Thursday, August 1, 2013

Today is YORKSHIRE DAY!!!

Whatever that is.

It is also another one of the dog days of summer of 2013 in the northern hemisphere, the diēs caniculārēs, which every person worth his or her salt knows have something or other to do with a bright star called Sirius in the constellation Canis Major.

You did know that, didn’t you?

Oh, wait. I forgot all about “don’t ask, don’t tell,” which I believe originated in another context altogether but which I will now generously apply to whether you know anything about the origin of the dog days. I will simply assume that each person reading this post is worth his or her salt, and no one will be the wiser, although some may have their suspicions.

Canis Major means Large Dog or, more accurately, Dog Large, since the speakers of Latin among us continue to put their nouns before their adjectives, which is roughly equivalent to putting their carts before their horses but nothing at all like putting I before E except after C or when sounded like A as in neighbor and weigh.

The Dog Days should not be confused with Dog Days (ドッグデイズ, Doggu Deizu), a 2011 Japanese fantasy anime television series about Cinque Izumi, a cheerful and athletic half-Japanese, half-English boy who is summoned to the alternate world of Flonyar (where people look no different from humans except that they have animal ears and tails) by the dog-like Princess Millhiore of the Biscotti Republic ((ビスコッティ共和国, Bisukotti Kyōwa-koku), to assist in the war against the forces of the feline-like Galette Lion Dominion (ガレット獅子団領, Garetto Shishi Danrei).

I am not even kidding.

If you are really worth your salt as a reader of this blog, you should know what I’m about to say about the war between the forces of the Biscotti Republic and the forces of the Galette Lion Dominion. Here it comes. Wait for it...wait for it...

They fight like cats and dogs.

Yes, they do.

Kind of like the Houses of Lancaster and York.


In conclusion, a very happy YORKSHIRE DAY to each and every one of you, even those of you from Lancashire, and may all your Doggu Deizu Dog Days be merry and bright.


Wednesday, July 31, 2013

England swings like a pendulum do, bobbies on bicycles, two by two.

On The Writer’s Almanac website a couple of weeks ago I read that in 1940 Woody Guthrie wrote the folk classic “This Land is Your Land” because he was growing sick of Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” Mr. Guthrie must have had an extremely low tolerance level, because the rest of the world has been listening to “God Bless America” for 75 years now. Woody had been listening to it for only two.

Moving right along, yesterday my son-in-law called me to ask
“a very important question that we knew you would know the answer to.” It turned out that he and my daughter wanted to know who sang “King of the Road.”

Naturally, I told him that it was Roger Miller (who composed it and was the first to sing it and had an enormous hit with it, although many people recorded it later) and my son-in-law said, “Your daughter thought it was Arlo Guthrie and I didn’t have any idea who it was.” Well, it wasn’t Arlo Guthrie. As I just explained, it was Roger Miller.

My daughter and son-in-law didn’t know this either, but I have a sort of six-degrees-of-separation relationship (although it’s really only three) with Roger Miller. His sister married Vernon Hornell, a neighbor of mine in Texas. Vernon was the older brother of Bruce and Mary Grace and little Erick (whom we called “Putt-Putt”), and almost every Sunday from 1948 until 1958 I rode with the Hornell family to Sunday School at the local Methodist Church. We rode in a dark blue 1938 Buick until it fell apart, and then we rode in a 1957 two-tone Oldsmobile.

Arlo Guthrie, in case you were wondering, was Woody Guthrie’s son. You can read all about them here (Arlo) and here (Woody), if you like.

If you’d rather read about Roger Miller, be my guest. Wikipedia calls him “an American singer, songwriter, musician and actor, best known for his honky-tonk-influenced novelty songs.” Wikipedia says about his early life, “Roger Miller was born in Fort Worth, Texas, the third son of Jean and Laudene (Holt) Miller. Jean Miller died from spinal meningitis when Roger was only a year old. Unable to support the family during the Great Depression, Laudene sent each of her three sons to live with a different one of Jean’s brothers. Thus, Roger grew up on a farm outside Erick, Oklahoma with Elmer and Armelia Miller.”

