Songs of the Pogo: ALL the words!

 

When we originally bought this album in 1951, it came with a very classy-looking Songs of the Pogo hardcover book with all the music (written and arranged by Norman Monath) and lyrics by Walt Kelly. I also remember some lavish illustrations from the Okefenokee Swamp. Alas, all of this has been lost, at least to me. A few relatively-pristine copies of the original record are still floating around, and someone transcribed a very clean-sounding one onto a CD which also contains some very weird Walt Kelly readings. (Probably available on YouTube.) But the words are now only available through somebody-or-other's auditory transcript, and as always it's laced with mondegreens (misheard lyrics, as in "Scuse me while I kiss this guy"). I have done my best to correct these, but again, I had to rely on my ear. Potlocky was the most fiendishly difficult to decipher, and after a couple dozen listenings I gave up on a few lines and gave it my best guess. Some of these seem to venture into the land of the surreal, or fall into the category of verbal jazz. I am very sad Gershwin didn't live to see and appreciate Songs of the Pogo - somehow I think it would have delighted him.

Go Go Pogo

As Maine go oh-so Pogo-go Key Largo,
Otsego to Frisco go-to Fargo,
Okeefenokee playin'

A-possum on a Pogo
Stick around and see the show

Go over land alive-a band o' jive will blow go-Pogo
I-go you-go who-go to-go Polly-voo go,
From Caravan Diego, a-Waco and Oswego,
Tweedle-de he-go she-go we-go me-go Pogo.

Atascadero wheeler barrow, some place in Mexico
Delaware Ohio and you don't need the text to go
Wheeling, West Virginia 

With ev'rything that's in ya.
Down the line you'll see the shine
From Oregon to Caroline

Eenie meenie minie Kokomo-go Pogo.
Tishimingo, sing those lingo, whistling go.
Shamokin to Hoboken Chenango to Chicango
It's golly, I go goo-goo goin' go-go Pogo.

(musical interlude)

Atascadero wheeler barrow, some place in Mexico
Delaware Ohio and you Don't need the text to go.
Wheeling, West Virginia With ev'rything that's in ya.
Down the line you'll see the shine
From Oregon to Caroline,

Yes, eenie meenie minie Kokomo go Pogo.
Tishimingo, sing those lingo, whistling go.
Shamokin to Hoboken, Chenango to Chicango
It's golly, I go goo-goo goin' go-go Pogo!

Editor's note. I wasn't going to comment on these. Really, I wasn't, because what can you say? It's the craziest explosion of verbal popcorn I've ever seen, with twists and turns and convolutions, puns on puns. But even that doesn't begin to describe it. This particular song, sung by Walt Kelly in a gravelly voice that reminds me of my Uncle Aubrey, needs to be heard to be believed.  Can you imagine, when I was three or four or five years old, trying to decipher what this meant, and how the grownups all seemed to know already? He uses a lot of place names in this one, but gives them a twist, like "caravan Diego" (San Diego?), "Tishimingo, sing those lingo, whistling go" -wait, wait, I know who this sounds like! Gerard Manley Hopkins, with his bizarrely twisted grammar and inverted sentence structure, strange vocabulary and useage, and punnish use or abuse of similes. I especially like "Wheeling, West Virginia with everything that's in ya".

Though the album is called Songs of the Pogo, this is the only song that mentions Pogo at all, and it's nothing to do with the comic strip. It's just a form of verbal scat-singing that riffs on the sound of Pogo:  I-go-you-go-who-go-to-go-polly-voo-go. I wonder now if some of Pogo's fans were a little disappointed in this, expecting Albert the Alligator caterwauling with his ukelele.

Whence that Wince?

I was stirrin' up a stirrup cup
In a stolen sterling stein,
When I chanced upon a ladle
Who was once my Valentine.

"Oh whence that wince, my wench?" quoth I.
She blushed and said, "Oh sir,
Old daddy isn't stirrin'
Since my momma's been in stir."

This one is a masterpiece of alliteration. I had no idea then what a stirrup cup is - it took until about last Friday to find out. 

Stirrup cup: a cup of wine or other alcoholic drink offered to a person on horseback who is about to depart on a journey. 

OK, so I DIDN'T know what it meant. I thought it was just "a drink" or mulled wine or something, and let the "stirrup" part go as an obscurity. "In stir" is another archaic expression, something to do with being in jail, but I don't think the average person would know that. Nice how it fits together with "stirrup cup" - didn't even notice that until just this second.

Northern Lights

Oh, roar a roar for Nora,
Nora Alice in the night,
For she has seen Aurora
Borealis burning bright.

A furore for our Nora!
And applaud Aurora seen!
Where, throughout the Summer, has
Our Borealis been?

This is one of Kelly's more haiku-like poem/songs. Pongs? Soems? It looks simple, but just try doing it. I had a cousin Nora once, Irish, and this song reminds me of her. And that's all I can say. It's beautiful, it is. Take care of the sounds, as Lewis Carroll once said, and the sense will take care of itself. Also, I like the way Nora Alice and Borealis sort of reflect each other.

Slopposition

Oh, once the opposition was completely opposed
To all the supposition that was generally supposed
But now the superstitions that were thought to be imposed
Are seen by composition to be slightly decomposed

Kelly wordplay, not as great as some, but they can't all be Go Go Pogo, can they? There is a nice echo between the "ition" words and the "osed" words in each line. Come to that, I couldn't do it, at all.

A Song Not for Now

A song not for now you need not put stay
A tune for the was can be sung for today
The notes for the does-not will sound as the does
Today you can sing for the will-be that was.

This one is REALLY simple, but Norman Monath's tune is innocent and sweet. The arrangements in this album generally are a tad lavish, and some of them are even precious. But those were the times. There IS an innocence about Pogo the character that keeps the strip from becoming too cynical or smart-alecky. As time wore on, Kelly became more angrily political, and I think that took something away from it.

Twirl, Twirl

Twirl! Twirl! Twinkle between!
The tweezers are twist in the twittering twain.
Twirl! Twirl! Entwiningly twirl
‘Twixt twice twenty twigs passing platitudes plain.

