Mondegreen mania
I get such a kick out of misheard song lyrics, otherwise known as mondegreens. I remember years ago when I picked up Gavin Edwards Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy when I was out of town on business. I went back to my hotel room and laughed until tears streamed down my face while the misinterpretations became more ridiculous, but still plausible, as I turned the pages. The accompanying illustrations only added to my mirth. It is the hardest I have ever laughed without someone else present in the room. I couldn’t wait for the next book to come out, which there were three others. Occasionally, I check the humor section of bookstores, hoping to find a fifth installment in the series. Sadly, Mr. Edwards either tired of the concept, or ran out of material. Nonsense, I say!
In lieu of that, I will reminisce on a few of my own, as well as ones Mr. Pedant accumulated over the years. I displayed them in the same format as in the books: misheard lyric; performer; song title; correct lyric.
The wreck of Ella Fitzgerald
Gordon Lightfoot “The Wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald”
The wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald
What can I say? The queen of scat was the only E. Fitzgerald I knew of when I was a teen. I even had the piano sheet music of the classic folk tune, but for whatever reason, my mind chose to interpret and remember it within the context of its existing knowledge, and stay that way well into adulthood. Good excuse, eh? Years later, I saw part of a documentary about the famous freighter, and the twenty-nine lives that were taken down with it. Hmm, I guess that makes more sense. At least, more than a wrecking ball swinging toward Ella as she breaks glass when she hits her high note. Ah, the warped logic of youth.
Hey old lady you’re gonna die!
Patty LaBelle “Creole Lady Marmalade”
Creole lady marmalade!
Really, what is a more logical exclamation, I ask ye?
I scream my balls off
No Doubt “Spider Webs”
I screen my phone calls
I actually developed a dislike of this song because I thought it was stupid that a woman would say that she screams her balls off. Women don’t have balls! Anyway, I still can’t shake my disdain.
I’m a speed travelin’ hombre
Lynyrd Skynyrd “Freebird”
I must be travelin’ on now
This was my brother-in-law’s creation, and it makes me giggle every time. Oddly, it could fit.
I wanna be, your clamdigger
Peter Gabriel “Sledgehammer”
I wanna be, your sledgehammer
“What the hell is a clamdigger?” At the time, I didn’t know it was a real profession. I guess my friend thought clams were an appropriate token of love. I suppose it is just as useful as a gaggle of swans a’simmin, or a bunch of maids a’milking.
Hail to the flutter kick, same old chicken washed my brain. So I ate a pigeon steak, try to sneeze your blood my way.
Alice in Chains “Would”
Into the flood again, same old trip it was back then. So I made a big mistake, try to see it once my way.
This was heard in the back of a Bradley armored personnel carrier, in the middle of combat during Desert Storm. The gunner started singing this at the top of his lungs, with a Brooklyn accent, no less. Mr. Pedant, I’ve got nothing to add.
Turn your feet around
Vickie Sue Robinson “Turn the Beat Around”
Turn the beat around
A sensible, albeit pointless, request.
Why do we, cutsie-pie ourselves?
Tori Amos “Crucify”
Why do we, crucify ourselves?
This was just too funny to omit. Oddly, the misinterpretation is the polar opposite of what Tori asked. The real lyric is more poignant, but the other really gets my imagination brewing. I picture a bunch of furry kittens tied with lilac ribbons to pink crosses, as they mew in harmony to this song. Oh yeah, and bunnies are hopping around them. Why? Because cute spectacles must contain at least one bunny. All together, now. AWWWWW!!!
A-chin bubbly-bubbly Top Dog
Kula Shaker “Tattva”
Acintya bheda bheda Tattva
What else is there to say about carbonated dogs with chins that hasn’t already been said?
You don’t have to sell your potty to the night
The Police “Roxanne”
You don’t have to sell your body to the night
When you think about it, both lyrics are essentially saying the same thing, one less eloquently than the other.
Do you need a Wal-Mart to look after you?
Tori Amos “God”
Do you need a woman to look after you?
Sorry, Tori. I’ll stop picking on you.
Jesus is just a rat-wheeled freak
Doobie Brothers “Jesus is Just Alright”
Jesus is just alright with me
It is amazing the things that run through the brain during the descent into the fiery pits of Hell.
I don’t know, but I’ve been told, a peg leg woman ain’t got to sew
Led Zepplin “Black Dog”
I don’t know, but I’ve been told, a big legged woman ain’t got no soul
Personally, I’d be too busy trying to move around with a peg-leg to make time for sewing.
Now I pooh hard eggs
The Police “Every Breath You Take”
How my poor heart aches
This lyric was misheard and published as “I’m a pool hall ace.” But really, who wouldn’t wail like Sting if he crapped stony eggs, if you let yourself contemplate such an unfortunate ignominy?
Barefoot ghouls, dancin’ in the moonlight
Credence Clearwater Revival “Green River”
Barefoot girls, dancin’ in the moonlight
One is sexy, the other frightening. I’m good with it.
The beagle flies with the duck
Crosby, Stills, and Nash “Love the One You’re With”
The eagle flies with the dove
Mr. Stills, I love you, but you’re a mumble-ass.
Oh, there’s more. But, in an effort to keep this post from getting too long, I must split this up. Tune in later for the second installment.
Being Kurt Vonnegut
Of all the writers this bibliophile has read and continues to discover, I rank Kurt Vonnegut in the upper echelon of literary geniuses. No one wrote caustic satire quite like him. While I don’t emulate him in my own work, or any author for that matter, a favorable comparison would be much welcomed, to say the least. Alas, if Dmitry Chestnykh is the arbiter of writing analysis, the probability of that happening is slim to none.
