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.

A Child's Garden of Robots [part 1]

from A CHILD’S GARDEN OF ROBOTS

An Optimal Morning

A robot with a blinking head

Stood beside my trundle bed

Took my vital signs and said

“Normal tolerances read.”

The Little Friend

I have a metal playmate Papa made when I took ill

He fetches things I cannot reach, and brings my morning pill

He tells me what’s on telly, and he wheels me on the green,

And he helps me keep my dining room and playroom good and clean.

When he stands right beside me, he comes just up to my chin,

But he can touch the ceiling when he squeezes himself thin

And he can lift my bed up just by spreading out quite squat

And he can make me go to bed, if I want to or not!

One morning, I woke up before the clock was telling five

And saw him there beside me, very still, his eyes alive.

He tracked each movement that I made, and hummed and clicked inside,

I asked if all was well. "Oh yes," my metal friend replied.

My metal playmate’s my best friend. He's with me every day

He's stood by me, although my other friends have gone away.

My life would be so dull without the truest friend I've seen.

And Papa says he’ll make a girl for me when I’m thirteen!

The Traffic Copper

The robot on the street tells all the autos where to go

And tickets robot cars who drive too quickly or too slow.

It’s terribly observant, and its eyes don’t miss a thing;

Its moves are like a dance so quick it makes you want to sing.

When I start walking 'cross the street, it holds its hand up high

To signal all the robot cars to part and let me by

But if I ask “How do you do?” it never answers back

But gives a friendly little wave to keep me on my track.

I sometimes stand and watch it from the bus stop’s comfy bench.

It’s never tired or angry, and it has no thirst to quench.

It does its job all day without complaining of sore feet.

Why can’t we all be like the shiny robot on the street?

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Josie and Fred and Make Believe

This is an edited rehash of a stream of tweets I made around 2013 or so, revisited today on the occasion of so much interest in Fred McFeely Rogers, one of the greatest Americans I know of. I'm watching him right now, streaming on Twitch TV. I was an early mocker of Rogers, based on a slight amount of attention I paid his show around 9th or 10th grade. Later, my friends Randy and Torger communicated their admiration for him to me, and for the last year I lived in Colorado I made it a habit to watch the show with them every day after I got off work.

Fred Rogers was a multitalented saint. In '59, he & Josie Carey made  an LP based on their Pittsburgh TV show. For a while, this was available at Way Out Junk, whose proprietor had obtained a copy of my rip of the soundtrack LP, by way of a tape I made in 1983 from the girlfriend (at the time) of my cousin. Thanks, Kathy B., for assuming I would be interested in this and arranging a time for me to dub it. The LP had no cover, but Way Out Junk came up with photos of front and back. The tracks are now available (but for how long?) on YouTube, and I will link to the first part and trust that readers have the tech savvy to find the rest. (Hint: They're in the sidebar. If they aren't there, they may be gone completely, or they may turn up for a search.) 

I made up many of the track titles, which appear to have been sufficiently descriptive or obvious that they were used by Way Out Junk and by the helper (in the Rogers sense of the word) who kindly put them all up at YouTube. As you can see, we now know the real titles, and some of my guesses don't comport with reality. If it happens that you need to search for the tracks some day, consider using both sets. This is the page of results I get searching for the album name and the first track and youtube. Forgive me for not embedding each and every track here, but things change on the net, and by putting all the eggs in this basket, I might find it easier to change this post if it should pass that it gets pulled from there.

Before the tracks begin, let's look at a short video from 1969, in which Rogers testified before a Senate subcommittee which was hastening to do Nixon's bidding in de-funding public television's $20M budget. Speaking to Senator John Pastore (D-RI), Rogers communicates quietly and earnestly, and in a few short minutes, he saves NET (or whatever the network was being called at that moment in time) from the axe, and probably gives an angel its wings. It gets me every time.