Plunder the plover and rover rides round.
Ring all the rungs on the brassily bound,
Billy, Swirl! Swirl! Swingingly swirl!
Sweep along, swoop along, sweetly your swain.

Again, the alliteration is glitteration, but when we get to "platitudes plain", I think of it as a place, a plane, or perhaps an airborne vehicle. These things fall on the ear more than they live on the page. Anyway, I don't think a standard-issue mind could think of the line "plunder the plover and rover rides round". It might be Rover, for all I know. There IS a dog in Pogo, isn't there? (I can't get it out of my head now. Platitude's Plane.)

Parsnoops

Oh, the parsnips were snipping the snappers,
While the parsley was parcelling the peas,
And parsing a sentence from handle to hand
Was a hornet who hummed with the bees.

The turnips were passing the time of the day
In the night of the moon on the porch,
When the shape from the shadows so shortfully shrift
That the scallions were screeching the scorch!

I don't know, I don't find this one very friendly, but I don't think anyone else on the planet could have written it. The Monath tune is kind of jaggedy somehow, and I find it uncomfortable. There are moments in Kelly where I feel kind of frightened, like I'm wandering around in a mindscape that is a tad too bizarre. 

The Keen and the Quing

The Keen and the Quing were quirling at quoits,
In the meadow behind the mere.
Tho’ mainly the meadow was middled with mow,
And heretical hitherto here.

The Prince and the Princess were plaiting the plates
And prating quite primly the peer.
And that’s why the Duchess stuck ducks on the Duke
For no one was over to seer.

Now violin only with pizzicato:

Plinky, plinky, pa-lunkity plank, plank, plank

Pa-lunky, pa-lunky, plink plink plink plink plink

Arco, zoom-zoomety-zoom!

Ska-weakity, squeaky squeak-squeaky ska-weak
Con sordino squeaky ska-weak
Now sensa sordino, squeak squeak squeak sque-eeak
Now pizzicato,  plunk plunk plunk
Plunk, plunk!

This one is a favorite, perhaps my all-time favorite, not just because of the gorgeous Spoonerisms but because of the delicate violin passage at the end, with instructions from the baritone. All the instructions are technically correct, by the way - I checked with my violin teacher, who was quite impressed. We all know what pizzicato is. Arco means long, smooth bows. Con sordino means playing with a mute, sensa sordino is playing without a mute. The "squeakity squeak" is most familiar from my own musical instruction.

Man's Best Friend

What gentler heart, what nobler eye
Doth warm the winter day,
Than the true, blue orb and the oaken core
Of beloved old dog Tray?

I never knew why a dog would be called Tray. Again, the reference is obscure, an old Stephen Foster song that I had to look up: 

Old dog Tray’s ever faithful, 

Grief cannot drive him away, 

He’s gentle, he is kind; 

I’ll never, never find 

A better friend than old dog Tray. 

Tray is one of those Southern names, like Trey, sometimes used as a baby name. Has some card-playing meaning, and something to do with fives. It reminds me of other Southern names with II or III after them. Treat Williams comes to mind. Erica Jong had a wild Southern character named Dart, and another one called Trick that was probably a play on Treat. And then there's Ring. As in Lardner. Note that all of these names represent things: a tray, a treat, a dart, a trick, a ring. 

Don't Sugar Me

Oh, I may be your cup of tea,
But, baby, don’t you 'Sugar’ me!
Don’t stir me, boy, nor try to spoon,
Don’t sugar me, 'cause us is throon!

I won’t sip a lip with you, less
You want a granulated lump or two,
Just roll them eyes right out that door,
Them saucer eyes ain’t square no more.

All them things, them diamond rings,
Them stuff you promised me,
Were figments, Newton, sure as shootin’,
Shootin’ sure as A, B, see

The teapot pouts that the kettle’s blue,
It don’t work out that spar is true,
Just boil away, boy, don’t sit and brew,
Don’t sugar me, cause us is through!

This is a torch song with a twist. It has probably the greatest concentration of puns and double meanings of any of them, along with great lines like "don't 'Sugar' me, 'cause us is throon!" "Them stuff" always impressed me, along with "figments, Newton". One thing Kelly does, especially in this one, is use common phrases in strange ways: "a granulated lump or two", "roll them eyes right out that door", "boil away, boy, don't sit and brew". "Don't sugar me" is an interesting choice, because it can mean dumping sugar on/in someone or something, or being over-familiar with endearments. But he says it better.

Whither the Starling

Whither the starling and whither the crow?
And whither the weather when wither the snow?
The weaver’s wet daughter has damped the clothes
With wavelets of water left over from snowthes.

Left over from snowthes,

Left over from snowthes,
Right over and under 

And yonder she goes.

"Wavelets of water left over from snowthes." I feel like that right now. We had a record snowfall over Christmas, it's all melting now, and we're having to deal with those wavelets of water. Left over from snowthes. And there is just something wonderfully wacky about "the weaver's wet daughter".

Willow the Wasp

There were some wasps in our town
Who, with their wonderous wives,
They suckled at the bramble bush
In search of lovely lives.

And, when they saw the bush was dry,
Quick!, each and every one,
They wrapped it well in wire barb,
To shield it from the sun.

Outstanding line: "In search of lovely lives". I have long wanted to use this as the title for something. "Wire barb" used to bother me as a kid, I can't say why. In fact, I found the whole song disturbing, with its shivering minor-key strings. Of course, the term WASP had not been coined yet.

Truly True

Gamboling on the gumbo, with the gambits all in gear,
I daffed upon a dilly who would be my dolly dear,
Oh dilly, I would dally, if you’d be but truly true,
How silly, I must sally off to do my duly do.

Nice, but nothing special, except for the barbershop harmony.

Many Harry Returns

Once you were two,
Dear birthday friend,
In spite of purple weather.

But now you are three
And near the end
As we grewsome together.

How fourthful thou,
Forsooth for you,
For soon you will be more!

But – ‘fore
One can be three be two,
Before be five, be four!

Not sure if he wrote this for one of his children. Kelly did feature adorable baby animals in the strip, such as Pup Dog and the mysterious "woodchuck" Grundoon, anthropomorphized into completely human form.

