Dad's Black Widow Story

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In the late 60s, Dad’s back problems were making him toss and turn, so he relocated to a mummy bag in the living room so as not to bother Mom with it. At some point, he felt a burr stick him, groggily pulled it off and returned to sleep. A while later, he woke up with a burning pain in the burr spot, turned on the light, and saw a dead black widow where he remembered putting it. He showed Mom a growing red area surrounding what was now known to be a black widow bite. Mom got on the phone to the Emergency Room and to our family doctor’s answering service. The rest of the family started waking up.

My oldest sister put ice cubes in a bread bag and made him keep it there while calls went back and forth between our home and the ER. Our doctor was located, or he started answering, whatever. It was determined that Dad would be taken to the hospital where he’d be given an antidote shot which would make him sick but presumably keep him alive.

Around this time, someone (probably my oldest sister) noticed that the swelling and discoloration had subsided, having gone from hand-sized to coin-sized. Informed of this, the hospital decided he could stay home and avoid the sickmaking shot as long as he kept the ice on it and it continued to improve. So he did, it did, and the bear did.

Nobody really blamed the spider. Dad probably rolled over on it and it reacted. My sister had twice tried to keep a black widow (named Snarky) as a pet, but both died in captivity. The awful part of it all is that Dad was telling Bob and Ann about it afterward, concluding with the observation that though he still had the sacroiliac pain, the aftereffects of the spider encounter were nil, upon which Bob immediately turned to Ann and said “His back is worse than his bite.”

So we killed him.

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We Need a Sarcasm Font

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People are saying we need a sarcasm font, and we do. But that’s not enough. We also need a hyperbole font, and an amphibole font, a just-kidding-around font, a totally sincere font (no, really!), a font for kidding on the square, a whimsical font, a font for pretending you believe something you really don’t, a font for a modest intro, and a font for the crushing conclusion. 

We need a reductio ad absurdum font, an ad hominem font, a begging-the-question font, and a straw-man font. We need a font for mild irony, and we need one for …heavy… irony. We need a patronizing font, a placating font, an impassioned font, an apathetic font. 

We need a font for knock-knock jokes, for I’m-the-Guys, and Little Willies. We need a font for quoting from Peanuts, the Simpsons, Monty Python, and They Might Be Giants. We need a font for quiet resignation, a font for defiance, and a font for feigned cluelessness.

We need a font for flat-out lying.

Some will say we should use words to convey these things, but the fact is we need all these fonts. We need them every bit as much as we need a sarcasm font.

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edited from my twitter

For National Gorilla Suit Day 2019

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Deck Yourself

Deck yourself in garb of primate
Ooga booga booga, ook! ook! ook!
Warm the blood in every climate
Ooga booga booga, ook! ook! ook!
Don we now our ape apparel
Booga boo, booga boo, ook ook ook!
Join us all in acting feral
Ooga booga booga, ook! ook! ook!

***

We Three Kongs

We three Kongs of simian mien
Peeling fruit of yellow and green
Crouching, feeding, on chests beating
Stars of the jungle scene!
Oo-oook…
Day of wonder, bright, acute
Day to wear gorilla suit!
Plantains cooking, backward looking
Day when evolution’s moot!

***

Jungle Bells*

Swinging through the trees
With a holly jolly ape.
Music’s on the breeze.
Native children gape!
Lights on green fronds cling
And shimmer in the heat.
Let’s dance and sing till tree frogs ring
With a festive jungle beat! Oh—

Jungle Bells, Jungle Bells,
Through rain forests green!
Carols hum on a wooden drum
From hands that can’t be seen, oh—
Jungle Bells, Jungle Bells,
Tinkle through the swamp:
Festive chimes that hang from vines
For a sultry devo romp!

I hope the purists will forgive me for omitting the traditional hymns, but on consideration, they all seemed a bit stuffy and contrary to what I regard as the true spirit of this joyous day. Ook!

* Adapted from the popular winter song that has already appeared in these pages.

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Member Privileges

That's right, Reader! We have our own gol-darned shopping network! And we've had it since the 1980s. We hope to have the bugs out of it and get it all up and running SOON.

Oh, sure, everybody sells that stuff now! I was years ahead of my time, or anybody's!

I had to leave one of these behind in our old place, with like five left. I hear the new people never even looked closely at it.

There was also a line of artificial Christmas trees whose branches didn't begin till four feet up. A simple electric fence around the bottom does the rest!

Flange lip discourages opossums!

