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Sunday, February 14, 2021

Valentine, who outsings you to the bitter end...

For this year's Valentine's Day I decided, this late afternoon, to harken back to December, 8 years ago when all the year-end-beginning-religious-commercial holidays got to ganging up on me. Eight years and I still don't get it. Why inflict these gatherings of family and friends seeking warmth and love in such inclement weather? Hopefully I'll find an answer to augment comments received in 2013. 
New comments are invited under them --even from thems who commented the first time.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Lesser-Known Christmas Tales, Part Two

[My thanks to Laoch of Chicago for, "Did you ever notice that just by changing the order of the letters that Santa becomes Satan?" Also thanks to Willie in Sonoma for a hilarious phone discussion on Faust this evening.]


It began when Dr. Faustus, student of all knowledge, went to the department store to see Santa. The mezzanine sign was composed of distracting colors and idle hands. He got confused and veered right,  became separated from his mother and headed down the wrong stairs of Marlowe's Emporium!  He hopped up on Satan's knee and told him what he wanted for Christmas.

"I want 'us' off my name. Faustus Faustus --the other doctors tease me-- 'Faustus with the leastest', big laughs, big stupid laughs! It makes me tired."

"Ok," said jolly Satan. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, I don't wanna be no old doctor no more. Just Faust. No stinkin' responsibilities. No stinkin' old. Just Faust, young Faust!"

"Would you mind being a tenor?"

"No, fine with me!"

"Ah, then let's skip up 200 years. You want Gounod."

"Yeah, yeah, lots of gonads!"

"Sort of, it's an opera. Behold: the lovely Marguerite; Siebel who wins all hearts with his 'Flower Song' and whose life you make intolerable; Valentine, who outsings you to the bitter end; the family you hector into desolation!"

"Sounds great to me!"

"Only if they don't do the ballet in act 4. That's where you and I get disgraced."

"What else you got?"

"Well, we could skip sideways and try Goethe."

"How d'you spell that?"

"G-o-e-t-h-e"

"That's 'ghost' while holding your tongue-tip out. Other doctors tricked me into saying 'my father works in a shipyard' doing that (try it: Mah faddah wucks inna shityard). No goeth for me!"

"That's Goethe, pronounced 'Gay-tee'. You get to hook up with Helen Of Troy --a great beauty of the Mycenaean Age."

"When was that?"

"Oh, four or five thousand years ago."

"Mommy! Mommy!" Cried Doctor Faustus. "Santa wants to give me to some really old lady!" He leaped up and ran off in search of his mother. Satan picked up the intercom handset.

"Hello Santa? Satan. I think you got a problem-kid on the way. I'll have my helpers lend your helpers some pitchforks and, if that doesn't work, just mention Helen Of Troy.



24 comments:

  1. Love their close working relationship.

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    1. I believe they were alphabetically consecutive on roll call all through their school days and developed mutual familiarity then.

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  2. Not only do you have a very strange mind, but a very highly educated and well-read one. An entertaining combination, to be sure.

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    1. Thanks! It is a strange mind but I'm beginning to get used to it.

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  3. Funny! And thanks again, Geo, for leaving a comment on my blog!

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  4. I can never seem to come up with a comment good enough to compete with your wonderful wit. But you did inspire me to go to YouTube and watch the impressive finale to Gounod's "Faust". (Mirella Freini as Marguerite).

    By the way, Satan knows I've been a good boy.

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    1. Sometimes the excellent dance scene is left out if a production is short of ballerinas and danseurs, but it always ends with Faust and Satan looking like chumps. It's enough that Santa knows we're good boys.

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  5. Replies
    1. Thanks Laoch! And thanks again for the Santa-Satan connection.

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  6. Thanks, Geo., for continuing with this trope! Why not now take Noel and its reverse, Leon, as in Trotsky?

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    1. "Тро́цкий", a great title for a moral tale. He did not deserve what happened to him in Mexico. Neither Faust nor Satan were mean as Stalin. Perhaps a musical, eh? Mariachi balalaika ballet?

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  7. Good fun. I liked the bit about asking how to spell Goethe.

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    1. Thanks Squid. Language is a kick indeed.

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  8. Just goes to show ya, spelling DOES count.

    Loved it, as always. You're quite the wit, dude. (See, now if I misspelled "dude", and left the "e" off, it'd be a whole 'nother connotation.)

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    1. Indeed, as dud I admit to greater uncertainty than I do as dude. Dudes are confident!

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  9. Oh my dog...errr, I meant oh my god, that was funny.

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    1. Mirror-image words with many parallels!

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  10. Dear Geo,
    I loved the story! I just saw a hilarious German film, with a title that maybe your young kid above might also hsave used - IF you Americans weren't so decent. "göthe" was mispelled in the film's title. Do you want an apple from Paris,(no need to change a letter here to create confusion, ask dear Agatha C.) Waiting for part three!

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    1. Oh! "Pommes d'or du jardin des Hespérides" from The Labors of Hercule (Poirot). Close? I love Agatha.

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  11. Haha very clever Geo. If there was a movie called Satan Santa I would watch it, I imagine it would be quite entertaining :P

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    1. Thanks Lizzy. I can't imagine what such a movie would be about but I'd sure watch it too!

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  12. I had a classmate in high school whose first name was Faust. He preferred to go by his middle name, David, for some strange reason.