Potlucky

Briskly breathing brackish brine,
Brazenly we bray,
Simmering songs of swimming swine,
Scattering Saturday,

Hearts are heavy, clubs are trump,
Diamonds are in rough
Spades are spotty, jokers jump,
Dummies are enough

Can we eggplant, can we corn,
Can we succotash?
String we strong beans for the morn
Masterful moustache.

Deathly dumplings made of mud,
Grace our festive board,
Free from auntie flees the flood
Tropical storm discord,

Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, now,
Cup ye now an eye,
Weary deary keary cow,
Moo and kicks his pie,

The speaker spoke
the reeler wheels
A kingdom for a hum,
A rub a dub, a dub mobile
Oh rub a dub,
A dub.

This song should be illegal. "Masterful moustache" is probably the only line I can mentally process. I had to piece together various parts of this lyric which were badly mangled/mondegreened, but I am still not sure I got it quite right. This is another place where I get a little scared, for some reason. He makes language do stuff it just doesn't want to do.

The Hazy Yon

How pierceful grows the hazy yon!
How myrtle petaled thou!
For spring hath sprung the Cyclotron,
How high browse thou, brown cow?

Some group apparently recorded this fairly recently, and no one had any idea where it came from. It has a hazy harp accompaniment that slowly fades, along with the singer's voice, at the end. It may well be a play on the odd statement or question, "How now, brown cow?" - which I never understood, so. . . I'll look it up. . . 

"A nonsense phrase with no real meaning as such, although it also is sometimes used as a jovial greeting. This phrase used to be used in elocution teaching to demonstrate rounded vowel sounds. It isn't clear when it was coined or where. It was certainly known in the USA by 1942, although probably earlier. People used to pronounce this as 'high nigh brine kai'." That last bit is, of course, the Canadian pronunciation.

Lines Upon a Tranquil Brow

Have you ever while pond'ring the ways of the morn,
Thought to save just a bit, just a drop in the horn
To pour in the ev'ning or late afternoon,
Or during the night when we're shining the moon?

Have you ever cried out while counting the snow,
Or watching the tomtit warble hello...
"Break out the cigars, this life is for squirr'ls,
We're off to the drugstore to whistle at girls!"

Ah! "Drop in the horn" is another one, a very obscure, old, perhaps even Elizabethan term (Kelly having a mind for this historical Southern stuff). It means the last bit in a bottle of booze. Until I figured this out, which took only 56 years, I didn't know what "to pour in the evening" meant at all. I thought the guy was sort of pouring like vapour, like those monster creatures who waft under the crack of a door. I love that "when we're shining the moon" - sheer poetry - and the cry, "Break out the cigars! This life is for squirrels."  

BONUS. Here's a splendid Kelly site that you could easily get lost in. Great reproductions of his Sunday colour comics, along with much older stuff. Wonder where he got permission?

http://whirledofkelly.blogspot.ca/

Who Killed Cock Robin? (according to Pogo)

MY BIG FAT BROWN DUCK: Duckies and Wigeons and Coots, OH MY!

I don't know how I would have survived the long, dark, dry portage of the pandemic without my birds. Of course they're not "my" birds - not anyone's - which is one of the things I love about them. Though it's different each time, with a different mix even in the same locations, birds are not random. They move where the food is, drawn by low water levels which don't require as much work to get at the really good gunk that they eat. The Big  Fat Brown Duck, now known as Bruno, almost replaces my beloved Bosley and Belinda - though not quite. And he may indeed end up in the same place, killed by a predator, because he lacks the wild instincts that drive the birds away from danger and towards FOOD and shelter. I've been spotting him in the mallard flock for a couple of years now, and it's as if he has his own YouTube fans now, with WAY more views than I used to get. I am virtually certain he or she is a specimen of the domestic meat-raised duck called the Khaki Campbell. Seeing Bruno on such a consistent basis is gratifying, but I know I'd follow my birds anyway, because they have kept me more-or-less sane during an insane time. Thank you, Bruno.

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⏲MAN ON THE CLOCK: HAROLD LLOYD vs METROPOLIS

I have wanted to do a comparison of these two for a long time now. Was there a link? Probably not, unless Fritz Lang liked to copy things from Harold Lloyd movies. And yet - there IS something surreal about his man on the clock, a tiny figure struggling to hold on to the huge hands, the hat falling off, the face of the clock alarmingly falling forward - the crowd gasping below. I have never sat through all of Metropolis, as it's just too bloody long and even boring, but I've seen excerpts which really do seem to be prophetic. But prophetic of what? Do I spend my life, my one and only life which grows shorter with every passing day, contemplating Armageddon, the apocalypse, Dystopia? No thanks. I'd rather make YouTube videos and watch birds and collect trolls and fuss with my plants. It's what I do. Crying doom, if doom comes, and so far it hasn't, is a waste of time anyway, as it won't change anything. If it's too late, I might as well make the best of the time I have. 

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🌈The Troll Doll Channel: RAINBOW TOWERS!

Does it ever end? No, it does not. The troll collection frightens me a little bit, when I see how it has grown organically from just a few trolls I had lying around. But I LOVE coming up with new and innovative ways to display them. It's one of the great joys of my life to be able to share this hobby with others.

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WAIT - This is a joke, right?

 

MAUREEN CALLAHAN: Wait — this is a joke, right? DUI defendant Kerry Kennedy gets scandal-engulfed Alec Baldwin to give hypocritical beta-royal Meghan Markle... a human rights award? Please make it stop!

By Maureen Callahan For DailyMail.Com

Published: 09:01 EST, 22 November 2022 | Updated: 17:28 EST, 22 November 2022

Well, Meghan Markle did once compare herself to Nelson Mandela.

The Duchess of Despair and hapless Prince Harry will be among this year's recipients of the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights Ripple of Hope Award, recognizing their work 'to protect and advance equity, justice, and human rights.'

The award – named for RFK's iconic 'Ripple of Hope' speech delivered in Cape Town, South Africa at the height of apartheid – recognizes 'moral courage'. The bravery to speak truth to power.

When you hear that, who doesn't think: Oh right, Harry and Meghan!