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Great Poems Limericked

In 2015, there was a brief craze of converting great poems into limericks. Over at Making Light (any of the date links will take you to it), I joined in for a couple of hours one night, and then added a little bit more to the pile the next morning. I realized today that I should put those here on my own web-log, for reasons.

#578 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 14, 2015, 11:32 PM:

Tichborne's Elegy [Tichborne] [monosyllabic redrafting 20180706]

My prime of youth’s no thing but cares,

And my corn field is choked up with tares.

Found my death in my womb.

All the earth is a tomb,

And my life’s but false hopes and mean snares.

#579 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 14, 2015, 11:38 PM:

My Last Duchess [Browning]

See? my wife’s portrait painter was skilled,

And with telling detail the work’s filled.

But her temper was such

That she smiled far too much,

So that’s why I had the dame killed.

#580 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 14, 2015, 11:51 PM:

Ariel’s Farewell [Shakespeare]

Our revels are ended. The score,

The towers, and globe, are no more.

We’re naught but the shade

Out of which dreams are made

And we round our wee lives with a snore.

#581 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 12:03 AM:

Lessons of the War [Reed]

Nature’s bounty calls out to our hearts

With the lure of lewd beckoning tarts,

The Japonica twines…

But the carbine’s clip shines

For today we have naming of parts

#582 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 12:14 AM:

Spoon River Anthology [Masters]

We’re the dead folk asleep on the hill,

Of our life's substance freely we spill.

Some were victims, some kind,

Some were evil defined.

All are grist for the moralist’s mill.

#583 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 12:24 AM:

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam [FitzGerald]

As the sun's rays light turrets at dawn

We’re fresh vessels, fired up to go on.

Freshly crafted and fine,

Filled with promise and wine,

Yet by night, we’re all drunk, and then gone.

#584 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 12:35 AM:

To His Coy Mistress [Marvell]

Had we more time and space at our call,

I’d not mind your reluctance at all,

But you might die a maid,

And I’ll never get laid!

Best we drop this demureness and ball.

#586 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 12:50 AM:

The Listeners [de la Mare]

The Traveler called out at the door

That his promise he’d kept, as he’d swore,

Till unanswered, bereft,

He grew weary and left

Just our silence behind him, no more.

#587 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 12:54 AM:

Fire and Ice [Sandburg]

So some say earth will finish in ice,

While some others say fire’s just as nice.

What I know of desire

Makes me lean toward the fire,

Or perhaps some atomic device.

#598 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 08:05 PM:

Jerusalem [Blake]

There once was a man who said, "Hark!

Did Jesus set foot in this park?

Did he once tread green hills

Where are now mostly mills

That are British, satanic, and dark?"

#602 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 09:01 PM:

Edward [Anonymous ballad]

“O Edward, my son, do you bleed?”

“No, I just killed my hawk. …No, my steed.

Well, in truth, I killed Dad.”

“O my son! Why so bad?”

“You should know! Your damned words did I heed!”

#604 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 09:09 PM:

Green Eggs and Ham [Geisel, aka Seuss]

“I am Sam! Have some green eggs and ham!”

“For your foodstuff, I don’t give a clam!

I’d not eat them here, there,

On the sea, ground, or air…

…Hm, no: wait. These are great! Thank you, Sam!”

#605 ::: Kip W ::: (view all by) ::: December 15, 2015, 09:12 PM:

Spam [Python]

Spam Spam Spam, Spam Spam Spam, Spam Spam Spam

Spam, Spam, Spam Spam Spam, wonderful Spam:

Spam Spam Spam, Spam Spam Spam

Spam Spam Glorious Spam, 

Spam Spam, Spam Spam Spam, Spam Spam Spam Spam!

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-.-. --- -. -.-. . .-. -. . -..

[A series of tweets]

Dad once bought a pair of code keys for us. They were wired to each other, and they could click, buzz, or light up little bulbs. I was pretty excited, though I didn't learn Morse Code well enough then, or ever. I could send some, but no way could I receive.

…

…

Dad and his little brother, my uncle, had had a set something like them back in their kid days, in the 1930s. Each was proficient at sending “___ IS A SISSY (fill in the other’s name)” and “POOEY TO YOU FROM ME.”

…

…

I would think of those when I saw ads in comic books for what was virtually the same toy. The picture shows a kid’s room. Outside, a car accident has occurred! Inside, the kid taps away, looking concerned.

…

…

And I’d think: Who’s he sending to? Is the key in his brother’s room even on? Did the batteries already juice up like ours did? Is he just lighting up the bulb on his own unit while the victims of this car wreck are bleeding out?

…

…

It seems like a perfect metaphor for something. Probably for my online activity. Oh no! Bad thing has happened! I’d better start clicking the code key!