Now for my guided tour through the tracks on this album of wonders. I can't count how many times I've listened to the whole thing. When I listened to tapes, this tape was always in the ones I carried to and from work and such. It was one of the first things I ripped to mp3, and has had a place on every music player. It's on my phone now. I am in the tank for it, and in my opinion it is a work of genius—genius in the service of a good heart. (Did you watch the Senate video?) In editing the tracks, I tried to start each one with the song portion. There may be instances where I just couldn't separate a song from its intro, but that was the plan, anyway.

“It’s Morning” has a familiar tune to those of us who’ve watched his Neighborhood. Fred Waring & His Pennsylvanians back it. All the songs were written by Rogers, an underrated composer. His outstanding musical collaborator, Johnny Costa, played the music on the show with his trio live every time, including opening and closing themes. His album of songs from the show is well worth seeking out. Costa based the very familiar lead-in to the opening theme on a passage from a Beethoven sonata, according to an interview that is also on YouTube. This album comes from before the Costa years. "It's Morning," sung by Josie, sets up a mood of joyous anticipation that is so very Rogers.

Rogers, incidentally, is not heard as himself on this LP, but every voice that isn't Josie being Josie is the sound of Rogers, and he wrote every word and note, so he's not exactly unheard.

“I Like You” shows Rogers’s acceptance of his listeners and viewers. He really does like us just as we are.

“What Would You Like” and “There’s a Smile” are upbeat booster songs. What would you like to do today? We are offered a number of possible options, all cheerful. There's a smile in your pocket, and it would like to be on your face. 

Ah, but we’re approaching the castle of King Friday XIII! He's a very busy man; a very busy man!

“I’m Busy Being Busy,” sings the self-harried King of Calendar Land, who drops a bombshell: Tomorrow is… missing! Daniel Striped 

“Where Did You Go, Tomorrow?” echoes the central concern of the adventure, with canonic polyphony. Josie and Daniel are hurriedly deputized as royal detectives to find Tomorrow! (She is to be National Peanut Butter Cookie Day, so you can see how very important it is.)

“I’m Looking for a Friend” is so vivacious it makes us almost fear Josie’s quest for friendship, so similar to our own search.

"It Makes Handsome” is a charming calm-down from Grand-Pere, in English with French syntax. Daniel stays with him as Josie goes on.

“Find a Star” slows Josie (and the story) down some, but she's still finding some nice clear notes to bring out. Make a wish!

X the Owl enters, baffling Josie with harmless, friendly sarcasm. “Fine Feathered Friend” is a tribute to friendship. We meet X's right-wing neighbor (literally: she lives on his right, and he has wings, not hands), Henrietta Pussy Cat, aka Hen. ("What should I call her? Henry?")

Josie cues her own song, “Smile,” anticipating a lesser song in “Annie.” Say, these songs would make a swell Broadway show. Just take the whole album to the stage. I'd watch it.

“Meow, Mister Rogers” is an explanation by Henrietta. Oh, yes, Mr. Rogers has a telephone! A very short epic, worthy of multiple listenings.

X honors Josie in “You’re Special”: “You’re an ice cream cone / You’re a lollipop…” As a bonus, X recites his poem about Y: “Y, by X.” We will hear this tune again.

"Where Did You Go?” is a different song which reprises Josie's growing frustration at the lack of clear progress so far. But who's this, hanging by her toes from the ceiling?

It’s Lady Elaine Fairchild, who drops down for “I’m Special,”  a socko (self-) parody of X’s song. This is the best number on the album—a real showstopper:

"I'm a grapefruit crate
 I'm a rusty can
 I'm a piece of wax; I'm a box of tacks; I'm a glass with cracks
 I'm a frying pan...
 I'm special!

"I'm a leaky pipe
 I'm a garlic bud
 I'm a soggy match; I'm a burlap patch; I'm an itchy scratch
 I'm a sea of mud...
 I'm special!

"I heel and toe it when I walk,
 My nose grows, oh so charming
 My friends all say I'm like a clock
 Because I'm so alarming

"I'm a case of mumps
 I'm a crooked boot
 I'm a pile of rags; I'm a chair that sags; I'm a paper bag
 I'm a broken tooth, darling!
 I-I-I-I'm special!"