'They went to the oldest institution in UK history and told them what they were doing wrong,' said RFK Human Rights President Kerry Kennedy, removing all doubt that she has despoiled her late father's legacy and stripped this honor of any real meaning. 'That they couldn't have structural racism within the institution . . . I think they have been heroic in taking this step.'

To Kennedy's (dubious) point: The Mandela comparison never gets old.

Here was Meghan in New York Magazine's The Cut last August, telling us that she had gone backstage after a performance of 'The Lion King' when a South African cast member 'looked at me and . . . he said, 'I just need you to know: When you married into this family, we rejoiced in the streets the same we did when Mandela was freed from prison.'

As this very outlet reported, that lone South African cast member said he had never met Meghan Markle.

Hosting this year's event, with tickets starting at $2,500 and going all the way up to $250,000 — basically, the equivalent of a down payment on a nice 6-bedroom house— is none other than Alec Baldwin. (Above, left to right) Kerry Kennedy, Meghan Markle and Alec Baldwin.

No one dismissed this whopper better than the great man's grandson, Zwelivelile Mandela, who told DailyMail.com that 'Nelson Mandela's release from jail was the culmination of nearly 350 years of struggle in which generations of our people paid with their lives. It can never be compared to the celebrations of someone's wedding.'

A wedding paid for with $42.8 million of taxpayer money, Britons lining the streets and cheering, a surfeit of goodwill that Harry and Meghan promptly and grossly tossed aside.

Reportedly Meghan Markle said on her first royal tour, just months later: 'I can't believe I'm not getting paid for this.' So they sauntered out the palace door, hats and grievances in hand, seeking and getting monster paydays from Netflix and Spotify.

To paraphrase Kerry's late uncle John F. Kennedy: What profiles in courage.

As to that claim of racism: Queen Elizabeth II was no racist. In fact, she was such a close friend and admirer of Nelson Mandela that he was among the very few to call her 'Elizabeth' — not 'Her Majesty' or 'ma'am' — and gave her an affectionate nickname: 'Motlalepula,' which translates to 'come with the rain,' her first visit having taken place during a torrential rainstorm.

King Charles is a vocal admirer of Islam and studied Arabic to better understand the Quran. He's a critic of Western materialism and outspoken champion of climate action.

Queen Elizabeth and then-Prince Charles fast-tracked the biracial Meghan into the royal family, and Charles himself walked Meghan halfway up the aisle at her wedding.

These are the 'structural racists' Meghan and Harry so bravely confronted?

Incredibly, Harry and Meghan will be honored at the RFK gala alongside Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky. Two of these honorees are not like the other, am I right?

And it gets better: Hosting this year's event, with tickets starting at $2,500 and going all the way up to $250,000 — basically, the equivalent of a down payment on a nice 6-bedroom house— is none other than Alec Baldwin.

Yes, the man who accidentally shot and killed his coworker and has since expressed zero guilt — 'Someone is responsible,' he told ABC's George Stephanopoulos last December, 'and I can't say who that is, but I know it's not me' — has been tapped to emcee a human rights event.

As to that claim of racism: Queen Elizabeth II was no racist. In fact, she was such a close friend and admirer of Nelson Mandela that he was among the very few to call her 'Elizabeth.' (Above) Mandela and Queen Elizabeth in July 1996

This is a value system only the ultra-left could abide. It's an episode of 'South Park,' an Onion headline, a Bizarro-world event.

Zelensky aside, it's more the Olympics of Victimhood than the vanguard of human rights activism.

Yet it's to be expected from Kerry Kennedy, a woman for whom self-awareness is a foreign concept. She has spent her tenure grinding Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights (terrible name, by the way) into meaningless virtue-signaling. She spends her time chasing after celebrities and high-level donors hardly synonymous with human rights.

To wit: other honorees this December are Frank Baker, head of private equity firm Siris and recent purchaser of a $32 million Palm Beach mansion; Bank of America CEO Brian Moynihan and billionaire Michael Polsky, CEO of renewable energy company Invenergy, which last year sued Worth County, Iowa, in an attempt to force the company's wind projects on the area.

What any of these titans of industry have done for human rights is beyond me, but we're supposed to trust Kerry Kennedy here — a leader who, as former employees told me back in 2016, treated her human rights staffers like dirt.

'For someone who's a human rights lawyer,' one told me, 'I don't think I've ever met someone who cares so little for the people who work for her.'

'In general,' said another, 'she treats everyone as the person who would go get her coffee.'

Well, that's one thing she and Meghan seem to have in common.

Meghan Markle, who as a newly-crowned duchess on a tour of Africa, bemoaned on camera that 'not many people have asked me if I'm OK'; whose reported bullying of royal staffers led to resignations — to say nothing of reportedly reducing Kate Middleton to tears, as Tom Bower reported in his book 'Revenge.'

Meghan also leveled vile, unfounded, unspecific accusations against the royal family as patriarch Prince Philip was on his deathbed and, with her husband, has since claimed endless victimhood from a $14.5 million Montecito mansion while clinging to the very royal titles they say represent the British royal family's racism, colonialism and elitism — I mean, really, who better?

Incredibly, Harry and Meghan will be honored at the RFK gala alongside Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky. Two of these honorees are not like the other, am I right? (Above) Zelensky is seen on screen during NATO session held in Madrid on November 21, 2022

But let's throw a huge event with an astronomical cost-of-entry-fee to celebrate hypocrites of all stripes, and highlight Harry and Meghan — two people who laud themselves for charitable qualities they don't seem to possess, who lecture us all on how to live from their multimillion dollar palatial estate, eco-warriors who fly private at every opportunity, who complain publicly about how hard they have it, how misunderstood they are and who insert their frankly picayune grievances into our daily lives.

This is satire, right? An ultra-liberal host, one most rational people believe guilty of manslaughter, awarding two spoiled middle-aged beta royals a human rights award.

Volodymyr Zelensky deserves so much better. Elevating Alec Baldwin and Harry and Meghan to his level — insulting and vulgar doesn't begin to cover it.

If those three are humanitarians, then truly, I ask: What are the criteria?