Mr. Chestnykh is a Russian computer programmer who created the site I Write Like. I don’t know if it is viable for academic study, or was created for just giggles. Perhaps when some established authors were tested and came up with others than themselves, the latter seemed to be the likely purpose. As an example, Moby Dick was more reminiscent of Stephen King than of, well, Herman Melville. I wonder if Mr. Melville looked more like King’s brother than . . . regardless, the algorithm could use some tweaking.
Here is the link, in case you want to participate in the same frustrating exercise I did—twenty-one times, to be precise. I just couldn’t resist the compulsion.
I took excerpts of my blog postings, short stories, and even a couple of e-mails. I was on a quest to identify my wordsmith doppelgänger and hoped for some affirmation of my writing skills, to boot. Yes, I was shooting for at least one Kurt Vonnegut comparison. Did Dmitry throw me that bone? Of course not. Hell, I would have been happy with Kilgore Trout, even. Here is a list of what I did get and how many times, ranked from extremely flattering to suicide-inducing:
- Vladimir Nabokov—1
- Stephen King—2
- David Foster Wallace—5
- H.P. Lovecraft—3
- Isaac Asimov—1
- Arthur Clark—1
- Ian Fleming—1
- Chuck Palahniuk—1
- Cory Doctorow—2
- Dan Brown—4
Take a guess when I considered going the route of one of those authors. What, too soon? Seriously though, how can I write like one of the most successful hacks in recent memory, but have yet to crack the “Code” of making even one red cent from my writings? ‘Tain’t fair! By the way, who the Hell is Cory Doctorow? (Admittedly, as a sci-fi fan, I should have known who he was.) I felt like I stumbled into the Malkovichian portal to my own mind, to find all the authors above at a Halloween party where I was the only costume left on the rack for them to buy. It was not a pretty visual, let me tell you. In the words of one of my alleged brothers-in-words, “oh, the unspeakable horror!”
At least I don’t write like Stephenie Meyer, with her damned eye-rolling, mumbling emo-pires (that’s another post entirely!). There’s that small blessing. To ensure that she was in the database or whatever the blazes is in that program, I put in an excerpt of her first book, Twilight, and there she was. Whew, I won’t fold up my laptop just yet.
As I mentioned earlier, I got no Vonnegut hits, even though I have read more works from him than any other author. You’d think he would rub off, even a little. Just to make sure he was on the site’s radar, I put in a sample text from his famous Slaughterhouse-Five.
“The Americans across the way told the guards again about the dead man on their car. The guards got a stretcher out of their own cozy car, opened the dead man’s car and went inside. The dead man’s car wasn’t crowded at all. There were just six live colonels in there—one dead one.
The Germans carried the corpse out. The corpse was Wild Bob. So it goes.”
There he was. I made it easy for myself and substituted key words and phrases in it to change the spirit while preserving the grammatical structure:
“The Canadians across the way told the penguins again about the dead seal on their igloo. The penguins got a glacier out of their own comfortable igloo, opened the dead seal’s igloo and went inside. The dead seal’s igloo wasn’t crowded at all. There were just six live bears in there—one dead one.
The Americans carried the corpse out. The corpse was Wild Bob. So it snows.”
David Foster Wallace! What the. . . ? This should have been a slam-dunk. If I can’t write like Kurt Vonnegut, at least he should be able to write like himself! Before I went all Dwayne Hoover from Breakfast of Champions on my computer, I had to apply a healthy dose of perspective along with the grain of salt. Really, how intuitive are these programs, or anything that claims to sum up one’s personality based on a few bytes of information? According to one of the plethora of Facebook surveys I was suckered into taking, my aura was orange. Orange? Puh! Mine is clearly purple. I dismiss that on principle. In this case, I separate the wheat from the chaff and paraphrase Bruce Lee: I extract what strokes my ego and discard what bitch-slaps it.
In conclusion, I am as masterful a writer as Vladimir Nabokov was. Woot woot!
Did I mention I haven’t read anything from Wallace, yet? He is on my list, but blast it, he is a laborious read. Apparently, I’m actually so brilliant, even I find it hard to understand myself.
I’m peevish!
I consider myself a pretty amicable person. That said, I’ll be the first to admit that there is a longer-than-average dirty laundry list of things that can make me irritable. There are the standards that many find perturbing, such as the ever-prevalent cell yell, then there are some that are a bit . . . unusual. Meaning, I’ve asked for opinions to see if I am being unreasonable. While some people, when pressed, will concede my pet peeves could be annoying under certain circumstances, those non-committal responses tend to be delivered askance. It doesn’t change my stance (rhyme unintended); peculiarity is subjective, I say. So here they are.
Keep your saliva to yourself
I’ll venture lightly into this diatribe with the pet peeve that is easiest to understand, if not embraced by all. Spit is gross. I think that is a universal constant. If we discover intelligent life on other planets and spat on the ground in front of them, they would probably be pretty insulted and repulsed. However, I extend my revulsion to saliva in any quantity. Unless it is shared under appropriate circumstances, and you know what those are, I don’t want any near me—nary a speck. I just don’t like casual spit. There, I said it.
I can’t help but focus on the tiny spittle that sometimes flies out of a mouth accidentally. When it happens to me, I pray those who might witness it don’t have the eagle eye to spot it. Why? Because when it happens to other people, I notice. I notice hard. My eyes roll to follow the arching trajectory of the droplet to its eventual destination. If it lands on something of mine or my person, I have to channel my energy to not react lest the shooter be just as embarrassed as if I were in the same position. I also time the casual wipe—not with my bare skin, mind you—of the spittle if it has landed near me. It is probably close to evaporating at the point it is safe to do that without garnering notice, but it calms my mind so that I can move on.