Note that there is no mention of a sister, just Roger and two brothers, from which I gather that either (a) Laudene continued to raise a daughter herself or (b) the “sister” of Roger’s that Vernon Hornell married was actually Elmer’s and Armelia’s daughter, Roger’s first cousin, with whom he was raised in (of all places) Erick, Oklahoma. All things considered, though, I think it was foreordained that Roger Miller’s sister or first cousin or whoever she was would marry Vernon Hornell if she was raised in Erick, Oklahoma, because you will recall that Vernon had a little brother named Erick (whom, as I told you earlier, we called “Putt-Putt”).

Don’t look at me that way. Stranger things have happened.

But if you’d rather just listen to Roger Miller sing, here’s
“Dang Me” (4:13) complete with an interview by Dick Clark on American Bandstand, a commercial for Clearasil, and Roger’s imitation of a dial telephone. And here’s Roger’s signature song “King of the Road” (2:26). And here’s the shortest but perhaps the sweetest, “England Swings Like a Pendulum Do” (1:55). When you hear Roger talk, you are not listening to a Texas accent. You are listening to an Oklahoma accent.

I do regret to inform you that early in their marriage Vernon Hornell’s wife, whoever she was and wherever she was raised, was killed in an automobile accident.

In doing research for this post, I learned that Roger Miller died in 1992 at the age of 56, and I also found the obituary of his mother, Laudene Holt Miller Burdine. She died on October 10, 2001, in Scott County, Arkansas, at the age of 87 years, 9 months, and 4 days. The obituary notice said she was the widow of both Jean Miller and C.B. Burdine, and that one son, Roger Dean Miller of Santa Fe, New Mexico, and one daughter, Joni Claudene Sims Hornell of Forth Worth, Texas, [emphasis mine] preceded her in death. She was survived by two sons, Harold Duane Miller of Ridge Crest, California, and Wendell Jean Miller of Hanford, California; one daughter, Elizabeth Ann Sims of Denton, Texas; 16 grandchildren; 25 great-grandchildren; one great-great-granddaughter and a host of nieces, nephews and friends.

So it turns out that Vernon Hornell’s wife probably wasn’t raised in Erick, Oklahoma, after all. I mean, her last name wasn’t Miller, it was Sims, so she probably wasn’t raised by Elmer and Armelia Miller, unless Armelia had a child from a previous marriage, plus there’s the fact that Laudene had still another daughter whose surname was also Sims who survived her.

Roger Miller is the only Country & Western artist ever to win a Tony award (for Big River, a 1985 Broadway adaptation of Mark Twain’s literary classic, Huckleberry Finn, for which Roger penned the 20-song score). He also won more Grammys than any other recording artist, and the record remained unbroken until Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” He was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame posthumously around 1995.

There’s more, lots more, in an article entitled “Thirty or More Things You Should Know About Roger Miller.”

What any of this has to do with either Woody Guthrie or Arlo Guthrie is anybody’s guess.

Oh, I do want to say one other thing.

God bless America.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Feedjit is at it again

Someone who lives in Krasnoznamensk, Moskva (Moscow) whose visit to my blog caused a little Russian flag to appear in the Live Feedjit Traffic thingy over there in the sidebar was directed today by Feedjit to my post of June 16, 2012, entitled “I ain’t never went to no Barcelona” after entering the following into a search engine:

apollo mission first man on the moon silver coin 1$ cook islands 2009

You can search my post all day long (go ahead, do it) and never find a single one of the items in which our new friend, the one in Krasnoznamensk, Moskva (Moscow), is interested.

Why do you think this sort of thing happens?

It’s enough to make me want to speak Australian.




See, now that is how confusion starts. That is not the Australian flag.



This is:


I have been named a tall poppy

...and the 101st National Living Treasure of Australia by Carol in Cairns (here’s proof) but as a new adopted Australian I am not supposed to revel in the fact.