If you're Kerry Kennedy, that criteria is upside-down, bonkers, berserk. This is someone who demonized her lifelong best friend and sister-in-law after she committed suicide, in a pathetic defense of her brother. Someone who smashed into a tractor trailer on a New York highway and left the scene, who then did what privileged people like her do best — gripe publicly about what a bum rap she got, how life is so unfair for rich and famous people like herself.

'[It's] a terrible policy,' she told the Today show after her acquittal, ' . . . pursuing every case of driving under the influence.' Yes, pity the reckless driver impaired by substances.

If you're Kerry Kennedy, you're using your human rights foundation as a piggy bank to take out a $2.4 million line of credit, traveling for 'work' and staying in $500-a-night hotels, using inherited money and fame as some kind of proof that you're smarter and better than everyone else.

And if you're Meghan Markle — hey, you're just like Nelson Mandela. 

BLOGGER'S NOTE. Every once in a while I just have to run a story on these two, though I can't bring myself to write it. I can't look at pictures of them, listen to their whining, griping voices, or watch videos in which they smarm up to people they want to grift. I don't know when this will end - or if it will, or if - worst of all - Meghan does fulfill her ultimate goal to be President of the World. Trump had it, for a few years anyway, until his own insanity brought him down. But I'd rather have Trump in for another four than even contemplate this raving bitch in charge of anything at all.

Normally I'd break up the text with images, videos, gifs, etc. - but this time I couldn't bring myself to use any image except the one which sums it all up in ONE picture.

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Bing Sings "Beautiful Girl" and "Temptation"

The immortal Bing Crosby. Though I never thought much of his voice, he was 70-something years old when I first heard him, and was relying on crooner dynamics to salvage what was left of his voice - but here, oh my! The pitch, the tone, the dynamic strength behind that honeyed voice. He has every trait of the finest singers in the world, including power that he barely uses. The movie scenes are charming and prove his comic chops, as well as his ability to beguile an audience even some 90 years later.

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DOLL from HELL: Santa Preemie on eBay

Margaret Mousa Baby Doll 2005 20 inch

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Condition: Used  “nice”
Price:
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ApproximatelyC $234.2

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Under Skim Milk Wood: Dullyn Thomas's Maudlin Masterpiece

Blogger's note. It never ceases to amaze me with what reverence people approach the work of Dylan Thomas. You can't even throw one brickbat at the guy! If he were alive he'd be too drunk to notice anyway. But of all his hallowed writings, even more hallowed than Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which holds the record for the most misquoted poem in the history of the world ("Don't go gently into the night"; "Let's go gently into the night"; "you should go gently into the night, listen to me, I'm your hospice worker," etc., etc.), this one is the most hallowed, even more hallowed than Halloween.

As I was saying (and in this I am approaching the windbaggedness of my own chosen subject), there is one particular work which is considered his Masterpiece. This is Under Milk Wood, in which the ravelled and burlap-clad townsfolk of Llareggub (which is, surprise-surprise, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, "Buggerall" spelled backwards) declare themselves as if each one of them stood on a soapbox in the Town Square.



These people are "good" because they are RURAL: they live in small towns, which makes them Real. They aren't big city folk with their evil habits. They shine with goodness even if they are total rotters and ratfinks. We love them. We love them because Dylan Thomas loves them, and Dylan Thomas loves them because they are lucrative.

It's pretentious, it's showy, it's writing that calls attention to itself, a thing I loathe beyond description. I've probably reviewed 350 books in my time (and if that sounds like a lot, I wrote three or four a month for years and years, and doesn't that add up, folks? Or can't you do math?). It's verbal fireworks, it's "oooooooh" and "ahhhhhh" and "oh, isn't it marvelous", which (like all showing off and verbal swaggering) it isn't.

In my tireless and demanding research for this thing, I discovered how many different versions of this "play for voices" have been produced over the years. God knows how it was supposed to be presented: each player standing in front of the audience with a paper bag over their head? (for after all, each one has an annoying habit of introducing him/herself so there won't be any confusion: "Fiddle-dee-dee, I am Mr. Prothero the Butcher! Come and see my meat!" And stuff like that.)

The thing was made into a movie, of course, with Richard Burton playing the town drunk. I discovered today that there was a highly-praised dance version, though how you can dance in Welsh is simply beyond me.

What next, I wonder? Under Milk Wood performed in American Sign Language? With semaphores, or maybe in Morse code? How about Dylan Thomas on Ice?

There's no end to it, it seems. In my exhaustive (and exhausting) research, I stumbled upon a far better writer who never got his due because he was too busy fuming bitterly about how his famous rival Dylan Thomas got all the babes, even if his prick was as limp as a pickled eel from the Llanfairwlllpggygygogoch Tavern.

His attempt to copy Dylan Thomas almost succeeded until he got partway through the play and broke into one of his inebriated rants. Plus people were just a little puzzled by his name: Dullyn ("Cosmo") Thomas: didn't he look just a little bit like Kramer from Seinfeld? Since Seinfeld wouldn't be invented for another 40 years, it was a strange comparison to make.

So here, without any reservations except for the quality and relevance of the work, I present a heretofore ignored and neglected masterpiece.

Under Skim Milk Wood

by Dullyn Thomas

Hark! Listen ye! Come closer, closer! until ye can breathe in me foul alcoholic breath. For I am about to tell’ee of many things! Of many things, yes! that you are not interested in. Of many quaint people! Of many quaint folk in the buffling, baffling, blustering, blistering darkness, buffooning like circus-tents in the sussurating Swansea spring, of many fair quair folk who aren’t like anybody, see, 'cause I just made ‘em up on the spot.

Come see, everybody, how this imaginary Welsh town carved out of malt and marzipan made Dylan Thomas rich! And an injustice it was, too. It was Dullyn Thomas who got here first, which is how this rip-roaring cascade of clichés got started. The townsfolk wanted to rip his fat sodden gullet out and wring his crapulous neck like a chicken! But that is a tale for another time. For Dullyn Thomas now holds up the wall of the pub, and as he holds it up, he begins to remember. . .

About the old lady, Mrs. Teacozy, who used to sit on her front porch and wonder when the tide would come in. Which is strange, because Mrs. Teacozy lived 450 miles inland.

