovering over the button. Suddenly, the body began to deliver, loudly and rapidly, a speech I'd never heard before, and the videotaper was gesturing wildly at me. I cued the lights. Our Fearless Leader was delivering a Manifesto before the sketches began, in praise of the Baby Boomer Generation (I wouldn't have thought it possible to find anything to praise in the BBG, but that's neither here nor there). She had noted it in the schedule she'd e-mailed to us all the day before, but what had that schedule meant to me then, un-dragooned as I then was? And how could it have sunk in to my aging brain, anyway, when we'd never heard the speech in rehearsal, nor ever actually done a full run-through, in any form? Well, next time, I'll know better!

I did have to cue a track for a comic song and six sound effects; well, four, actually, because my dragooner came back and cued nos. 3 and 4 for me. Out of those four, I screwed one up: in the darkness of the Booth, I mistook the "6" on the monitor, telling me how many tracks were on the CD, for the "6," which would have told me that I was about to play that track. I pressed the button, the CD began to play track 1, I realized my mistake at once and pressed "stop," but too late: a doorbell went off in lieu of a mobile. This provoked merriment in the audience, but not of the type desired. At least, not of the type desired by me.

Everyone was very, very kind afterwards. Well, next time, they'll know better!

Another thing: someone referred to me in passing as the musical director. Where did they ever get the idea that I know sweet FA about theatre?

And the show? Better than I expected. The material was good--I've always thought so; but the cast, with a prop here and a shawl there and a good shot of energy, were better than they ever were in rehearsal. No doubt this stuff will be re-enacted elsewhere.

A Fine Parody, I Don't Think

2007-10-24T09:14:00.000-04:00

One of my many shortcomings as a parodist is that I start with an idea, which is knocked into a cocked hat along about bar 9, and the lyric goes where it listeth. By the time I reach the end, I can't even remember what the original idea was. Here, for what it's worth, is a take on Jerome Kern's A Fine Romance:

A fine pole dance,
With no strippin'!
A fine pole dance—
She's no pippin:
She's timid, awkward,
Under-rehearsed and nervous.
(She ought to sue that
Aptitude-testing service.)

She snorts loudly,
But can't giggle;
Her boobs pucker—
Her lips jiggle.
So if you think you've even the slightest chance
Getting into her pants—
Tell her your name is Lance.

Lyric © Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

"Windmills," Forsooth!

2007-10-03T20:35:00.001-04:00

A (the) commenter to my last post has threatened to divulge his own parody of Windmills of Your Mind, so I feel it advisable (just to show that I actually have attempted it) to post a couple of fragments:

Zounds!
It's another business cycle,
Bringing loss to balance loss;
Under pressure from the fussing
Of your blunder-bussing boss;
Like the trickle of the treacle
As it travels down your chin,
Troubles inundate your office,
To your truculent chagrin;
Productivity is fading,
As your creditors increase;
All your clients are immoral,
Or illegal, or obese;
Your resolve is undermined
By the Bushmills in your mind!

And what does it all mean? Squat—if that. Merely an attempt to replicate the sound pattern of the original. Taking care of the sounds and letting the sense fend for itself.

Or:

It began with Prohibition,
And continued with Repeal
And the 21st Amendment
Of the New-by-golly-Deal; . . .

Ending with something like:

In the law, it is enshrined
That our gin mills be refined.

The point of that one was to have been our national prudery anent drinking establishments. §2 of the 21st Amendment, if you haven't read it lately, recognizes (partly expressly, partly impliedly) the power of the States to pass any damfool law they like to control liquor, so it's as much a part of the pattern as the 18th Amendment. But—a treatise on social history in the form of a song parody? Wouldn't that have knocked the ticket-buyers dead! I tell you, the blasted song is beyond me.

Meanwhile, the Baby Boomer comedy group wanted an original blues (assuming that a blues can be original) as a sort of signature tune. A sample verse and sample (unrelated) chorus:

I turn on the tube—
There isn't much I like.
I turn on the tube—
There isn't much I like.
I'd like to know why
They canceled Dick van Dyke.