Oh, I’m not quite finished with this one.
I don’t know which is worse, licking your finger to handle paper, or doing it to remove a spot from someone else’s body. Both set my teeth on edge. Why, why would anyone force their own fluids onto an unwilling participant? It’s rape, dare I say, of the sputum variety. Also, I trust the culprit’s mouth is not minty fresh, so that spit is skunking up whatever it is drying on.
I made the mistake of writing this in the middle of my lunch hour. I don’t feel so good, now.
Sticking point
I love shopping and bringing home my spoils. But Christ on a stick, I hate the price and other identifying tags that are adhered to them. When they come off cleanly with one peel, I’m okay. But when goop and torn paper remain, I shudder at the filth that is left. I feel my jaw jut out and clench as the gooey paper accumulates under my fingernail while I attempt to remove the residual muck. When that fails, out comes the rubbing alchohol. More times than not, it mars the surface of the once pristine product. That is bad enough, but I can’t even fathom why anyone would just adopt a devil-may-care attitude and not even try to remove the sticker in the first place. Have you ever drunk out of a mug that still had the UPC sticker on the bottom? The coffee tasted more bitter to me, I confess.
In conclusion, this world would be a cleaner and more peaceful place if sticky labels were eradicated completely.
Don’t over-ick the pudding
If I had to choose between Heaven and Hell, it would be the place with chocolate pudding. It is my absolute favorite dessert of all times. While I don’t expect everyone to carry the same level of obsession with the food of the gods, I am within reason to ask that the majority acknowledge that it is the superior flavor of pudding. When people think of pudding, they should automatically think of chocolate. Is that so wrong?
Then why do most restaurants, if they serve pudding, default to rice or tapioca? Who informed them that it was the most popular choice of puddings? Is there some elaborate, sick joke to which I am not privvy? I’ve tasted both and it is a pointless, and even painful, exercise of consuming something just because it is there. I’d rather savor the calories that I must burn off at the gym later. When I set to enjoying a bowl of pudding, I do not want to chew it. For all I know, those lumps could be curdled, spoiled chunks of milk. I trust it wouldn’t taste any different. If I want maggots in my food, I’ll put maggots in my food. Otherwise, give me the pristine, creamy goodness of cocoa. Thank you.
Don’t get me started on bread pudding. It isn’t pudding, it’s a glorified, mashed-up danish.
Paper shredder
While I have referred to myself as a Luddite, of sorts, I embrace the evolution of the paperless environment. Why? It means less paper, of course. Full sheets that are kept neat and flat are fine. I must brush many aside to confirm the color wood of my desk. But when they curl up on the ends, become frayed, discolored, or the gods forbid—tear off into messy little pieces, my mood changes quicker than Enron can shred an incriminating document.
Do I really need to explain myself on this one? It just makes the world look like shit.
Sticky notes are a necessary evil. But make no mistake, they are evil. I strike a deal with the Devil every time I feel compelled to use one. I breach that contract if the adhesive gets hair and dirt on it or otherwise gunkified. That’s right, I made that word up. SUCK IT, Satan!
Another thing that drives me to the parking lot of the nearest insane asylum is when someone turns a piece of paper into a bookmark. There is a reason that book and stationary stores have a display dedicated to bookmarks to suit any and every interest, personality, etc. It makes it inviting to show books the proper respect with a pretty, tidy companion. I am shocked, shocked I say, at the amount of lazy slobs who use a register receipt, a straw wrapper, and even a [shudder] ripped piece of paper. Not to mention, dog ears look cute only on dogs and children. Despite my desire otherwise, I fear the aforementioned paperless environment is extending to books. There is nothing like holding one in my hands and turning the (immaculate) pages. However, I consider the sacrifice of that to be a noble one if it would remove the madness that is atrociously makeshift bookmarks.
DAMMIT!
Platitudes give me an attitude
This is a multi-faceted one. Where to start?
Let’s be straight with each other. When you ask me how I am doing and I respond with other than an “Oh pretty good, and you?” chances are high that you will not want to hear it. If I were to go off on a rant about my recurring herpes flare-up (hypothetical, of course) you will instantly regret pissing me off with this platitudinal inquiry. You don’t care how I am doing, you just want to make yourself known to as many people before tumbling off your dumb-ass mortal coil. Admit it.
While we are on the subject, don’t ask me how my weekend was, nor lead my response by asking if I had a nice one. Chances are high, again, that if it wasn’t horrible, it fell short of expectations, and you won’t want to know that. Once it is over with, I generally want to forget it happened lest it remind me how I am not spending my free time, i.e., away from the den of revulsion that is the typical 9-5 office, the way I should, much less to my enjoyment. While no one’s fault but my own, it is also no one’s business but my own. Still, it is Monday and my life is like a dehydrated vampire bleeding me dry, thanks.
I extend platitudes to small talk, if for no other reason than it is just an oxygen-wasting endeavor. Yes, it is quite hot outside. I think most would agree with that observation. Why must it be reiterated, again and again? Let’s discuss something of more import, like the nuances of expelling my dog’s anal glands. How’s that?
Please oh please think up a better response than “I’m sorry” or “My thoughts and prayers are with you blah blah blah.” Be creative. Tell me that the world can blow me, or something like that. That would make me smile.
Just because I am reading a book while in an elevator, doesn’t necessarily mean it is such an engaging story. I just don’t like twiddling my thumbs, and am interested in reading as many books as possible until I go blind or lose my ability to comprehend the written word. Why must you interrupt me by stating that it must be a good book? If it is or isn’t really doesn’t change the fact that this claustrophobic individual doesn’t want to talk to anyone when confined in a 6′ x 6′ box.