…

…

(Alas, the only thing I know how to send is “POOEY TO YOU FROM ME” anyway.)

Oh, well. Back to clicking, I guess.

-....- ...-- ----- -....-

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An Unforgettable Concert

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A local orchestra in western Massachusetts had an enticing program of Gershwin—Rhapsody in Blue, the Concerto in F, and the string orchestra version of Lullaby (not the biggest draw in that guise, but not enough to keep me away). 

First up was the Lullaby, and I got a bad feeling. They were pioneering new intervals, the Major Unison and the Minor Unison. The First Viola was quite good, playing competently in tune. If I could have applauded just for him, I surely would have. The Concerto began. I should have left after the Lullaby, but was curious about the soloist. Well, he was no First Viola. He would start each section confidently, get in trouble halfway through, and hurriedly limp to its conclusion, confident that things would work out in the next. (Narrator voice: They didn't.) A couple of minutes from the end, orchestra and soloist were so far from one another that the conductor stopped the music. Unfortunately, he started it again, and I guess they were on the same page when they finished, so thank heaven for small favors. There was a standing ovation from what I presume was an audience of family members. I neither stood nor unlimbered my hands, which remained tucked under the opposite elbows. I slipped out and listened to a good performance of the concerto on my way home.

I skimmed the Springfield Republican with interest the next couple of days, looking for a review, and was rewarded with a brief account of the triumph of the musicians, which did, however, wag its finger briefly at Mr. Gershwin for certain infelicities of orchestration which, in the opinion of the writer, made the piece unnecessarily difficult for performers. Well. That settles that, eh? Everything was just fine, and it's the composer's fault it wasn't.

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to the memory of an angel

I

Back in the 80s, I worked with Mike, who had strong opinions on classical music. He complained whenever Boccherini came on the radio: “The epitome of empty note spinning!” When a Tchaikovsky piece went into a long final inning, he’d yell at the radio, “Oh, finish it already!” He stood for high standards. He didn’t think Ravel would make it into the long-term classical canon, or Prokofiev, or Rachmaninoff, or Gershwin, or even Stravinsky (who he loved). I asked him, what 20th century piece would make it? He thought a moment.

And he told me about the Berg Violin Concerto.

II

Alban Berg (1885–1935), Viennese, fathered an illegitimate child in his teens as part of his first big romance, with a married woman named Marie, whose nickname was Mizzi. He attempted suicide, failed, then settled down after meeting the woman he would marry. A student of Schönberg, he wrote atonal and 12-tone music, including two operas (one unfinished). Unlike Schönberg, he wrote melodic music with a wide palette of emotional affect. The Nazis went after him as part of their “Degenerate Music” [Entartete Musik] pogrom, probably because of his association with Schönberg. 

In January of 1935, the Russian-American violinist Louis Krasner met Berg and asked him to write a violin concerto for him. Berg, who didn’t want to be bothered with a showpiece, resisted, but Krasner persisted, arguing that he could write a piece with beauty, “demolishing the antagonism of the ‘cerebral, no emotion’ cliché.” Berg finally agreed, though he went on working on his second opera, Lulu, paying little attention to his commission.

In April of 1935, Manon Gropius, daughter of Walter Gropius and Alma Mahler Gropius (and who was much loved by the artists and musicians who surrounded Alma) died of polio at the age of 18. Berg asked Alma if he could dedicate the piece “to the memory of an angel” (the score’s subtitle), and began composing in earnest, putting his opera aside.

He had finished the skeleton of the piece on July 15, and on August 12 had finished its orchestration. “I never worked harder in my life,” he said, having basically written this concerto in six weeks. 

III

A 12-tone piece, using a system based on Schönberg’s work in which the twelve notes of the chromatic scale are put into a specific order that forms the basis for thematic material as well as harmonic organization, the concerto is based upon a tone row that Berg created:

The twelve notes can be taken as four groups of three, and each group is made up of a major or minor triad. These are G minor, D major, A minor, and E major—G, D, A, and E are the open strings of a violin. The last four notes in the tone row make up the first four notes of a whole-tone scale. Berg uses all of this in his piece.

After a one-measure intro, the concerto opens with ‘open string’ arpeggios from the solo violin.

Berg seems to be calling attention to the instrument itself, but the piece doesn’t remain abstract for long. There are a number of developments, including a waltz and the quotation of a Carinthian folk song with the line “I would have overslept in Mizzi’s bed…”, making the piece partly autobiographical, in addition to being about Manon Gropius. The piece also seems autobiographical in the turbulence that develops, along with warlike drumbeats, as the world, especially Austria, went mad around Berg. About nineteen minutes into the piece, the clouds are dispelled and the music calms itself. Then comes a sort of miracle.