About Mr. Prothero, the scientist, who blew off his hair doing an experiment in the bedroom and lost his wife’s favour forever, for he blew off his dick at the same time.

(Which is a shockingly earthy, sexual, explicit thing to say. Oh my goodness, Dullyn Thomas is such a sensualist and was probably great in bed.)

First voice: Lookee here, I’m dead! Can’t you tell?

Second voice: Frankly, this play’s so dead, I can’t distinguish it.

Third voice: Extinguished, are you?

Fourth voice: Oh, the wordplay, the wordplay!

Fifth voice: Yes let us gasp at the wordplay as if we’re seeing the fireworks. Which in fact we are.

Mr. Curmudgeon: And you mean to say, me lad, that you don’t think of all this play-writin’ business as just a lot of literary showin’-off?

Me lad: Yes, me Mr. Curmudgeon. It IS a lot of literary showin’-off, but that’s just the point.

Mr. Curmudgeon: The showin’ off?

Me lad: No, the point.

Plump Young Lady in the Bushes: And then I seduced him, aye. I rolled around in the grass gettin’ me dress dairty, and I opened me legs and I sinned and sinned until me diaphragm exploded.

Fifteenth voice: Oh Mr. Playwright, please, please, isn’t it about time this play got started? I meansay, up to now it just doesn’t seem to have much of a point.

Mr. Cadwalladwrrwrr: Oh but the point is, I drownded at sea fifty years ago and it were wonderful. Now the fishes swim through me eye sockets and eat me brain.

Mrs. Cadwall-whatever: You bastard, get back into bed and sairvace me!

(Oh, the earthiness! The bawdiness! The Chaucerian attempts at naughtiness!)

So. Ye heark. Heark ye, for the citizens of Blowitoutyourarse are about to Speak. They don’t have much to say, but that never slowed down that other Mr. Thomas up until now. Moreover, I am about to reveal his Literary Secret, his method. Dullyn (responsible for the stage name of the famous folk singer, Bob Dullyn) collared some lad in the White Horse pub and had him scrawl down any-such-thing because he had a publisher’s advance, see? So it was time for him to get right poetical-like.

Miscellaneous voice:  Yes. Nothing inspires the poet like a few dozen pints of Guinness, a pathetic publisher’s advance that’s already spent and a towering deadline, after which will follow a timely and merciless lawsuit. So it were time Mr. Thomas began to write about his imaginary little village, which to avoid being sued for libel he renamed Lllargybargybrwllltwlltwwlt – 

Another Plump Young Lady, but not as seductive: 
- which keeps on changin’ its spellin’ -         just to confuse the tourists – who come to here to Blowarse, as we like to call it, to see the heavin’  bleedin' whales in  the place of his boyhood – that other Thomas, I mean, the one who could write –

Parson Lllewwellynn: Silence, woman! Shut thy slutty mouth and speak no more! Thou hast been found out: thou possesseth a vagina and will be cast into everlasting hell because you suddenly realized it!

(Oh, the tight-lipped pastor – such wicked mirth at his expense!)

Dylan Thomas:  There are no whales in Wales.

(All voices, in unison): Just wails!

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DO go gentle into that good night! RIGHT NOW! (Or: why Dylan Thomas is a lousy writer).

Not too many people know this, but I'll tell you right now: Dylan Thomas was a really bad writer. He crammed adjectives together in a way that made everyone gasp, "Ohhhhh!" and "Wheeeee," as if they were watching fireworks. But that's not good writing. That is what is referred to in literary terms as a "cheap trick".

He wrote about Wales as if it were the dark side of the moon, some exotic or even erotic place where the sea sang its siren song: but the truth is he hated Wales. Hated its narrow religion and suffocating parochialism and "the museum that should have been in a museum" (and I've seen a few of those). He must have hated where he came from, or he wouldn't have gone to America to read poetry to melting young girls and get so soused his head exploded. He had to have a shtick of some sort, a shtick that other writers hadn't quite thought about, a Yeats-ian, Joyce-ean thing, except not Irish.

You HAVE to love Dylan Thomas. You HAVE to admire the solid blocks of poetry or the yammering sing-songy short stories. The only one I really liked was about the guy in the bar, soused, who meets the love of his life, goes to the men's room and never finds his way back. Ever. Reminds me a bit of This is Spinal Tap and how they can't find the stage. You can't say you hate Dylan Thomas and hold your head up in literary circles. Oh, but look at this image! Oh, but look how he does this, how he does that. Though there are some interesting images in And Death Shall Have No Dominion, it seems to have been written for Richard Burton (soused) to read on the Ed Sullivan Show, which in fact I think he did.

Reading A Child's Christmas in Wales used to be de rigueur in classrooms and around the fireplace on Christmas Eve. Today it all feels dated somehow, dense Christmas pudding or a fruitcake passed back and forth in the family until it turns into the sort of igneous rock that was used to build the ancient Pyramids.

This is only a small fragment of one of Thomas' more interminable short stories, called Quite Early one Morning. It was written to pad out the selections on a Caedmon recording he did in the '40s - I know because I have a copy of it rattling around somewhere. Dylan Thomas was famous for his "Welsh-singing" voice and his magnificent readings. OK, if you like Richard Burton with a headcold and a hangover. There is a definite wobble. And then there was the mess of his personal life, which I will not get into.

This story (the fragment I have shared here: it's about a zillion pages long and I thought you'd get bored) is precious and atrocious at the same time. Pretrocious? It's cute. Those little Welsh people in the town, goddamn! they were funny to write about. It drips with the sort of entitlement that announces to the world, "I have arrived. And you have not." It may or may not be a forerunner of Under Milk Wood: Under Skim Milk Wood, perhaps.

I used to love A Child's Christmas in Wales until I actually read it and saw all sorts of cheap verbal tricks going on. If you really want a good Christmas story, make like Linus in the Peanuts story, hit the lights and open the gospel of Luke. In the meantime, this ISN'T from A Child's Christmas in Wales, so it can't be all bad.