GAK!
Hair scare
I don’t want to touch it, nor do I want it touching me, especially if I don’t know the person. Hair, that is. I can’t explain it, but it creeps me the fuck out. Keep it away. Inhabiting many a crowded public transportation vehicle has made me painfully aware of this . . . I’d call it an issue, but I feel fully justified in my . . . okay, it’s an issue. Really, though, hair can get seriously funky and carry contagions. Why do you think there are places—such as Hair Fairies—dedicated to removing bugs and other foreign matter from human hair? If the Bible said that animals were put on this earth to serve man, then we should be putting monkeys to work picking out all the nasties and other debris from our disease-ridden heads. Don’t put me in the position of contemplating what leapt from your scalp onto my nubile flesh.
No matter how clean the person, dreads smell funky. I’m not talking about the neatly kept braided variety—I’m referring to natty blobs, or shit-dreads, as they are so eloquently named. At minimum, a stale dishrag odor wafts from them. At worst, they smell like something crawled on the person’s head and expelled its gaseous death rattle into the air around it. Not to mention, it looks like a big glob of prehistoric feces. Did someone step in a pile of dinosaur dung and wipe his shoe on the closest unsuspecting victim’s head? And why are these considered hip?
I toss my luxurious, perfumed locks in indignation. Harumph!
What? All right, maybe I over-stated that a touch. But I wouldn’t expect you to touch my hair to debunk that claim, now would I?
Useless creations
It occurred to me recently that I am the author of some ideas I share with others that theoretically could be passed on without applying credit where it is due: Me. Of course, there is a strong assumption that any of them are worth repeating. In my humble opinion, they are pretty dang clever. Then again, Emo Phillips said “I used to think the brain was the most fascinating organ, then I realized what was telling me that.” I heard it first from him as a guest patient on Dr. Katz, and am content believing he thought up that gem, even though ostensibly I could Google it to make sure. The point is twofold. I think my ideas are worth sharing, but then again, look who is leading me to believe that. Second, I find it prudent to document them on the infinitely accessible medium called the Internet blog, lest I become like the poor sap who is banging his head against the wall for being the uncredited author of Emo’s hilarious joke.
Okay, I admit it. I’m paranoid. It doesn’t mean they aren’t after me. I don’t think Kurt Cobain originated that concept, incidentally, but he is certainly known for the lyric. I think I’ve made my point. Onward.
Original joke
How do accountants practice safe sex? By using tax shelters.
Ba dum, bum.
Original word
ignoranus [ig-nuh-rey-nuhs]—noun, plural – anuses: an asshole who doesn’t know shit.
Urban Dictionary can SUCK IT!
Original pun
Osama’s burial at sea officially changed his name to Osama been Bobbin’.
What? Too soon? Puh! Let the 72 virgins canonize that evil bastard.
Original idea
I’ll have you know that when I was a kid, I wondered if we would ever be able to see the person we are talking to on the phone. Skype can suck it, too.
Original observation
In the spirit of this blog post, we all want to be recognized for our work. Even ghostwriters want to be paid for being anonymous.
Original onomatopoeia
Plork!
I guess it can be described as a hybrid of the following actions: gagging; spitting; vomiting.
. . .
Huh. Now that I documented it, I am not as prolific as I thought I was. Still, I can sleep well tonight knowing I protected my intellectual, albeit useless, property.
Blogs— the electronic poorman’s copyright. Hey! There’s another one.
Guiding my hand
It seems almost apropos that I decided to start writing this post on Easter—a month after my father’s death. But unlike the lore which surrounds this holiday, I do not believe that my father is coming back—in any way, shape, or form. I also did not need to see his body in a casket to drive that reality home.
I knew most of my dad’s life was behind him after his first bout with congestive heart failure two years ago. With numerous trips and extended stays at hospital, as well as two stints in a nursing home for rehabilitation, I rightly predicted that 2011 would be his final year on earth. I prepared myself thusly so that I could avoid the rigmarole of the five stages of grief. However, when the recommendation to transfer him to hospice finally came, I was in a state of disbelief, then sorrow, as if this was a stinging slap that blindsided me. Visiting him in a near-somnolent state set a cauldron of emotions to boil. My once bad-ass dad was a mere shell; the sharp and pragmatic mind was reduced to a brain-damaged mass as his body slowly, but surely, shut down. The anger that always simmered beneath the surface erupted. Those fucking cigarettes.
Really, though, that is only a small part of that. He gave up smoking years ago, just not soon enough to mitigate the damage done. No. What really pissed me off, and still does, is that he ended his days without a shred of dignity or happiness. His illness took everything away that he enjoyed doing, and he spent the last month of his life in a nursing home as opposed to the house he worked hard all his life to earn. Then, he was transferred to a room with a beautiful view he could not see, much less appreciate, to slowly perish. We do not know what is going on inside the deteriorating minds of the dying. Is there suffering? I can say that the anguish of the living who must witness this slow death is extremely real. It is a sight that is permanently seared in my mind. Anger tends to be unproductive in these situations. That said, it did allow me to lose my ambivalence about euthanasia, an issue that left me on the fence since the media demonized Dr. Jack Kevorkian years ago. Of course, I didn’t act on it, even though intellectually, it seemed to be the right thing to do. But, I don’t have the courage, only the philosophical ethics to have wished that swift end to his ordeal. Anyone in their right mind can recognize it when it is laying there so helpless in front of them. Death is the only outcome, and those extra days the loved ones get to see the soon-to-be decedent technically alive are agonizing. What is so wrong in hastening the inevitable for the greater good? I feel safe to put this in writing. When I put voice to this question, it has been met with silence. It is such an uncomfortable subject. Who in this same situation can honestly say they did not consider that option, even if just briefly?