The microtonal singing is worthy of Darlene Edwards. It may be one of the most awesome puppet solos recorded, and I've heard a few.

Daniel leaves Grand-Pere in a sweet, bilingual “Nocturne Duet” that reminds us that Mister Rogers, like Sparky, was a man of faith.

Fait accompli, Josie & Daniel are back “At Friday’s Palace” with respectful four-toothed smiles to receive an exciting reward. 

And there we are. Adventure over, we look forward, not back: “Finale: Tomorrow!” anticipates more delights to come, and comes closer to the familiar version of the song that ended each day's visit to "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood." I'm hearing him sing it right now as he puts on his outside shoes and exits another show at Twitch. And here comes Costa's daily improvisation to put a ribbon on it.

I love this record. Once again thanks to Kathy B. 

Before I go, though, this should also be included in any discussion of Mr. Rogers should also include one of the most striking examples of quiet heroism I have ever seen. On May 1, 1969, Rogers went in front of a Senate committee that was intent on defunding public broadcasting, as it then existed. He spoke to them quietly and earnestly, and with nothing but conviction and persuasion, he won those tough guys over.

Okay. Done now. 

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The New Ozymandias

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I met a farer from a far-off strand

Who said, “Two giant feet of bronze, gone green,

In water sit, bedecked with broken chains

That show their maker well did understand

That bonds of former slavery, still seen,

Convey defeated servitude’s remains.

Near by, a broken torch lies, dead and dark

In grimy water’s tide that, fitful, passes,

And on the base, these words my eyes did mark:

‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses

Yearning to breathe free—’ Here ends the poem,

The rest is swallowed in the rising water.

Along the shore, starved, feral humans roam

Whose brandished weapons offer only slaughter.”

KW 20180310

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New Phases and Unrelated Matters

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1 New Phase

I'm into a new phase. Where I had been reading at the gym during the hour I'm on the Futile Cycle and the Trudgemaster, I am now listening at the gym. The new storage card on my audio player is so darn big, I loaded hundreds of hours of radio shows (Gunsmoke, Marlowe, Johnny Dollar, Shep, ISIRTA, Hitchhiker, Lux, Lampoon, and anything by Welles seem to make up a lot of it). 

I've enjoyed my recent reading of screenplays, Doc Savage books, and whatever else I could find, but I haven't enjoyed the days when the scale showed me gaining weight back that I'd been keeping off since they sawed out my gallbladder, and I noticed after a couple of days of audio narrative that I seem to be able to keep the heart rate higher and cover more phony miles when I'm not taking info in through my eyeballs.

It took a couple of days to get used to not reading. It helps to not turn my tablet on at all, obviously, but then I start looking at the screens at the front of the gym. Closing my eyes works for that, at least often enough to break the spell. Even with that, I ended up comprehending the last half of some drama about agents (FBI, I guess) getting the last laugh on a mad bomber who killed six redshirts under our hero's command in the backstory. I almost looked at the guide to see what series it was when I got home, but then realized it just didn't matter and never would, so I did other things.

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2 An Unrelated Matter

In an unrelated matter, I got some help with ignoring the voices in my head from a surprising source: the voices. Most of the time, they're no problem—they're entertaining, and a rich source of crazy ideas A, B12, and D3. When I'm playing or practicing piano, though, it gets to be a bit much. As I explained once, it's a little bit like practicing while Robin Williams stands just off to the side, quietly but audibly free associating the whole time. 

I've long been aware that something has been acting as a wall that I regularly would hit while trying to execute some piece of music. I'd be doing fine, then bammo! Mr. Fuckup strikes again! Well. One day I was playing along, and the second internal track was doing its usual distracting thing, and a voice on that track actually said something very much like, "You know, these voices are probably part of what's keeping you from playing better." BINGO.