I got the Boomer Blues.
The bottom-feeding Boomer Blues.
I got the Boomer Blues.
The bathymetric Boomer Blues.
I got the what-the-fuck-now-we're-stuck-with-cheesy-Chuck-Schumer,
[grunt] Baby Boomer Blues.

I wouldn't copyright any of this stuff with a ten-foot pole.

More Wheel-Spinning

2007-10-02T16:13:00.000-04:00

Well, Callipygia never got past my explanation to the director that the song was about fat asses. Instead, I was told off (or so I thought) to write a parody of the Mickey Mouse Club theme:

[Men:] We've been reading Hefner
Since before they called him "Hef":
L-O-L,
O-M-G,
W-T-F.

[Women:] We're so menopausal,
That we sing the tenor clef:
L-O-L,
O-M-G,
W-T-F.

[Solos:] Laugh out loud (what the fuck!),
Omigod (what the fuck!),
And similar expressions of dismay.

[All:] Half of us are impotent
And all of us are deaf:
L-O-L—Elevated blood pressure—
O-M-G—Jeepers, but we're hip!—
W-T-F.

Lyric © Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Well, I misinterpreted my instructions. Apparently, "and you know what I was thinking too, . . ., to do an introduction of the cast to the MICKY MOUSE tune" does not mean, "please write a proposed parody of same."

Hmmmm.

More Tweaking

2007-09-29T13:30:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-28T17:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-27T11:20:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-09-14T22:59:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-10T17:23:00.000-04:00

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

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

As I Was Saying . . .

2007-09-09T13:37:00.000-04:00

. . . 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

2007-09-07T20:25:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-01T13:14:00.000-04:00

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.]

Just Under the Wire

2007-08-31T22:17:00.000-04:00

It's already all over the Web that Sen. Larry Craig (R-Ida.) will resign tomorrow, in the wake of his having pleaded guilty to behaving like a Democrat. So I haven't much time left to pen, in extremest haste, and post the following parody of Irving Berlin's Doin' What Comes Natur'lly:

Larry Craig, yer kinda vague
About yer peccadilloes.
Why endure the third degree?
Do yer business virch'ally!

Yew c'n get the Internet
For almost next to nothin';
Larry, take a tip from me:
Do yer business virch'ally!

Yew don't have to sit in a bathroom stall,
When the Web is a sybaritic shopping mall.
Yew'll find just the right cyber-combat-zone
To amuse any predilection ever known.
Do it virch'ally!
Do it virch'ally!

(A word of explanation,
In view of what yew done:
It's called the "Union Station,"
But it's not a vulgar pun.)

Now ya know the way things go,
I hope yew've learned yer lesson.
Wanna stay a V.I.P.?
Do yer business virch'ally!

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Humph!

2007-08-30T18:58:00.000-04:00

A friend recently suggested that I try my hand at parodying the theme from The Thomas Crown Affair. Without doubt, Windmills of Your Mind has appeal, thanks to a rich vocabulary and skilful prosody, which artfully conceal that the song has about as much meaning as the answer key to an SAT exam.

But those very virtues challenge the parodist like billy-o. I've made two false starts so far, and have nothing to show for it. Tough creative decisions will have to be made, and tough creative decisions go down with me about as easily as ground glass. I don't intend to chuck it, though. Not yet.

I give my faithful public fair warning: what I end up with won't be as funny as the original.

Post-Gig Letdown II: The Movie

2007-08-28T00:59:00.000-04:00

Well, the fun's over; back to work.

Our workshop's music director brought the DVDs to tonight's performance, so my daughter will get to see what Dad did for his summer vacation. Meanwhile, the following snippet to the chorus of Old Black Joe occurred to me, for no particular reason:

Brooks Brothers,
Brooks Brothers!
Though your price is none too low,
You sell me stuff not fit to clothe
A two-bit ho'.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

That's a gentle assessment of the quality of Brooks Brothers merchandise nowadays, but I seem to be doing nothing but fragments these days. What I need is A Project.