A week after he was transferred, we got the call that he exhibited six stages of imminent death. The science helps me where religion always fails. Because of that outlook, I can whistle past the bargaining stage of grief. There is no god to ease the constant restlessness from the feeling the ailing has of wanting to leap out of his own skin, called terminal agitation. We created drugs to take care of that. The labored breathing, called Cheyne-Stokes respiration, is a response to the body losing its ability to take in and process oxygen. The hyper-extension in the neck is due to muscle atrophy; the mottling of the skin happens when blood circulation decreases. I do not believe a deity created this body and its responses to it shutting down, nor can said deity take them away no matter how much I beg and plead.
A different flavor of anger emerged when I found out he would be prepared for viewing instead of being sent straight to the crematorium. He looked horrible up to the week before he died, and I felt it was a further indignity upon his body. Plus, the embalming process always struck me as needless and grotesque, besides being bad for the environment. I told myself this as I responded to seeing him in a casket. I already knew he was dead, but there he was. A blanket of sadness threatened to suffocate me as I tried to make sense of what I was feeling. Am I the only one who has tried to imagine what the people I love would look like as dressed-up corpses? Is that my idiosyncratic, macabre way of coping with death—to be crude, albeit scientific about it? Still, it is nothing like actually seeing it in the flesh, as it were.
At the end of the very long day, we were given opportunity to say our goodbyes. I didn’t mentally work out a script for that. Besides, I said goodbye to him the week before. Did I need this? Not necessarily, but in a way, it gave me an oddly poetic experience that I will always remember.
I cried helplessly, lamenting to my husband that I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. My brother was the first to walk up to the casket. He placed his hand in there briefly and walked away. I never asked him, but I believe he gripped our father’s shoulder, and as I walked up there, I felt I should do the same. Perhaps if I did, the last vestiges of death’s mystery would be revealed to me. If I couldn’t overcome the “creepy” stigma of a dead body in the form of my own flesh and blood, then I would never get past it. I felt that my brother was brave for acting of his own volition, and felt shame in having to ask my husband to guide my hand there. I took pride in being able to accept the reality, ostensibly before the rest of my family did. Touching his body was what should be a perfunctory action in the grand scheme of things, a simple gesture. Still, I couldn’t do it alone, and my husband, who has seen more than his share of death while fighting a war, did not hesitate as he held my hand to move it to my father’s shoulder. It was so hard and unyielding. While it didn’t feel like that when he was alive, symbolically, it was precisely like that. My stoic, no-nonsense dad. All the fond memories I feared I wouldn’t be able to hold onto came back. Despite his tough exterior, he was a softy and revealed a goofy side that only his family was allowed to see. I could always count on him for sound advice, and he even offered that same shoulder for me to cry on when I lost a friend years ago. As his maladies ravaged his body, he lost much of what made him the rock that he was in his prime. In a way, he got it back.
Rahmmstein is coming to Chi-town!
The future mayor of Chicago’s soul
My husband created this rather fitting photograph in an unusual campaigning tactic for the man who most likely will be Richard M. Daley’s successor. My husband’s primary intent (outside of a fiefdom for whom may be the most bad-ass politician this side of the Millenium, I suspect) is to make this go viral. So here I am, in my spousal devotion, helping to facilitate his goal. This apparently is what Rahm looks like when viewed through a gem of true seeing.
That said, the constituents of the country’s most corrupt state will reap the whirlwind, let me tell you, when this man builds his empire in City Hall.
It may seem ironic that the German metal band co-opted by the skinheads would be the inspiration for creating his new moniker, but then again, we are talking about Rahmbo. These two Rammstein songs must be played every time Rahmmstein enters a room:
Du Hast (You Hate): “You, you hate, you hate me. Really? Tough Jesus’s tits, asshat. Und ich hab nichts gesatgt? Pfft, of course I won’t obey. You’ll obey me, how’s that?”
Bück Dich (Bend Over): “Try making my cold, dead corpse do that! I’ll haunt even your night terrors, fucker! Why don’t you bück dich, Jew-hater, and suffer my Reich?”
While these songs are on a loop, rose petals thrown in his path by dancing Republicans in fairy costumes is mandatory, as well. The petals will blacken and turn to dust in his wake just to reiterate that no one FUCKS with Rahmmstein. No one!
Even the Asian Carp of Lake Michigan acknowledge their minion status as they beach themselves as an offering to any sorry sap who even thinks of crossing Rahmmstein. Did you think that sentence ran on too long? Take it up with Rahmmstein. Go ahead, I dare you.
The only mortal who could even consider standing up to Rahmmstein is Chuck Norris . . . oh wait, he just peed in his gi at the thought of a verbal sparring match with Rahmmstein. Never mind. Pah! What a right-wing wussy boy.
Any questions?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obsR8h7iUfA
The greatest songs of all time (in my world, at least)
I wish there was an objective standard to measuring the quality of art. There is not, so we are left with subjective opinions, and popular music is no exception. While I acknowledge what I call the Citizen Kanes of contemporary music, such as Stairway to Heaven, Imagine, Purple Haze, etc., they don’t stick with me quite like some other lesser-known, but equally as relevant, works. In compiling my best of list, I focused on what incites passion and other intense feelings in me, as well as containing technical brilliance. This is what I found.