Having a brain that thinks it can multitask isn't always a bad thing. A while back, I made a big improvement in my playing one day when I noticed that I was mentally sending a directive to one of my hands along the lines of: "Okay, if Right Hand doesn't peg the melody in the part, just outline it in the thumb line." In other words, I was designating imagined entities for specific tasks. So I created an invisible henchman (I should give him a name—he's earned it) and tasked him with always knowing where I should be looking in the score. Looey (there you go) stepped up to his job admirably, and my playing was noticeably better.

So I had this resource, and I needed to figure out how to make it work for me, given that even if I pay close attention to a measure and get it just right, my subsequent thoughts (Got that just right! Oh, if only X was listening right now! It would go a little… like… THIS:…) would take me right off the rails again. 

I ended up with something like the bit in my 1970s Transcendental Meditation™ training where the instructor (Jeff Peckham) said, "From time to time, your mind will want to wander. This is okay. Just gently put it back on the track and resume your meditation." (I dropped Jeff's name up there because I saw a news story a mere handful of years ago about how he was being a gentle thorn in the side of some local movers and shakers, and that made me proud to have briefly been his pupil.) What I decided to do was to put a question foremost in my mind that I would return to again and again, like the protagonist in MEMENTO reading his tattoos in the mirror. That question is "What do I have to be doing RIGHT NOW?" It became my new mantra for practicing. Heck, maybe I should use it for everything, along with my philsophy of life, "Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat." 

So I use it, and I think it helps that I've been playing with the Irish group now for about three years, and that I'm in my fourth semester of music theory and aural skills. The answer to that question is always a combination of words ("Next comes a chord with A at the bottom and a C# under your middle finger"), and the look of the notes, and the feel under my fingers of how the correct combination will be. It's a description that should include every note to be played (though if one hand knows its part well enough, I can expend most of the energy on the weak one). 

So far, so good. It's like I'd been around 65% of where I felt I should be, and have now gotten up to 80%–85%. When I'm playing something I know intimately, even if I haven't done justice to it in execution, the figure feels even higher.

Thanks, voice. That was useful! I haven't shut you out of my head, because you've been useful to me more than twice, and you're entertaining when I'm mowing the lawn or washing dishes. Also, I probably can't. You're still there when I'm sequentially depressing those keys, but you're not the boss of me, and you're way less distracting. So far, so good.

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THE PURPLE FRUIT OF OMAR KHAYYAM

Regret! for I, within the dead of Night,

Have eaten Plums you’d saved for your Delight.

 And Lo! away I slink, and leave this note:

So cold were they, so sweet, so right.

Pacing the Kitchen as you slept in Bed

I paused: a Voice within my Stomach said

 “Refresh, my hungry one, and fill me up

Before Life’s Ways leave you too long unfed!”

And, as my Pangs grew, the Voice within me cried,

And yea, it shouted— “Ope thy Fridge Door wide!

 You know which Shelf holds Dish of Tupperware,

And what Delights your tongue shall meet inside.”

Come, fill ye up, then in thy Rapture sweet

A post-Meal Garment of Repentance meet:

 The Owl of Opportunity has but inches

To go—and Lo! rises already to its Feet.

There with a Dish of Plums beside the Stove,

A Glass of Beer, a Magazine—ah, Love!

 By your quiet snoring in the other Room—

The Kitchen was as Heaven far above.

O! my Beloved, fill your Heart with Tears

TO-DAY of my Regrets and guilty Fears—

 TO-MORROW?— Why, To-morrow may not come

And I’d regret those Plums not eaten all my Years.

Ah, drain the Dish:—it foots not to repeat

The Provenance of this or that cool Treat:

 Unpicked LAST WEEK, gone off TO-MORROW,

Why sweat it, if TO-DAY be sweet!

In Vision, by the Westinghouse struck dumb,

Beheld I—in the Dusk a Shape did come,

 Bearing a dish in Angel’s Hands; and

He urged me sample it; and ’twas—a Plum!

