Wednesday, October 15, 2014
The Story of Skippy
One summer day in the city, a day when nothing out of the ordinary was happening, a puppy was born.
The puppy's family named her Skippy, for no particular reason. She was a creamy-golden cocker spaniel, very sweet-natured and beautiful. The children doted on her, the adults tolerated her, and for a while, everything was good.
But things change. The biggest people in the household, the Mom and Dad, weren't getting along very well. Skippy could hear them screaming at each other, and she crouched down on her belly in dread. One night there was an awful crashing and booming upstairs, and Skippy didn't sleep.
The next day, they told the children they had decided it would be better if Mom and Dad lived in two separate houses. The children knew it was their fault. Skippy wondered if it was her fault. Soon it became apparent that it was.
Neither of them really wanted Skippy. They didn't like dogs, she smelled, her fur had mats, and the vet bills! They argued and argued about who would take Skippy. The children kept their mouths shut in fear that Skippy would be taken away from them.
She was.
First the Mom and Dad thought about giving her to a shelter where she might find a "forever home", but then a friend of theirs, a man with many dogs, asked to take her, and they told themselves it was a good thing.
The children said goodbye to her tearfully. Mom, busy throwing all of Dad's things out on the sidewalk, said they should stop being such babies and keep quiet, so they did.
The man had many dogs. But he had no use for the new dog that cowered in the corner, her tiny stump of a tail wagging in a blur to placate him. Sometimes she peed on the floor, and he slapped her muzzle so hard she could not help but let out a shriek of pain.
Then he'd tie her outside for a long time.
Something happened while she was outside, and it became apparent that Skippy was going to have puppies. The man looked at her like he wanted to murder her. Skippy went under the bed to protect her unborn puppies. They were all she had.
The man had the decency not to harm her during her pregnancy, but when the puppies were born, they didn't look right, as if their father had been a Doberman or Rottweiller. Too bitter mixed with too sweet.
Very early one morning, Skippy noticed her puppies were gone. She never found out where they went. She mourned, whimpering, until one day the man threw something hard at her head.
She stopped whimpering.
But there was something gnawing at her, thousands of centuries of needing human beings to love and pay attention to her. One day she rolled over on her back to expose her belly, and the man kicked her hard. The sound she made cannot be described.
Though it was not like her to abandon her people, one day Skippy took a chance and ran away. She became a dog of the streets. Her survival instincts were sharpened, and when a person approached her she crouched down and let out a low growl.
She became more and more matty, and thinner from eating scraps. It looked bad for Skippy, and some days she just wanted to run in front of a car.
Then something happened. A girl was walking along the street, and saw two enormous liquid-brown eyes peeking out from behind a bush.
She crouched down and said, "Come on, girl. Come on."
It took quite a while for Skippy to come out of the bushes. She didn't know what to expect. But she knew, in a certain doggish way, that children shouldn't be harmed. No matter what the girl did to her, she would find a way to tolerate it.
There was a rope digging deep into Skippy's neck, so she hooked her finger in it and dragged her home. The pads on her feet were hot and sore from planting her legs.
Her mother said, Cindy, I don't know. We can't take in another dog. I think we should take her to the shelter right now. It's the best thing for her. Cindy cried, but did as she was told, knowing that it was her fault.
Skippy knew that it was her fault.
Things were bad at the shelter, all bleach and bars. There were a hundred other dogs there, either barking aggressively or cowering in corners. People came and went, poking and prodding, looking for something that would soon be their property.
Skippy knew that some dogs ended up in wonderful homes, and wondered how to act. She knew she shouldn't hope too much, but hope was the only thing that kept her going.
Then one afternoon, an old woman came into the shelter. Her eyes met Skippy's.
It was love.
It was love, and despite the fact that the old woman didn't have enough money to feed a dog, she took Skippy home, naming her Lady after the dog in the cartoon movie.
This was a home such as Skippy had never known. She truly was treated like a princess. She even wondered if the old lady could get her puppies back.
But then one morning, everything fell still. The old woman didn't get up.
Then came the argument all over again: who will take the dog? No one seemed to want her very badly. She was a burden no one could afford.
Then someone spoke up. A man who had many dogs. The family brushed her carefully, making her look her best. He took her home, put a rope around her neck and tied her to a post in the yard.