I remember Mike telling me: “Berg quotes a Bach chorale, and it fits right into his tone row.” The last four notes of the row, the whole-tone scale, are the first four notes of this almost unearthly (because of the four whole tones together) chorale melody used by Bach*. “Es ist genug. Herr, wenn es dir gefällt, so spanne mich doch aus.” “It is enough. Lord, when it pleases thee, then grant me release.” I stood before my classmates, presenting the artwork I based on this piece, trying not to choke up as I said these words.

The violin quotes the opening line, and wind instruments take up more of the chorale. The concerto goes on to finish with tranquil resignation, acceptance of fate and loss, and recaps the ‘open string’ figures from the start, with rising transpositions of the tone row, from bass to cello to viola to horn, and finally as the last statement from the solo violin, ending with a long, soft, high G that floats over the last notes of the orchestra like the first star of evening.

IV

Berg died in December, 1935, without hearing his concerto performed. His opera, Lulu, had been finished in piano-vocal score, and he had orchestrated two of the three acts. On April 19, 1936, the concerto was premiered in Paris with Krasner as soloist. Viennese composer Anton Webern had been scheduled to conduct, but at the last minute, he was too emotionally distraught to go through with it. On the 18th, organizers of the concert prevailed upon conductor Hermann Scherchen, who was there for the event, to step in. He was given the score at 11:00 the night before, and had thirty minutes the next day to go over the piece with the musicians. 

On May 1, 1936, Anton Webern and Louis Krasner played the British premiere of the piece with the BBC orchestra. A recording of the piece can be found at YouTube. I'm not sure why embedding doesn't work today, but the sound is very good, and this is as close to a definitive recording as I could imagine.

part 1

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTYAm0BXkxs

part 2

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKO-GKUgDXw

part 3

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3P7pz4aCNSk

part 4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O59hMmE98Jw

V

For my final project in my fourth and last semester of music theory with John Reef at Nazareth College, I chose to make a stained-glass window (in Photoshop) based upon this piece. The above sections are based on the presentation I made before the class to lead (not a pun) up to it. The colors came from stained glass photos on the web. I lettered the scroll by hand on a graphics tablet with a will of its own. I should rework that sun, as the detail has vanished from it. Tried to make it plausible as a piece of glass-and-lead craftsmanship, though the roots strain credulity—they'd have to be painted on, I guess, like the in-ground and in-flower detail is intended to suggest. I roughened the texture on purpose, if you're wondering.

“Es ist genug. Herr, wenn es dir gefällt, so spanne mich doch aus.” 
“It is enough. Lord, when it pleases thee, then grant me release.”

VI

An asteroid discovered in 1983 is now named Asteroid 4258 Berg, in honor of the composer.

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footnote, from Wikipedia:

"Es ist genug" ("It is enough") is a German Lutheran hymn, with text by Franz Joachim Burmeister, written in 1662.^[1] The melody, Zahn No. 7173,^[2] was written by Johann Rudolf Ahle who collaborated with the poet. It begins with a sequence of three consecutive rising whole tone intervals.

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The star in the wind

FOR THE MOTHER

OF KATHRYN BARBARA

There’s a Star in the wind, and the wind winds high,

Blowing alight thru fog, thru night.

Thru cold, thru cold and the bitter alone…

There high in the wind rides a Star, my own…

And the Star is a word…of white, of white…

And the star in the wind is a Word.

Porkypine 1953

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Walt Kelly, creator of the comic strip Pogo and all it contained, married for the second time in 1951, to Stephanie Waggony, and on October 31 of 1952, they had their first child, Kathryn Barbara Kelly, who died shortly after. No date is known, but Kelly refers to her in the December 8, 1952 daily strip, and he worked about three weeks ahead of publication:

And again in the December 25, 1952 strip, as Porkypine shares that slice of cake with a sad Pogo:

I don’t have the reprints for the dailies (and Kelly tended to leave these strips out of the collections), but one of my sources says he returned every Halloween to the bug with the cake, looking for a child trying to have a birthday.

A commenter at one of the blogs where I found these strips quoted from the October 31, 1955 strip, where the cake bug says,
"I'se lookin' for somebody what tryin' hard to be a year old... Not everybody makes it. I got a cake here for he who do."

UPDATE: A kind soul sent me five more strips, bringing us to 1957, after which I believe he said the references stop.