I walked on to the cliff path again, the town behind and below waking up now so very slowly; I stopped and turned and looked. Smoke from one chimney - the cobbler's, I thought, but from that distance it may have been the chimney of the retired male nurse who had come to live in Wales after many years' successful wrestling with the mad rich of Southern England. (He was not liked. He measured you for a strait-jacket carefully with his eye; he saw you bounce from rubber walls like a sorbo ball. No behaviour surprised him. Many people of the town found it hard to resist leering at him suddenly around the corner, or convulsively dancing, or pointing with laughter and devilish good humour at invisible dog-fights merely to prove to him that they were normal.)

Smoke from another chimney now. They were burning their last night's dreams. Up from a chimney came a long-haired wraith like an old politician. Someone had been dreaming of the Liberal Party. But no, the smoky figure wove, attenuated, into a refined and precise grey comma. Someone had been dreaming of reading Charles Morgan. Oh! the town was waking now and I heard distinctly, insistent over the slow-speaking sea, the voices of the town blown up to me. And some of the voices said:

I am Miss May Hughes 'The Cosy', a lonely lady,
Waiting in her house by the nasty sea,
Waiting for her husband and pretty baby
To come home at last from wherever they may be.

I am Captain Tiny Evans, my ship was the 'Kidwelly'
And Mrs Tiny Evans has been dead for many a year.
'Poor Captain Tiny all alone', the neighbours whisper,
But I like it all alone, and I hated her.

Clara Tawe Jenkins, 'Madam' they call me,
An old contralto with her dressing-gown on,
And I sit at the window and I sing to the sea,
For the sea does not notice that my voice has gone.

Parchedig Thomas Evans making morning tea,
Very weak tea, too, you mustn't waste a leaf,
Every morning making tea in my house by the sea
I am troubled by one thing only, and that, belief.

Open the curtains, light the fire, what are servants for?
I am Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard and I want another snooze.
Dust the china, feed the canary, sweep the drawing-room door;
And before you let the sun in, mind he wipes his shoes.

I am only Mr Griffiths, very short-sighted, B.A., Aber.
As soon as I finish my egg I must shuffle off to school.
O patron saint of teachers, teach me to keep order,
And forget those words on the blackboard - 'Griffiths Bat is a fool.'

Do you hear that whistling?- It's me, I am Phoebe,
The maid at the King's Head, and I am whistling like a bird.
Someone spilt a tin of pepper in the tea.
There's twenty for breakfast and I'm not going to say a word.

I can see the Atlantic from my bed where I always lie,
Night and day, night and day, eating my bread and slops.
The quiet cripple staring at the sea and the sky.
I shall lie here till the sky goes out and the sea stops.

Thus some of the voices of a cliff-perched town at the far end of Wales moved out of sleep and darkness into the new-born, ancient and ageless morning, moved and were lost.

(BLOGGER'S NOTE: Just as well.)

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The Troll Doll Channel: Tons of TEENY TINY TROLLS!

This is one of the rare videos where I appear in person. These little trolls are adorable, but as usual I have no place to put them. I love the housing units, but where - ?? At any rate, Bentley makes an appearance as usual.

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😳1950s Retro TV commercial for MAGIC GIRDLE!🙄

In case you think things haven't changed. . . they have. Back in the day, women wore a lot of armour under their clothing. Even the slenderest of women were required to wear girdles so they would not appear "loose". Girdles, garters, silk stockings. . . Now, of course, we have the opposite extreme, with hugely obese women hanging out of their short-shorts and spaghett-strap  tank tops. Not only no girdles, but no bras either. I saw a woman in the mall wearing only a two-piece bathing suit. She probably weighed about 300 pounds, and as she walked her huge bare belly bounced up and down and up and down. No more fat-shaming, I guess. But the obsessive dieting of yesteryear hasn't really stopped. It's just that people have admitted they've given up

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Cat people, dog people - what's the difference?

"Methigel is extremely palatable," the directions on the tube of

medication said. "To stimulate taste interest place a small amount of
Methigel on animal's nose or directly in mouth. Cats: 1/2 to 1
teaspoonful twice daily. Dogs: 1 teaspoonful twice daily."

To me, it looked like old beef gravy which had been allowed to harden
into a quivering semi-solid. To my cat ... well, when I unscrewed the
top of the tube, he took one sniff and ran the other way.

I don't blame kitty for his critical response. Cats loathe medicine,
especially the really noxious stuff. Murphy hates it, just as he hates
to admit that with the onset of middle age he has developed certain
urinary problems familiar to 50-year-old males everywhere.

There is a treatment: Methigel. But why are the manufacturers so
insensitive as to suggest that this stuff is equally "palatable" to
cats and dogs? That's like saying a medicine is suitable for guppies
and giraffes. Frogs and finches. Amoebae and antelope.



Everyone knows there is a world of psychic difference between a cat
and a dog. Just take a look at their owners.

Dog people wear thick Cowichan sweaters, smoke three-dot Brigham pipes
(even women), drink Dewar's White Label, read Hemingway, and sit by
the fire with their faithful pal at their feet. They like to be in
control - of their dogs.



Cat people wear claw-marked cashmere, gave up smoking years ago (Tabby
doesn't like it), drink whatever will get them there fastest, read
Dorothy Parker, and know enough to sit very still so Precious will
deign to jump up and snuggle. They love to be in control - but not of
their cats, who can bite and hiss and scratch and still be named
"Cuddlebug".

Murphy eyed me with mistrust. "I suppose you think I'm going to take
this greasy gunk without a fight," he stated as I prepared an oral
syringe full of the dreaded Methigel.

"No, but I do expect you to take it," I countered, grasping 16 pounds
of cat between my knees for the twice daily struggle.

"Good for cats and dogs? Bah -," Murphy spat, decorating the wall with
most of the dose. "A dog will eat coffee grounds."

He's right, you know. I've seen it. Dogs aren't fussy. In fact,
they'll lick up any old swill with the greatest of enthusiasm, then
sit up and beg for more.

Dogs are prose; cats are poetry. Dogs embody the spirit of rugged
manhood. Cats are the spooky eccentricity of woman. Dogs doggedly
follow. Cats disappear.

I'm writing to the manufacturer of this medicine to suggest a change.
"Methigel for Cats?" No, let's call it Tuna Delight, a tasteful puree
of assorted fish-heads.