Unaccustomed as I am am am to public speaking speaking speaking (can’t someone do something about that reverb? -erb? -erb?), I do want to say a great big “Thank you” to Carol -- did I mention that she is in Cairns? -- and, by extension, to all those wonderful people out there in the dark of the Great Land Down Under. I shall try to be worthy of your trust.

*takes seat, waving to Helsie in Brisbane*

I suppose now I will have to try to work words like “billabong” and “Great Barrier Reef” and “dingo” and “Tasmania” and “koala” and “skivvies” into my everyday vocabulary.

If you click on that link up there in the first paragraph, you can see the names of all 100 of Australia’s National Living Treasures. I recognized eleven. How many do you recognize?

Shame on us.



Monday, July 29, 2013

First there is nothing, and then there is a deep nothing, and beyond that there’s a deep blue.

Lord Pudding in Yorkshire reports that he is blue at the prospect of turning 60 in the fall, and Carol in Cairns (which is in Far North Queensland, you know) is reflecting on turning 50 soon, saying, “I have raised my son on my own and he is finishing school this year, so what about me now?” (I can’t tell whether she is feeling blue too or merely being petulant.)

But where does that leave me, your ever-faithful correspondent, at 72 and 1/3, I ask you? Very blue? Over the hill, even?

Nah.

If I were going to be blue, I would want to go whole hog and be Yves Klein Blue (4:45). (Warning: There may be a bit of nudity in that clip.)

On the one hand, you can be very hot Yves Klein Blue as in this rock band of that name from Australia (4:09). (Warning: There may be a bad word or two in that clip, but the lyrics go by so fast it’s really difficult to tell.)

On the other hand, you can be very cool Blue Yves Klein as in this jazz offering (5:41). (Warning: There may be a bit of nudity in that clip too, but most of it is chiseled in stone.)

There really are no other choices. Just very hot Yves Klein Blue or very cool Blue Yves Klein.

Oh, wait, there is also Far North Queensland...


...where Cairns is several other shades of blue (click to enlarge):

(Image by Frances76, published in accordance with the GNU Free Documentation license, Version 1.2)

I have no idea what this post means.

But it doesn’t have to have meaning.

It just is.

[Editor’s note. In the void -- the deep, blue void -- created in our corner of Blogland by the sudden and unexpected hiatus that began on 5 May last of Katherine de Chevalle, our artist friend in New Zealand (her blog is called The Last Visible Dog), this post is presented in the fervent hope that she will soon return to these environs to instruct us more properly in the visual arts so that all of us, in turn, can extricate ourselves from our deep, blue malaise. --RWP]

Saturday, July 27, 2013

I don’t care which language you say it in...

¡Feliz cumpleaños! (Spanish),

Joyeux anniversaire! (French),

Buon compleanno! (Italian),

С Днем Рождения! (Russian),

Gefeliciteerd met je verjaardag! (Dutch),

Grattis på födelsedagen! (Swedish),

祝你生日快樂! (Chinese),

जन्मदिन मुबारक हो! (Hindi),

Chúc mừng sinh nhật! (Vietnamese),

Boldog születésnapot! (Hungarian),

Feliç aniversari! (Catalan),

Feliĉan naskiĝtagon! (Esperanto),

or even English, please join me in wishing Mrs. RWP a very...

(Chocolate chip cookie by Kroger Bakery)

Friday, July 26, 2013

My new favorite poet

...is Billy Collins, who was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 until 2003. He knows whereof he speaks, at least in the poem below. Reading it became all the more touching poignant frustrating when I discovered that Mr. Collins is exactly four days younger than moi, having been born on March 22, 1941.


Forgetfulness
by Billy Collins


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

(end of poem)

On some days, I could have written that poem myself, except for one thing. Make that two things. I will never, ever, forget how to swim or how to ride a bicycle. Want to know why? It’s because I never learned how to swim or how to ride a bicycle in the first place.

There is absolutely nothing as refreshing as confessional journalism.

<b> Don’t blame me, I saw it on Facebook</b>

...and I didn't laugh out loud but my eyes twinkled and I smiled for a long time; it was the sort of low-key humor ( British, humour) I...