The Munching Jawbone chews; and having chawed,

Gulps down: nor all thy Remorse, nor God,

 Shall lure it back to undo half a Bite,

Nor all my Tears wash back a morsel of the wad.

Ah, Light of open’d Door who shine’st e’er bright,

Past Jugs of Milk, they meet my Sight:

 How oft hereafter, rising shall you look
Through this same Fridge for Plums and find—no Bite!

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Some plum verses

2013

EDDIE POE STOLE YOUR PLUMS

Last night, as I wandered weary

Bored of teevee chatting cheery,

Eyelids gummy, optics bleary,
Drearily with rigid stare,
Forth my mind went glumly, dumbly,
To a small container, plumbly
Full of purple fruit, so comely
Lurking in the Frigidaire

Dare I eat them? Would it matter?
Could they make my figure fatter?
Eat I must, or be a hatter,
Madder than a marching hare!
Grabbed I they, did fairly huff them,
Cooked them I did not, nor duff them
Merely did I seek to stuff them,
Stuff them in my face, just there.

Only then my conscience teased me,
Though the stolen bounty pleased me,
Pangs of guilt straight after seized me,
Feazed me in the frigid air.
Thus, this note of explanation
Begging for some expiation
Of my sin of annexation
Of those sweet, cold fruits, so fair.

By this note, I full do blame me.

Stoop ye not to mock or shame me
Promise you will not defame me
For this midnight treat so rare!
For I suffered in that second,
Racked with purple pash unreckoned,
At those plums that lewdly beckoned,
Wishing I could grow a pear!

2011:

i
Your bag of fruit is but a pile of pits,
My feast of joy is but a pang of guilt
My still small voice is in a plague of fits,
The sweet blue juice pooled on the plate is spilt.
My snack is past, and to the trash heap comes,
And now you know that I have et your plums.

ii
Waste not your time, nor hunt in vain pursuit
Peruse, instead, this humble witness mute,
That I, regardless of your own intents
Did raid the fridge for sweet and purple fruit.

O Thou, who sought, both cleverly and wise,
To save your plums and hide them from my eyes—
Know that I—I did consume them all—
And taste them still, as I apologize.

iii
Little boy hides in the pantry alone.
Fingers and mouth of a purple-y tone.
Hush! Hush! Silence your gums!
Christopher Robin is eating your plums.

iv

Blah blah blah plums, blah blah fridge,
Blah blah blah blah sweet blah cold.

His Dinosaurs

(Unaware that someone had gone with something similar, though different enough that I don't feel guilty now, I wrote this filk song to the tune of a radio hit by the Irish Rovers, and written by the great Shel Silverstein. It's been going through my mind, so I'm posting it here, where it will be safe from the view of all humanity. I tinkered with the words in small ways just now, because there's this thing called "scansion.")

Six thousand years back, as King James portrays,

The Lord of all created earth, in just seven days.

Made stars and trees and moons and men and animals galore,

And the biggest of them all was the dinosaur.

[chorus]

  There was mean Allosaurus, and small Dilong,

  The eagle-eyed Raptor and Pteranadon,

  The horny head Triceratops; a whole lot more:

  Almost 2k genera of dinosaur.

The Lord said to Noah, "I have to confess,

I'm going to wipe the world out, since it's turned out such a mess.

But if you'll make a boat before it rains for days two score,

You can save Man and Animal and Dinosaur."

[chorus]

The Lord told Noah to build a barge

To hold a lot of animals, some small and some large,

Said He, bring lots of kibble and build in some big doors

Tall enough and wide enough for dinosaurs...

[chorus]

So Noah cornered all the world's gopherwood

And studied God's plans and started building real good:

A boat three hundred cubits long of sturdy four-by-fours

Praying he could fit all those dinosaurs.

[chorus]

Then Noah looked and looked, and found the oddest thing

The dinosaurs were marching off in time with "Rite of Spring"

The rain commenced to falling with a mighty roar

And he just couldn't wait for no dinosaur.