1953:

1954:

1955:

1956:

1957:

(End Update. Back to original post.)

Anyway, it's Mother's Day, and that put me in mind of the poem, first spoken in the strip by Porkypine in 1953, and which stands as the dedication to UNCLE POGO'S SO-SO STORIES (1953). Till today, I didn't know about the annual cake strips.
Hug somebody.
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School Days

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In the early 70s, I had long hair which attracted the attention of the cowboy wannabees. One, in particular, harassed me in the locker room every day I had gym. Mutton (not his name) was lanky and sullen, with thick, rubbery lips, and he threatened me regularly and threw anti-gay slurs at me because of my hair. I took it in silence, not wanting to escalate. Though there were other cowboys (we called them goat ropers), I was ignored by most of them, possibly because one of the most popular in the group seemed to make it a point to be cordial to me (and I was grateful to him for that). I was conscious, though, that if it had come to a conflict, I didn't want to rely on them all staying neutral.

Mutton continued his mostly verbal assaults, until one day I snapped. He called me some variety of “queer” for the thousandth time, and I had simply run out of flying forks to give. Looking right at his face with its livery lips, I said, “Well, at least I don’t wear lipstick!” There was laughter from several directions, and he went red and clammed up and turned away. This small victory didn't exactly make me any happier, since I expected he would now be looking to get back at me for it.

Soon after that, though, he was gone. Up and vanished from school. Word filtered out that he had killed someone—his nephew. I’m pretty sure it was stupidity rather than murder, but he was gone nonetheless. A manslaughter rap. I don't know anything about the legal proceedings, but if it stuck, he probably would have gone to Juvie. If it didn't, maybe his family kept him out of school anyway.

Three or four years after I graduated, I was in the checkout line at a local market where the owner was known for giving troubled kids a second chance, and there was my former antagonist, sacking my purchase. “Hey, Mutton,” I said perfunctorily. (This was a local equivalent of hello.) He looked up and favored me with the same sullen expression I'd seen all the other times, and mumbled something back, and I took my bag from him and went on out into the bright, lovely day. I felt free.
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Classical Gas

The Disney corporation, ever sensitive to the winds of change, and (since at least the 1950s) ever willing to recut their old products up for present-day sensibilities, determined to get out on the cutting edge of kid appeal by folding flatulence humor into their classic releases. Leaked memo from 2008 reveals some of the specific ideas explored.

SNOW WHITE: 

While cleaning the kitchen, SW can't get the dust out of a large jug, so she has animal pals blow dust out. Bunny butt puff is insufficient, so she has a deer help out. Later gags showing reactions of dwarfs to jug: When Doc first opens it, small cloud comes out; Dopey interacts with the cloud, which reacts with alternate coyness and forwardness; Grumpy scowls it back into the jug, but it comes back, etc.

PINOCCHIO: 

Gags added to "Give a Little Whistle" number by simply substituting flatus sound effects for original whistles. Amusing echo business.

FANTASIA: 

Again, simply adding sound effect to existing scenes: "Dance of the Hours" when hippo lands on gator, "Toccata & Fugue" when big trapezoidal solid walks across screen, and in "sound track" sequence when it makes the big drippy noise. Ideas for adding bottom burps to "Night on Bald Mountain" and "Ave Maria" nixed by humorless suits in front office.

BAMBI: 

Thumper's poem about eating greens is changed to: "Eating greens is good for your heart / There's vitamins in every part! / (But they always make me hafta fart! …I made up that last part myself.)"

LADY AND THE TRAMP: 

Jock taunts Trusty several times by expelling gas near him. Trusty, having lost his sense of smell, is oblivious until the last time, when he tells the abashed scottie "I ain't DEAF, ya know!"

SLEEPING BEAUTY: 

Joke is in "outtake" added at the end, when Prince Phillip bends to kiss his sleeping lady. Gas noise is heard. She giggles, and they both break up.

CINDERELLA: 

Faithful horse is given distinctive sound effect for flatulation, followed each time by horse laugh, and when he's turned into coachman, he still makes the noise and the laugh.

PETER PAN: 

It's no longer enough to shake Tinkerbell for fairy dust. Now you have to squeeze her. Wendy gets relationship off on wrong foot by mis-hearing Peter and calling her "Stink" the first time.

THE LITTLE MERMAID: 

Additional verse and many animated bubbles for "Under the Sea" number. 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST: 

Lumiere occasionally shoots a blue jet from the old afterburner and says "Pardon!" with Gallic charm and no sign of embarrassment.

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Repurposed from a 2008 post at rec.arts.animation.