Top Ten
- Ballad of Casey Deiss, Shawn Phillips He may be one of the most accomplished songwriters whom very few know exist. He had his heyday in the 70′s when he penned this masterpiece, and faded into semi-anonymity recognized only by a small, devoted following. His work was never radio-friendly, nor did he aspire to that. His arrogance in floating somewhat sanctimoniously above the fray was a double-edged sword: His songs are brilliant and timeless, but he never achieved success in the traditional sense. This song is considered amongst his fans to be his opus, and rightly so. It was inspired by the true story of a man who was struck by lightening, but Phillips wove it into an epic fantasy tale. The music accompanying this allegory on the surface sounds complex; I was surprised to discover that the lead guitar is a simple rolling Am-C-G-Am progression. It was how he layered it with other instruments and his multi-octave vocalizations that keeps this listener coming back for more. I never tire of it. I saw him perform it in a small tavern years ago with only his acoustic guitar. At age 60+, he still reached the highest notes as if 30 years passed for all but him. He got a standing ovation, and I was moved to tears.
- Breakthrough, Shawn Phillips This sycophant can’t help herself—this guy was that good. This song is achingly gorgeous with arpeggiated guitar, orchestral accompaniment, and heart-felt lyrics sung so wonderfully and passionately, a surge of cool energy travels up my arms every time I hear it. He ended the song with soft, ascending notes that he sustained for an eternity. The soaring orchestra beautifully compliments his gentle falsetto.
- Children’s Crusade, Sting He is my top songwriting influence, and this song is a perfect example why that is the case. While the Children’s Crusades historically marked the march for Christianity back in the 13th Century, Sting poetically drew parallels to other wars: We send our children to fight for a cause they are too young to understand. He grabs the listener instantly after a spare musical introduction: Young men, soldiers, nineteen fourteen. Marching through countries they’ve never seen . . . Then reels them in as the music crescendos passionately to belie his resigned disgust: The flower of England face down in the mud, and stained in the blood of a whole generation. Gah! Here come the goosebumps.
- The Priest, Joni Mitchell Why does no one refer to this song when reminiscing about Joni? The artist herself didn’t even include it in her Hits and Misses album. Hell, I’d be satisfied if she considered it a miss. Just acknowledge it, for cripe’s sake. It is from her masterful Ladies of the Canyon, and like the other tunes on that album, it is just her and one instrument. Her quick finger-style guitar playing is the perfect backdrop for the setting of a Priest who is having a lapse of faith. He is resigned to the loneliness of an airport bar to contemplate the Father to whom he devoted his life. He took his contradictions out and splashed them on my brow. That line is beautiful in its simplicity. There are no complex words or references, but the symbolism speaks volumes. Her lovely soprano is the cherry on top; it makes the hair on my forearms stand at attention.
- Carry On/Questions, CSN&Y I must dance in glee every time this song comes on. Stephen Still’s song about moving on after his relationship with Judy Collins ended, is one of most uplifting tunes I have heard, ironically enough. His acoustic guitar starts the song full-throttle, with a forceful and frenetic strumming. The alternate tuning is ambitious with four strings at E and two at B. I’ve tuned my guitar to that at the risk of busting a couple strings, and did what I could to mimic his playing style. I turn to the quote in the liner notes of their boxed set: “Anyone who says Clapton is god has not heard Stephen Stills play acoustic guitar.” Carry On is the first part of the song; it seques to the second part—Questions—speculating on the how and why of their parting ways and if it was a wise decision. Both sides of the song could stand alone, as they are different musically, but still compliment each other as a natural transition to different phases of heartache.
- Scarborough Fair/Canticle, Simon and Garfunkle Paul Simon is a brilliant storyteller and narrative songwriter. He took a traditional folk song and made it his own. Truth-be-told, I never completely understood the original lyrics, but when he wove his own words into it, it shed light on an interesting interpretation. Canticle seems to speak an anti-war message—And to fight for a cause they’ve long ago forgotton—made me scratch beneath the surface. Is a soldier lamenting the loss of his love as he had to leave her to go to battle? With Simon’s one guitar, a soft, chiming bell, and Art Garfunkle’s beautiful harmonies, this song speaks passionately but elegantly. Are they singing for the voices that can not be heard?
- Soul Cages, Sting Another masterful storyteller, Sting fashioned a mythical tale out of the hardship of the fishing industry. At least, that is the way I interpreted it. A boy challenges a fisherman to set one of the souls free that are locked in a cage. Are we imprisoned in our trades to eventually die soulless with only a shell of what we once were? Sting sang the song with a rasp, as if he was a hardened sailor, himself. Personally, this song would have been a far superior and apt theme for The Deadliest Catch, as opposed to the godawful tune that the producers of the show chose.
- Needle and the Damage Done, Neil Young I don’t get any arguments when I state this is Neil Young’s most accomplished piece. It just is. Besides his signature rhythmic guitar work with the descending bass notes, the lyrics brilliantly depict the pervasiveness of drug abuse. An underrated singer, he made the disgusting practice of milking blood to clean out the syringe sound touchingly poetic.
- Dog’s a Best Friend’s Dog, Tears for Fears I can bet my next paycheck the majority of readers have never heard of this song. It is Roland Orzabal sans his usual mate Curt Smith, in his album Elemental, and collaborated instead with Alan Griffiths. I read the lyrics as suggesting that many of us prefer to live life with the path of least resistance. It is alluring but does not accomplish much. What can feel like more of a pointless exercise than walking the dog around the block? Round and round we go without purpose, to just go to bed to prepare to do it all over again the next day. Tell Mr. Godot I’m walking the dog. Godot is thought to represent the Apocalypse. The life we live is boring, but strangely, we don’t want to leave it. Orzabal demonstrated here what a terrific singer and guitar player he is. He ends up screaming the title at the end to his fast-paced strumming on muted strings. He is defending his best friend—ignorance—as he is backed against the wall.