[last chorus]

  So now there's mammals aplenty, and reptiles too

  Amphibians and fish and even me and you

  But if you don't include the birds that over us do soar

  You're never ever gonna see a dinosaur.

ttto: The Unicorn (Shel Silverstein)

new lyrics (c) 2007 by me

For Thursday, June 8, 2017

Gotta type fast before this is old news and forgotten by the fickle public. 

Something detected,

Something infected,

Something for everyone:

A Comey day, tonight!

Fakers and ringers,

One with short fingers,

Something for everyone:

A Comey day, tonight!

Nothing with class, nothing with sense,

Bring down the braggart, dirty and dense!

Old situations,

New explanations

Words lose all meaning with the Right!

Tragedy tomorrow,

Comey Day tonight!

Frenzied and bitter

Bleating on Twitter,

Soaked in emoluments:

A Comey day, tonight!

Bleakly depressing

Info suppressing,

Something for columnists

A Comey day tonight!

Nothing makes sense

Nothing feels fair

Short-sighted lies pour out of his hair.

Facts leaked from trials!

Fact-free denials!

Agents from Russia in plain sight!

Bullies and whiners!

Intel and diners!

Oilmen and huskies!

Wingers and Russkies!

Sleeping dogs!
Alt-right frogs!
Cupidity!

Turgidity!

Newsbreaks!

Fakes!

Cries!

Lies!

Spinners!

Bad winners!

Mopers!

Gropers!

A COMEY DAY…

TONIGHT!

[by Kip Williams, after Stephen Sondheim]

.

Toon River Anthology, part 17

CASPER

You look like someone who could use a friend!

But never mind. If there’s one thing I’ve learned,

It’s not to go down that road. The only times

I thought it was going to work, I still got the shaft.

They went to Heaven. Yeah, Heaven! And I’m still here.

How long has it been? A century? A millennium?

So pardon me if I'm just a little bit down today.

It’ll pass. It always passes. I’ll be cheerful again. 

I’ll be a real Pollyanna, and I’ll have adventures.

As to that stone and what it implies, all I can say is:
I WISH!

HOT STUFF

Born a devil, lived a devil, died a devil.

No, not one of those tall devils, or the fat ones—

Just a little one. Cute, harmless. An imp, really.

Sometimes unexpectedly good, never evil.

Mild pranks, hijinks, tomfoolery, a hot foot or two.

I used to think I’d grow up and get big,

I’d be a regular Mephistopheles!
FEAR ME!

But no.
If anything, my belly got rounder,

And my head got cuter. Just don’t pat it, Bub,

You’ll burn your hand! (That’s devil humor.)

There was my life: It was OK. I hung with my friends,

Swiped an apple or two.
Not too good, not too bad:
Born To Raise Heck.

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another filk

From a few years back…

YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE

You only live once, that’s how it goes.

One life and you’re gone, most evidence shows.

You live for your years, you turn your wheel

Some say you get more years; that’s not the deal 

Your life is the least the world puts on your plate

Be fast to the feast, or be late for your fate!

One life all your own, and you’re the price.

One more would be nice, but you don’t live twice

(ttto: You Only Live Twice, DUH)

[slightly revised, 2017]

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a swinging holiday

There's a blackboard in one of my classrooms—actually both, since I take both classes in the same room on different days—with some writing on it about snowmen and whatnot. Down near the bottom, in mixed-case cursive, it says "Jungle Bells," like someone was doing the "i" and made two peaks instead of one. In a situation like that, I could (1) just ignore it, (2), fix it, or (3) do something else. I chose (3). Today, as the rest of the class was filing in, I was scribbling away:

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 yuletide 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 Christmas romp!

So have a happy. The time is out of joint anyway.
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way down upon Toon River

Freckles Friendly

A lot of people, when they talk about their life,

Say, “Sure, I did what I did. I had no choice.”

I’m not judging them, but that describes me:

The poor friend of the richest kid on earth!

What else can you do when one family

Owns everything in the county, in the state,

And the pampered heir decides that he

Has to cultivate the poorest of the poor

To show that he has the common touch?