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Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Forbidden Zone in Color: 'Alphabet Song'
"Swinging the Alphabet" is a novelty song sung by The Three Stooges in their 1938 film, Violent Is the Word for Curly. It is the only full-length song performed by the Stooges in their short films, and the only time they mimed to their own pre-recorded soundtrack.
In 2005, film historian Richard Finegan identified the composer of the song as Septimus Winner (1827-1902), who had originally published it in 1875 as "The Spelling Bee".
Lyrics[edit]
B-A-bay, B-E-bee, B-I-bicky-bi, B-O bo, bicky-bi bo, B-U bu, bicky bi bo bu.
C-A-cay, C-E-cee, C-I-cicky-ci, C-O co, cicky-ci co, C-U cu, cicky ci co cu.
D-A-day, D-E-dee, D-I-dicky-di, D-O do, dicky-di do, D-U du, dicky di do du.
F-A-fay, F-E-fee, F-I-ficky-fi, F-O fo, Ficky-fi fo, F-U fu, ficky fi fo fu.
G-A-gay, G-E-gee, G-I-gicky-gi, G-O go, Gicky-gi go, G-U gu, gicky gi go gu.
(Dah-Dah-dah-dah )
H-A-hay, H-E-hee, H-I-hicky-hi, H-O ho, hicky-hi ho, H-U hu, hicky hi ho hu.
J-A-jay, J-E-jee, J-I-jicky-ji, J-O jo, Jicky-ji jo, J-U ju, jicky ji jo ju
K-A-kay, K-E-kee, K-I-kicky-ki, K-O ko, Kicky-ki ko, K-U ku, kicky ki ko ku.
L-A-lay, L-E-lee, L-I-licky-li, L-O lo, Licky-li lo, L-U lu, licky li lo lu. (Curly's a dope)
M-A-may, M-E-mee, M-I-micky-mi, M-O mo, Micky-mi mo, M-U mu, micky mi mo mu.
In the 1959 re-recording of the The Alphabet Song/Swinging The Alphabet With Moe, Larry and Curly Joe the letters "G", "J", "M" and the lyrics "Curly's a dope" were omitted and seven new lyrics featuring the letters "N" (N-A-nay, N-E-nee, N-I-nicky-ni, N-O-no, Nicky-ni no, N-U-nu, Nicky ni no nu), "P" (P-A-pay, P-E-pee, P-I-picky-pi, P-O-po, Picky-pi po, P-U-pu, picky pi po pu) "R" (R-A-ray, R-E-ree, R-I-ricky-ri, R-O-ro, Ricky-ri-ro, R-U-ru, ricky ri ro ru), "S" (S-A-say, S-E-see, S-I-sicky-si, S-O-so, Sicky-si-so, S-U-su, sicky si so su), "T" (T-A-tay T-E-tee, T-I-ticky-ti, T-O-to, Ticky-ti-to, T-U-tu, ticky ti to tu), "V" (V-A-vay, V-E-vee, V-I-vicky-vi, V-O-vo, Vicky-vi-vo, V-U-vu, vicky vi vo vu), and "Z" (Z-A-zay, Z-E-zee, Z-I-zicky-zi, Z-O-zo, Zicky-zi-zo, Z-U-zu, zicky zi zo zu) were added to the song.
Original Lyrics[edit]
The original lyrics of Septimus Winner's "Spelling Bee" (aka "Ba Be Bi Bo Bu") were slightly different:
B-A bA; B-E bE; B-I, bA-bE-bI; B-O bO, bA-bE-bI-bO; B-U bu, bA-bE-bI-bO-bu.[1]
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Sunday, October 12, 2014
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Friday, October 10, 2014
How to wreck a beautiful evening
There are ways you can spoil a beautiful evening.
You know what it's like when you find something on YouTube you haven't heard in about a billion years, and not only that, it's the WHOLE ALBUM so you'll be able to hear every track, and you put your headset on cuz it's late at night, and you start to listen and -
And at first it's great, and the memories just come flooding back. The living room in Chatham with the big reclining chair, and the old drapes with cherries on them and wall-to-wall carpeting like nobody else had yet (covering beautiful hardwood floor that was deemed ugly and old-fashioned). And we'd all be sitting around stoned while my parents were at choir practice, and I'd be sitting in a half-lotus on my camel saddle which smelled of shit and old leather, and somebody'd put this album on and Bob Webster (this jazz pianist who hung around, I was in love with him) would crawl along the floor and put his arms around the big cylindrical wooden speakers that were bigger than anyone else's and stay that way until the whole album was over.