- A Christmas Song, Jethro Tull Ian Anderson is know for his caustic views on society (think of Sossity You’re a Woman). This song is a bonus track on This Was, and the gentle flute introducing the gorgeous mandolins is deliberate in misleading the listener. We think we are getting a folk Christmas carol, even with the biblical references in the first two lines. But then, the cynicism is revealed. We stuff ourselves at parties and celebrate the Christmas spirit by getting plastered. The song is short, but packs a wallop. It almost seems like the singer was sanctimonious, then caved to the social pressure to embrace the commercialism of the holiday. Hey! Santa! Pass us that bottle, will you?
Honorable mentions (in no particular order):
- I’ve Been Waiting for You, Neil Young This is another really short tune that packs a punch. The lyrics are spare to not detract from the hypnotic and compelling music, juxtaposing a distorted, fuzzy guitar with a beautifully chiming one. David Bowie’s cover is arguably just as good, albeit more complex.
- Woodstock, Joni Mitchell This one is iconic. Enough said.
- Daylight Again/Find the Cost of Freedom, CSN Stephen Stills did it again, and added Art Garfunkle as a guest singer, and threw in a banjo, to boot. Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground. Can the Republicans come up with as compelling poetry to speak in support of the war?
- Woman King, Iron and Wine Sam Beam has a high regard for women in his lyrics. Women are often relegated to thankless tasks, and are not rightfully praised for their work. I always picture a black country woman in her backyard, beating the clothing dry that hangs on a line. She is utterly fatigued, but guided by obligation and duty. Even if the words don’t move you, the music is transfixing.
- The One I Love, REM This selection is based purely on raw emotion. The song had heavy radio play during a painful time where my own mortality became aware to me when an 18-year-old coworker/friend was struck and killed by a drunk driver. Every time I hear it, I am pulled back to that intense period of reflection.
- God, Tori Amos While musically she hits the nail on the head 99% of the time, her lyrics tend to fall short. This song was an exception. Voicing her dissatisfaction with her god along with the discordant electric guitar created the perfect marriage to convey her message that perhaps, we shouldn’t blindly put faith in a deity.
- When the Levee Breaks, Led Zeppelin I can’t think of any band that combined blues with rock better than Zeppelin.
- Tomorrow Never Knows, The Beatles Yeah, this song is trippy, but I can’t picture a better way to deliver it. Although, Genesis and Our Lady Piece did kick-ass covers of this tune.
- Black Queen, Stephen Stills See #5 above. He is one of the best rock/blues acoustic guitarists alive.
- Badge, Cream The lyrics make little sense, and the title came from Clapton misreading George Harrison’s note indicating “bridge”. I don’t care; Clapton’s solo is pitch-perfect.
- Eleanor Rigby, The Beatles The anxious strings and lamenting background vocals contrast a story of an old woman who is waiting it out as she is destined to die alone. This clearly is their most accomplished piece. Who would have thought something with such classical influences would be radio-friendly?
- The Mummer’s Dance, Loreena McKennitt This Canadian singer continues to write timeless songs that are perfectly performed with traditional folk instruments, such as harp and violin. I don’t know what a Mummer’s dance is, but I have a clear vision of the choreography when I listen to this song, and am compelled to move to that rhythm.
- Temples of Syrinx, Rush This is why they are one of the best progressive rock bands of their era.
- Fanfare, Eric Matthews He is not well-known, and his lack of inclination to perform live does not help. However, this song grabbed me right away when I first heard it, and I could not wait to acquire the CD. He plays his own fanfare horn to his spine-tingling electric guitars as he sings his characteristically enigmatic lyrics.
- Optimistic, Radiohead This is classic Radiohead, with the ironic title and Thom Yorke’s bitterness showing through in what is, to me, their most engaging song.
- Possession, Sarah McLachlan The synthesizer, distorted guitar, and her lilting soprano, combine into one of the most compelling songs I’ve heard. She is in rapture over the object of her obsession. This song does indeed, take my breath away.
- Jeremy, Pearl Jam Eddie Vedder’s intense lyrics, brilliantly setting the stage by describing an angry child’s drawing using the all-familiar Crayola names, e.g., lemon-yellow sun, are perfectly matched by Jeff Ament’s music. As it crescendos to the climax, Vedder emulates the child’s journey down the bottomless well with frantic “oohs”. What can he do but thrash around like a bug on its back? Plenty. He breaks into a growling wail as he executes his final solution.
I wonder if ten years from now, this list will at all change. Not from the current state of music, unfortunately. These songs take me back to the times before Auto-Tune. Those days are gone. Alas.
The Ploy of Painting
Who doesn’t know Bob Ross—the inordinately hirsute art instructor and television personality? His half-hour program, The Joy of Painting, aired from 1983 to 1994, and brought the creation of decorative art into millions of homes around the world.
Don’t get me wrong by my sarcastic pun of the title—Bob Ross had a significant influence on the art world. He discovered and shared a way to make painting accessible and inviting to those normally daunted by the idea of picking up a brush and applying it to canvas. He made it fun and leisurely, and sparked creativity in children who happened to catch his program on public television, including yours truly. He was also philanthropic; he donated his programs and paintings to public stations, and made his living only from the sale of his books and instructional videos. He can’t be faulted for that, right? Of course he can!
First off, I must point out the obvious: What was UP with that frizzy ‘fro, and why so much of it? To top it off, it was a perfect sphere around his skull, like a halo in a medieval painting. How was hair that unruly cut in such a way that every last coiling strand was tucked into a pristine bubble? It was like Mr. Miyagi went all bonsai tree on him every time before the cameras started rolling. Was that beard a continuation of the mop growing from his scalp? It was like he bought it by the yard and wrapped his head and face in it like a keffiyeh.