You going to put your foot down, show your pride

And listen to your kid brother cough all night

In the leaky room you share with your folks?

So you listen to his golly-gee platitudes

And you thank him for everything you get,

No matter how trivial or useless it is.

And try your damnedest to save a little,

Shopping at the company store: lotsa luck!

And one day, maybe, you survive it all

And you escape him and go to another state,

Start your own business, and tell folks

That your last name has always been Welloff.

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we need a new label

I've written a reel. Wrote it on January 11, 2017, and on the 16th, I took it to my regular Monday Irish jam group, who liked it and played it. Now I must write more, and now I have a new label for such items.



It's copyrighted. I was going to go with Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA), but Wikipedia seemed to say that these could lead to a legal thicket, which seems like a lot to put on a poor little reel.
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Toon River Anthology Excavates Comic Books (continued)

DOROTHY “DOT” POLKA

Names are destiny. You have to choose carefully.

Dad and Mom loved to dance. They were the Polkas!

They thought I’d be a dancer too, but I wasn’t like them.

My aunts thought it would be cute to dress me in dots,

Like my name! I was surrounded by dots as a baby.

I couldn’t get over them. They became my life.

Dots here, Dots there. It drove Dad to distraction,

And Mom eventually left us, crying. She still loved us,

But she couldn't cope with it, and she fled the state.

I hardly noticed when she left. She wasn’t a dot!

Partnerless, Dad soldiered on. When I was fifteen, I had an accident,

Fell off my polka-dot bike, hit my head. I was okay. 

But when I realized that I could see spots, beautiful spots, 

Any time, anywhere, just by hitting myself on the head,
My doom was sealed.

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Toon River Returns

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It's been a while, but the epitaphs keep on coming:

RICHARD $ RICH, JR.

I had wealthy friends, but I preferred the poor kids—

Bedraggled ragamuffins with bad hair and no fashion sense. 

How they gaped at my opulence! How they thanked me

For any little crumb of generosity that trickled down.

“Kissing up,” some called it. I learned the term

From our second Cadbury, on his way out: Bitter!

They could have had an easy life if they’d kept to it,

But when their voices changed, so did their tune.

They still thanked me, but there was some edge to it

That I couldn’t abide. They thought they were entitled!

It wasn’t enough that I let them ride my golden wagon

Down a hill of gold coins and jewels any more. No,

They betrayed my trust. Small gems “accidentally” stuck 

In a shoe or a ragged pants cuff. Dishonest!

I might have even let that go unpunished, if it hadn’t been

For their miserable attitudes. Oh, we’re so poor. We’re so cold.

Our mom is so sick. Our dad got laid off at your plant.

Can’t you do something? You were our friend!

What do you mean “were,” you ingrates?

I sent them away. No sense of respect. Sad!

Who needs them? I have this huge mausoleum now:

A solid gold statue of myself by the best artist,

And my personal police force to keep out the riff-raff.

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Oi! Post number 100. Some people get to 100 in a month. It took me about nine years. We'll see how long it takes to get to 100 comments—presently at 59, and half those are me answering back.
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2X2L CALLING GROVER'S MILLS

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The direct stimulus:

(((Queer Xopher))) ‏@Halftongue 4h4 hours ago 

Today's dream retrieval: "Those feet are covered in intergalactic spit! They can't be allowed to touch Earth!"

Nothing beside remains.

The result (originally parceled out in tweets, and now slightly amended and collected):

THE NEW NEW JERSEY

And shall those feet, in future times

Moisten our planet's precious soil?

And will the spawn of Ab'rop'od

Spit upon our blood & toil?

Bring me my belt of blazing jet!

Bring me my telescope of light!

Bring me my plans—unfurl them here.

Bring me microbes with hungering bite!

I will not shirk the cosmic fight,

Not drop this phaser from my hand

Till we have shed this eldritch blight

And scoured the Martian from our land!

(ttto: Jerusalem, words by Blake, tune by Parry)

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