Scattered Thoughts & Deliberate Lies
• Today, I noticed a mole on my forehead. Fortunately, it matched the gopher in my pants. It brought to mind that I have never actually seen a stoat in person.
Now, I may have seen a stoat once, I don't really know what a stoat looks like so I didn't recognize him. I think they're like weasels, only more English (i.e., bad teeth.)
• If Jim Croce were not already dead, I would have to kill him. (I didn't like his records. Or his mustache. I suppose this might seem a flimsy excuse for murder, but Dear God, did you ever hear "You Don't Mess Around With Jim"? I mean, he's just asking for a cleaver in the frontal lobe.)
• On a personal footnote, I've now been writing this blog for 37 years. I believe that makes it the oldest blog on the web. There may be older ones but they haven't been updated since the '60s. Their authors have probably joined Jim Croce in the ephemeral, in which case, I win. Twice. Once for the blog and once for Jim Croce being in the ephemeral. (Did I mention I hated Jim Croce's records? I'm not fucking around, I really couldn't stand his music.)
• Another personal barefootnote: Whenever anyone in our family says something like, "Dad, make me some macaroni and cheese," I always reply, "Poof! You're some macaroni and cheese." This never fails to make me convulse with laughter. It usually leaves family members still hungry and pining for starches. They should make their own macaroni and cheese, don't you think? After all, I paid the tuition for their culinary school. Ungrateful louts. Still, I love the whole "Poof!" gag.
• I've been thinking, maybe I've been too hard on Jim Croce. He is, after all, quite deceased and therefore no longer smudging the atmosphere with his hideous musical laments. He wasn't as bad as that other dead guy, Harry Chapin. Harry Chapin really sucked. And, for the record, I had nothing to do with his demise either.
• If you can get a bear to ride a unicycle, why can't they have their own paper routes? What good is a mobile bear without a purpose? Not much good at all, if you ask me. By the way, where do they keep the spare tire on those things? Life has more questions than answers, doesn't it? You know, I'm not sure I like living in a world where a bear can't deliver my newspaper. Sure, they drop off the phone books in your driveway, but that's just once a year. I want daily bear delivery. Is that too much to ask? I think not.
• I'm betting heavily that there is no afterlife. If there is a hereafter, I'm afraid Jim Croce is going to kick my ass. I can deal with that, as long as he doesn't write a song about it.
Well, that's it for this installment. Probably far more than you wanted, but that's the way it goes here in Blogtopia.
Love & Smoochies,
Your Humble 'Toonist
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Poof! You're A Ham Sandwich
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3 comments:
"Regrets, I've had a few."
As a songwriter who’s lived long enough to have MANY regrets about songs I’ve written and *shudder* even performed for audiences, I think that you’re a little hard on Old Jim. Those of us writing now have the ability to delete embarrassing material from our catalogues and websites, make a few quiet apologies and move on.
We’ll never know how Croce might have evolved as an artist, or how he might have felt about “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.” At least it wasn’t “Candy Man.”
As a teenager, I listened to “Lover’s Cross” over and over thinking it was brilliant. Some 30years later, I’ll concede it’s not brilliant – but it has held up remarkably well – still a sweet song to sing, with an interesting melody and chord progression. And it its time and place, it worked.
Since the holiday season is upon us, Phil, will you -- pretty please -- make me a fruitcake?
Philbert, I don't know where you live and what the RS delivery routes are like there, but I personally have witnessed a variety of wildlife delivering my paper in the mornings. I can say I was never quite so surprised as the morning I heard the paper go "thump" and looked out the window to see a pack of hyenas trotting down the street, their newspaper bags thrown over one shoulder, remnants of neighborhood cats on their muzzles. For a few weeks a goat was delivering an always-slobbery and badly chewed edition. And this isn't to mention the late, late deliveries by the sloth. That one I had to call the office about.
Are you STILL on about Jimbo? You're not supposed to mess with him, you know!
Actually, as a teenager I used to change the line from "if I could save time in a bottle" to "If I could SPEND time in a bottle". I used to crack myself up, I tell 'ya!
That is an insipid song, though I am partial to Bad Bad Leroy Brown (my mom used to sing it to me while I Luffa'd her bunions, every Sunday), so maybe that's why. I dunno.
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