And the album was MOOG. And we all mispronounced it because we were too ignorant to know it was pronounced "moag". And we man, really got off on this album which was really only good when you were stoned, because it was sort of all over the place - some of it brilliant - keyboard stuff in sweeps and drones, clever like commercials for Polaroid Swinger, or suddenly really inspired and beautiful. It was called The Electric Eclectics of Dick Hyman, who my brother described as hermaphroditic because of his name.
So about a billion years goes by and once in a while I look on YouTube and just find tiny fragments of Moog, mostly from scratchy records. I doubt it has ever been re-released. Then TONIGHT I find a video with the whole album on it, every track -
(and also this stuff, silly visual stuff like a kaleidoscope, sort of cool so I giffed it, and at the end you see the edge of the guy's TV screen so you know it's just some TV effect, except that at the start it looks like somebody shining a flashlight through a sock. And it has that VHS fuzzy frizzly part at the bottom, you know what I mean, bad tape or really cheap equipment. Reminds me of my first Beta recorder.)
And then all of a sudden on the right side of your headset, you're either having a flashback hallucination or the headset is picking up police signals or SOMEBODY, some asshole, is talking, aimlessly, stonedly, droningly, on and off so you keep hoping it has stopped, and sometimes there is a very dumb girl's voice always kind of going up like a very insecure person whose every statement sounds like a question, and later on you hear that rustling fumbling infuriating noise like when someone is dicking around with a microphone, and you realize this guy, whoever he is, must have sat there holding his 1973 Radio Shack Captain Marvel microphone up to his 1969 "Hear How Powerful My Speakers Are" speakers while the record turned on his dirty old mouse-shit turntable. Or maybe it was a spinning pancake. Whatever. This is someone's idea of a video? Sharing this timeless, stoned, OK-a-little-bit-too-commercial-and-cute-but-memory-laden album, this CLASSIC '60s stoner album - talking all the way through it in a draggy stoned voice, in the voice of someone who has an IQ of maybe 71 and was still voted Top of his Class because that's how they turn them out now, who
It ruined my evening.
POST-BLAHG. There is a God. I was gnerfing around in Dick Hyman videos just to see what else might be there, and by golly, just a couple of days ago somebody posted the whole album in pristine sound quality, no stoner babbling or fumbling 1969-quality mikes like the emcee at your Junior Prom. Until it's taken down for some reason, like piracy, here it is for you to enjoy. But I'm not taking my post down because it's an example of something, of taking something great and just throwing it up there all buggered up, as if it doesn't matter. Worse, most people neither notice nor care. I can't seem to embed the video here because it won't come up no matter what I do, so here's the link, and I'll post the video again so you can see the kind of album cover that has disappeared, along with normal global climate, rational Republicans and an expectation of a future.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIutWZqoK-4
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Thursday, October 9, 2014
Drama in the back yard
Such drama in the back yard! Ever since I lost Jasper, my beloved lovebird, I've had a sort of bird-shaped hole in my life. I thought longingly of a bird feeder, but our house is constructed in such a way that it does not allow hanging anything that we can see.
One day I was in the garage and saw an old Ikea lamp and thought: that's it! With some remodelling, it would work as a stand that could hold some sort of container that would drain water (so it wouldn't be flooded with Vancouver rainwater). I didn't think birds would object to wet seeds. After much experimentation and remodelling, we had a sort of jerry-rigged feeder in our back yard and were enjoying the visits of juncos and chickadees.
One day I heard a dreadful screech and saw a large prehistoric-looking winged creature darting and swooping overhead. After looking it up on the Cornell Ornithology site, I recognized the Steller's jay. I noticed at that point having to refill the food supply practically every day, then finally saw His
Birdness up there - such a magnificent creature, handsome, arrogant, a little wicked. But I still couldn't believe he was cleaning out the feeder so often. Then I looked outside one day and A SQUIRREL was climbing the pole of the lamp, shimmying up like some sort of demented pole-dancer. The squirrels had breached the unbreachable feeder. I sprayed the pole with Pam, and now they just endlessly climb in one spot, thinking they're making progress. Squirrels are resourceful but not too bright.