There will be a twist to the instructions. Before the owner is allowed
to administer the first dose, he or she must swallow a full
tablespoonful.

Good for cats. Humbling for humans.

NOTE: This is an ANCIENT piece, even pre-dating my blog which I started in 2012, and likely taken from one of my newspaper columns in the mid- '90s. DECADES ago! I found it, miraculously, quoted on someone else's blog (or somewhere), maybe ten years later, which still makes it pretty old. Someone must have seen it somewhere, God knows where, and thought it was good enough to quote. I have pictures of Murphy, but they make me so sad and nostalgic for those good times (and bad, let's not forget) that I decided to use Bentley's hokey gifs as illustrations. Bentley has never been sick, touch wood, but Murphy in his latter years had all sorts of old-cat problems. He was the cat-riarch of the family for a magnificent 17 years. Bentley is, of course, a more than worthy successor, but a completely different sort of cat, more reserved, neater and tidier, quieter, better with his litter habits, and absolutely devoted to both of us, and zealously protective, like many dogs are protective of their owners. And as we get older, his devotion only increases. 

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Before Star Trek: WILLIAM SHATNER and LEONARD NIMOY in The Outer Limits!

I've written about The Outer Limits before - I always thought it was far scarier and even more thought-provoking than the more-celebrated Twilight Zone, which could often be preachy and pretentious. TOL had that creepy announcer saying "WE will control the horizontal. . . WE will control the vertical. . .", which to my child mind meant we were losing control of everything. This was the height or depth of the Cold War, and there was a vague, never-spelled-out terror in the background of life that made me wake up screaming. I found it fascination (to quote Spock) to see that both Shatner and Nimoy had Outer Limits episodes, different ones - though Shatner starred in Cold Hands, Warm Heart, and Nimoy had only a supporting role in the other one, can't remember the title, but it wasn't about an alien invasion at all,  but a nasty quirk of physics that could have (OF COURSE) destroyed the whole world! This one was a bit disappointing because there were no monsters in it, but as with TZ, mankind itself was the enemy, stupid and selfish and maybe even worthy of instinction.

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"Good evening."

I'm back in a Hitchcock cycle again, kind of like the way my orbit takes me around to Dylan, Gershwin and Poe (and a more mixed bunch you never saw!). I'm once again watching all the old Alfred Hitchcock Presents episodes from the 1950s, in glorious black and white, and the even-better Alfred Hitchcock Hour, in which there is a whole hour to develop story lines and characters. 

The half-hour ones are kind of like The Twilight Zone, a short fiction format where you have to get in there fast, do your damage, and then get out (my own formula for writing short stories). I am also re-watching The Outer Limits series which I'm able to stream and binge-watch in its entirety. Some are absurdly hokey, but there are others with a definite film noir feeling to them, not to mention hints of German expressionism, a Metropolis atmosphere of paranoia and lurking danger. We never quite understand what is going on, something is always held back - kind of like life.

One of the most macabre episodes, The Architects of Fear, had Robert Culp slowly morph into a hideous alien creature, and what I noticed most of all was how much David Cronenberg's Brundlefly was modelled on the monster. The basic body structure, the head, the way it clomped around on two legs but still retained a ghastly humanness. . . yes. These geniuses are all affected by each other, notice each other. It may not even have been a conscious choice, but I think he absorbed it.

And in all these old TV shows, we see character actors or even big stars that would go on to be very familiar indeed. Nearly every episode of the Hitchcock series has "oh, THAT guy!" in it - or that woman - the one who has been in so many episodes of so many shows, but whose names we can't recall. And then people like Sir Cedric Hardwicke show up, along with Shatner and Nimoy and those who  would go on to be massive stars. In fact, I did a video on this and should post it.

It's interesting to see the difference between Hitchcock's 1950s series (and by the way, he DIDN'T direct these, just introduced them) and the later hour-long format. For one thing, I have vague memories of it, and did a whole long riff on the eerie episode Consider her Ways, based on a John Wyndham story. This led me to read a whole lot of John Wyndham, leaving me with an aftertaste. The man did not feel good about the future. I watched The Outer Limits - some of it - the ones I could stand - through my splayed fingers, terrified even by that unforgettable opening: "There is nothing wrong with your television set." It was enough to give me night terrors. So when I watch them now, there are little jolts here and there that represent the stirring of deep memories.

Hitchcock would have approved.

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"GET LOST!" Girl dove chased by nasty male pigeons

This lovely domestic white dove has joined the flock of wild pigeons on Burnaby Lake. Originally we saw TWO white doves, and I swear I  saw two black ones, though I didn't think that kind of domestic dove came in black. Now there is but one, but she is VERY popular among the male pigeons, who do  their absurd strutting courtship rituals around her: puffing out their neck so that it looks huge, circling around and around their quarry and even spinning in circles to get her attention. Because all those ploys didn't work and Paloma just blew them off, one of the males gave her an aggressive peck. Pigeons! She just not that into you.

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Holy Honkers! TWO HUNDRED CANADA GEESE in Blakeburn Lagoon!

This was one of those rare sights that makes birdwatchers turn cartwheels of joy. It's what a fellow birdwatcher called "a gathering of the clan" - HUNDREDS of very vocal Canada Geese in one small body of water, a man-made lagoon we love to walk around. A week or so before, the lagoon was almost completely deserted, with only the odd dabbling duck. But as we approached the water, unable to see through the bushes, we heard this incredible racket and had no idea what it was. When I first saw the massive flock, they were so far away I could barely take in the sheer sweep of them, and I was only able to photograph a small portion of a colony that extended far into the other side of the lagoon. With the sun in my eyes, I barely knew what I was photographing, so I was pleasantly surprised to see my zoom had picked up closer shots of them, all sailing along in the same direction and making a bloody racket! The next time we went to the lagoon, about a week later, I did not see any geese at all, but the ducks had returned, no longer crowded out. In fact, I saw mallards, coots, a heron, wigeons, and mergansers all returning from wherever they had been all summer. Such is the endless joy and superb variety of birdwatching. It's literally never the same twice.

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