Bleh. I just got bitch-slapped by an annoying thing called my conscience. I logged in fully intending on ripping this poor guy to shreds until only a pile of viscera and fringe was left in my wake. I just can’t do it, for the simple reason that this guy was just too darn nice. Besides the aforementioned generosity, he clearly made a career out of doing something that he loved. Plus, he worked up until the year before his untimely death—of cancer, no less. Why did it have to be cancer? Bah! Grabbing onto his nappy coif and dragging him through the mud just would not be sporting. I might as well kick a terminally ill child’s puppy while I’m at it. Dammit. Blast you, Bob!
So, I am left with going gentler on his legacy. I’ll try to still make it fun.
Even as a kid, I noticed the preponderance of pine trees in his paintings. It seemed like everything had a pine tree. If you don’t believe me, here are a few examples:
See? There they are on the left.
They moved to the right. Those sneaky bastards.
And they mated and multiplied. Horny rascals.
There is more evidence, but frankly, I was getting annoyed uploading these photos and positioning them. They aren’t in every painting, but they are in a lot of them. A lot. Plus, he painted them the same way. He scooped up paint with his palette knife, made a line on the canvas to suggest the trunk, then took a dark green mixture (probably ivory black and phthalo green) on his brush and whoosh whoosh whoosh, painted the foliage by smashing the brush in alternating angles down said trunk. It was difficult for this method to not be singed into the viewer’s memory, because he did it so often. What does this mountainous landscape need? A pine tree! How can I make this river scene idealic? A pine tree, of course! What shall I do to round out this galactic tableau? Whoosh whoosh whoo . . . okay, that probably didn’t happen. I think I’ve made my point with this one and can conclude that the dude really dug pine trees. I’m partial to painting skulls, knives, and droplets of blood in my pieces, but as Bob would always say, “It is your world.”
While an art student, I posed the following question to some of the faculty: Would Bob Ross do well in their class? Every time, I got a resounding “no”. It turns out that Mr. Ross’s mane got tangled in the craw of many professional artists, and was apparently keeping Thomas Kinkade company (that’s a different post and I refuse to pull punches). Why the animosity? Because, he made it too easy. Basically, he took the art out of art, or more to the point, he removed the mystery. How can artists who devote their lives to their craft have it be reduced to such simplicity? They spend months on each piece, laying their emotions bare on the canvas, to only have it trivialized by one man, albeit a well-intentioned one. I admit, as an artist myself, I find the argument compelling. Painting is an extremely difficult undertaking, and takes years to master, if at all. The greatest artists don’t necessarily rest on their laurels; even Rembrandt felt like he still had much to learn. I, along with many others, have spent years and thousands of dollars on an education to achieve the goal of creating lasting works. Truth-be-told, I don’t care to have my passion rendered inconsequential by some hack. There, I said it.
Excuse me while I spit out the sour grapes. PLORK! Okay, I’m over myself. While it is uncomfortable to dilute contempt that positions our egos on a high horse, it is the magnanimous thing to do. While the quality of his art is questionable, I must credit him for starting me on the artistic journey I will be on until the end of my days.
Thomas Kinkade is a whole different story. He’ll reap the whirlwind once I decide to critique him.
Psychopathy: The game the whole family can play
I didn’t think it was possible, but the Fred Phelp’s clan has sunk to an all new low. It is no surprise that they seize on any opportunity to further their message and vilify the Hell-bound heathens of this world. However, I’ll admit that preying on the tragedy of a young girl’s death, just to prove their point, was not a possibility that came to mind. But yet, that is precisely what they are doing as I write this. Like jackals, they are vomiting on the tragedy of others as they feed on it.
Let’s call a spade a spade with this one: Fred Phelps is a psychopath. He has gotten this far in life because he hides it behind religious sanctimony in the form of Westboro Baptist Church. He has spread his mutated seed to a family bred of pathologies. If his minions were not born that way, they certainly were raised to be like that. Call it what you will: nature versus nurture; psychopathy versus sociopathy—it all results in the same carnage, emotional or physical.
“Thank God for the shooter!” Really? They want to thank a deity for making someone “mentally unhinged” (that is a whole different issue) enough to lay waste to a group of people who were peacefully supporting their beliefs? Again, really? I am compelled to point out that Jared Loughner was also described as a “pot-smoking loner.” Isn’t partaking of the evil weed a sin in the eyes of their god? I am struggling with the paradox there. Oh wait, it’s just hypocrisy. That makes more sense.
Don’t think for a minute that they are completely blinded by their delusions. They are very calculating in their actions. Notice that they only incite violence, not commit it. Because of that, they can build a fort out of the First Amendment as they shoot their vitriol from behind it. That doesn’t make them less nefarious. There are a lot of psychopaths who do not get blood on their hands. Charles Manson is one who comes to mind.
What will it take to stop them? As long as they only speak—sticks and stones and all that—they have a right to air their stench. I argue that it isn’t a fundamental right but a priviledge. As usual, there has to be someone out there to abuse it and spoil it for everyone else. Given enough rope, they will hang themselves. But, at what cost? If we put a gun in their hands to see what they do, while at best a social experiment, risking the consequences is not an option. What must be addressed is, again, what has been hard-wired in this congregation. While they may not be very effective or galvanized individually, as a group, they have tremendous potential. They are a (cross)hair away from being no different than the Nazis.
If you think that is an overly dramatic fear tactic, think about this: About 3% of the population is homosexual. It is a difficult statistic to capture accurately, as society has conditioned themselves to think it is wrong, hence many don’t ask and certainly don’t tell. Based on this number, if the Westboro Baptist Church had their way, they’d surpass the Holocaust by a factor of three. Genocide, anyone?