As a little kid, I snuffled out signs of nature wherever I could. Where I lived was decidedly urban, but things were different then, without the incessant din that seems to be part of modern life: the endless construction, the dust and smoke, the earsplitting racket that never stops. Right now as I sit here writing, there is a constant, steady drone of something like a very loud vacuum cleaner. (WHAT IS IT???). No one else ever mentions the noise, because like the frogs in boiling water, they have become so acclimatized to it that it no longer registers on them - or else they are now half-deaf.
The milk was delivered by horse and wagon. Cloppa, cloppa, cloppa. (This ended up in my first novel, Better than Life.) People find it hard to believe, but it was true. My friend and I walked to Tecumseh Park on our own when we were maybe eight or nine. While social critics railed on and on about the blinding pace of progress and how it was killing human beings, not to mention the gross and alarming "population explosion" that no one ever refers to any more, Chatham, Ontario plodded on. Now I see it as a magical place, with a flowering cherry tree in the back yard that I could climb to get into the neighbor's yard to look at their pigeon coop. This was lifted whole for Mallory, my second novel.
Birds were a favorite fascination. We never had a bird feeder, though there were plenty of places we could have put one. In the depths of winter, my mother would ask the butcher for suet - really, just the fat trimmings from steaks and chops - and throw it out onto the snow. She never watched to see if the birds got it, or if it was gulped down by some roaming dog. (Coyotes, raccoons and bears were never a problem then, as we had not yet stolen all their land and backed them against the wall, where they would be demonized for encroaching on OUR territory and causing us trouble.)
I wondered about the suet. The reason she gave was "in the winter, the birds need a lot of fat to help them keep warm." This didn't make sense until a long time later.
I would adopt baby birds that fell from the nest quite frequently, fully believing I was rescuing them. I had no idea then that many species of bird PUSH their fledgelings out of the nest before they are able to fly properly, then swoop down on on them to feed them until they are ready to take off on their own. A strange system, given the ubiquitous cats that just roamed everywhere then (for to keep a cat inside, let alone spay or neuter it, was unthinkably cruel).
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But I took them in anyway, enchanted. Most of them died, of course, because I really had no idea what to feed them. One pigeon made it, in fact he burst out of the box and started flying all over the porch where I had to keep these things. But he was close to flight anyway and only sickened by the pollution in the Thames River. (Some things never change.)
I was also quite taken with squirrels, and noted that another neighbor had tamed a baby squirrel which clung to his arm. I WOULD have a squirrel for myself. Since I was bullheaded, a requisite for living in an environment which was almost wholly devoid of love, I kept on the watch for one. Then I saw a grey baby on the cherry tree, with that stunned, frozen look squirrels have when panicked (have you ever seen one run back in front of a car when crossing the street?). I put my hand out, not just to touch him but to grab him, and got my reward. Had to get a tetanus shot. Heard that bitter, even savage squirrel chattering for some time after that, probably the parents swearing at me, and rightly so.
The other day, having thrown a handful of grapes out in the back yard (and yes, I know I'm not supposed to feed wildlife) I noticed a black squirrel sitting up spinning the grape around in its paws, eating and spitting flying pieces out, probably the skin. I decided to see how close I could get. Normally they scram when I open the back door. It was amazing - I came closer and closer, and he just stood there. I was close enough to touch him, but didn't - I had already broken several rules of back-yardness already, and could just hear the scolding I'd get from all those militant naturalists.
Of course he ran away after a few seconds. I wondered what happened. Frozen in panic? Greedy for more grapes? (He had lots already.) I wondered if this was my pole-dancing squirrel, or if all of them had tried it. I do notice the older squirrels look very scarred and beat-up, while this year's babies are still fluffy and sleek. The one grey squirrel who often visits has an impossibly fat, silver-grey tail that makes you want to believe in fur coats again. He flaps it around in that adorable, yet alarming way that squirrels have. Probably a warning to keep off.
This has awakened the little girl in me. Finding things on YouTube that I haven't heard in decades is a strange feeling. I'm reaching out for something. I will probably attain another lovebird, have put my name in with a breeder, but one never knows about bird temperament. I love my Steller's jay, the way he darts his head around, posturing like a proud show dog, and raises his pointed black crest. Well, we haven't destroyed everything quite yet. But I am secretly glad I will not be here in 50 years, or even 20.
I have been trying to recreate an album called Pastorales, long out of print, and have found a few favorite tracks. This piece reminds me of the innocence and enchantment of my childhood "nature days".
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