    I never realized the Santa-Satan thing before. Sneaky...This story is so funny...I can easily see it being made into something bigger. Santa/Satan takes care of ALL the kids, good AND bad, LOL!

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    1. Well, Helen of Troy was stolen from her husband by Paris, who was also called Alexander(previous post), and that started the Trojan War --so Faust was right to go running to his mommy and your classmate was wise to call himself David, another story in another mythic structure, rather than get mixed up with them apples. And now I'm thoroughly confused! I think they should All have department store workshops.

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Wednesday, January 27, 2021

Enigmatically Sunny California


 


There may not be a picture over this post, but I'll try. It's getting on midnight here in Vineyard,  10 miles southeast of the State Capitol and folks of all stripes, state leaders and citizenry alike are battening hatches against a storm no one would wish upon their enemies or, even worse, themselves. 

Excuse me, the lights are flickering in here and this post might exceed its predecessors' disjointivity. Went out to Pumphouse for nicotinic meditation an hour ago and was interrupted by felting racketing down from the roof hatch. Went out and noticed wind had rolled the tar-paper halfway up a hatch I nailed shut 40 years ago.

Oh no, the lights are flickering again and pooter's telling me "update failed". Is anybody working on this? I'll see what I can do...ah, --5 minutes-- success. But the little gray pop-up persists. I proceed, despite the funnel cloud reported spinning over North Sacramento, and select a 

"a", that seems to be where blogger and weather cut me off here. Storm has abated somewhat and I took a flashlight out to the barn. 7 cats have made a purring pile of themselves and seem to weather this storm in contentment. I shall go to bed now and try to do likewise.

   

Sunday, January 17, 2021

This Just In from 12 Years back: Tractor and Trainride

I recall appealing to my friend Will's List on things encountered in 2009, my last year on the job. Retirement and stuff on all sides sent the List into cosmic expansion, holus-bolus, but we emerged ok. However, sometimes I have to consult notes from that decade, and much of the preceding century, when I could courageously inhale outside my house.

Wednesday, January 6, 2021

The Funambulist

 As a tightrope walker I have valued balance
As a dancer regards glissade, or cellist choosing
Unfretted notes as mountains range in parade. 
Equilibrium is all we ever had, balance in grace.
A song of freedom keeps us from going mad.
In this place, a bell of liberty tolls inside us,
In balance, seasons, summer to autumn sussurus,
The whole beautiful orbit and year around yet,
Beyond our balancing souls, makes no sound.

Tuesday, December 15, 2020

in progress

I don't know what to do with this post; don't know what to title it. Over the past week it's been a blank draft page labeled "in progress" but I am brave and foolish enough to proceed at random. Let's look at photos. These are Normaphotos of her kitchen counter. I'm behind the silver teapot on the right. My glasses are on the table, so you can't see me.

I don't know how this 2nd photo got in there but getting persistent pop-up declaring "update failed". It's another Normaphoto so I'll leave it because, for some reason, I can't knock it off the draft. Anybody else having this problem?

Oh, ok, I'll proceed with or without success to post a Normaphoto of our south-east porch and see what happens:
Ok, that came through pretty good. I'll try one more. For 3 or 4 years we've had a night-vision camera mounted by our back door.  Images go automatically to Norma's tablet. Last night I tried to sneak up on that device. I held my hands in the universal position of "being sneaky". The result:
It is how I look without makeup. Is anybody working on this?

Monday, December 7, 2020

The Enigma of Incoherence

 I'll begin with a favorite photo:
      As sandstone and shale succumb to the sea,
      Our souls' erosion forms what we will be. 

I believe we will become beautiful and full of mystery. Norma is. She telephones our San Francisco kids then predicts our valley weather. She says, "We get their weather when they're done with it." 2nd-hand weather. I don't mind. In 1967, two figments imagined each other, dreamt each other up and fell in love. We are still together. She is always right. Her cousins are never wrong. When they all visit, I run like hell. 

There are times when I am needed --when one appliance, waterpump, vehicle, toilet or another is churning in disrepair. My talent with such events is mirific. I excite wonder and astonishment among relatives. They mainly leave this hick alone.  However, a wooden fence I built 40 years ago recently showed signs of wear. It ran about 90 feet down our lane back to the barn I built 35 years ago. Norma wanted to rebuild it. Because I too was churning in disrepair, I suggested she hire it done. She emailed her brother, Bill:"The fencers are here planning to fence all morning!" 

Bill replied, "En garde!"

I sure like Bill.

 

 

Saturday, November 7, 2020

Ensemble and Job Safety!

Here I am on the day election resolved into conniption, or vice versa. I am happy --perhaps I never look down. My forearms are mostly scar tissue now, after outdoor work in 2 strangely connected centuries. Yes, off and early on, I worked indoors and suffered 10 years of jumps, tyrants, subterfuges, people crying "out damned spot!" (Macbeth, Act 5 Scene 1), which causes Spot to dash out onto the street, get run over and likewise does damage to humans --even those not named Spot. Ergo, "Now thrive the armorers..." (Shakespeare, Henry V, prologue Act 2). This brings us to Don Santino:

It is not Spot. Don is an early 21st century gift from a beloved occupational-safety consultant. Despite my having retired from gardening public places in 2009, we have kept this outfit. As a wearable collection of hinges, levers, inclined planes and other safety devices it is unparalleled. I should have worn it oftener.