The Raven Loonies

At the Radium last night, Isadora, Gina, Bella and I decided to stop talking about our Band, and start practicing instead. Our name was going to be The Red Hot Flushes but Isadora says it sounds a bit desperate, and she’s the leader so we’re going to be The Raven Loonies instead. Like those Robert Palmer shoowop girls with the red lipstick, but a bit more modest and animated. Not nun-modest, mind, because it’s a sin to let genuine god-given cleavage go to waist, and not Red Hot Chilli Peppers-animated because that’s just not dignified for ladies of our quality.

We spent most of the evening practicing in the cage-like entrance (because, suddenly, there’s no smoking at the Radium. Incredible but true. This is just a fad I’m sure) watching cop-cars scream past, fending off glue sniffers and encouraging besotted fans who wanted our autographs but were too shy to ask. There was even an estate agent among them. I honestly did not know that estate agents listened to Blues but there he was, pinned happily to the bars. “All I want is a room somewhere,” we sang, “Far away from the cold night air…” and he listened, captive, wide-eyed.

Jacky Bond and Wayne Coughlan didn’t mind too much although Jacky said if we were going to be a band we’d need to look up harmony in the dictionary. We think he might just be feeling a little threatened, though, and we won’t hold it against him. He’s also a bit peeved that we know all the words to Summertime and have to write them down for him on serviettes when someone requests it. He’ll come round. He has to, because we’re going to recruit them on a temporary basis for the instrument stuff, which we don’t do yet.

One charitable aim (there are others) of The Raven Loonies is to visit old age homes and bring succour to the frail and the forgotten. Rock Chik Rox says anybody wanting to do away with a cantankerous and incontinent elder will be glad to hear it. We don’t much like her tone, and she’s sixteen so how can she even know what incontinent means?

Anyhow, next time you see a crowd outside the Radium, it won’t be because The Raven Loonies are playing there, it’ll be because there’s still no smoking allowed inside the Radium. But if you see a crowd outside the Rus ‘n Bietjie Sentrum Vir Bejaardes or any similar establishment, you’ll know it’s The Raven Loonies. Come in, give generously, and get autographs ok?

No Poem Here

Something funny happened on the way to the antiURL

What do you do
when you see this:

No Ad Here
This Ad
Intentionally Left
Blank
No URL here

nestled in a google ads column
with the other ads, looking
for all the world like a little lost piece
of no-ads-land in ad-central?

Do you feel sorry for it?
Do you feel like giving it your loose change?
Do you want to take it home
and give it a cup of tea and a bath?

Do you click on it?

Be honest.

Flotsam

There once was an extraordinary man (who’s probably still around if his liver hasn’t exploded yet) called Walter, who could turn a list of silk screening paraphernalia into a sonnet, and often did. He said, “You have to leap into a rose bush with your ‘art”. Deep down I knew he was right, but when it came to choosing between art and commerce, I did not do the right thing.

I once sold my soul to a cellular network provider for a couple of rands and lunch at the Michaelangelo. For two endless years, it went like this: “But can’t you put the logo inside the xmas bauble? Can we make the logo bigger? No, you know we can’t have the logo pink with stars. Yes, we remember the brief for our employee of the month cartoon of Thembi from Merchandising contained the words ‘young, fun and tropical’ but we didn’t mean it literally. Please take the lei, the cocktail and the sarong out, and put her in a suit and don’t forget the logo, and make it bigger.”

People who want to be artists but also need to eat often turn to the Dark Side like this. Their families even encourage it. They shouldn’t, because the artist might never find his way back. Breadcrumbs don’t work, for well-documented reasons. I suggest a stint as an intersection window-washer if you need a couple of bucks, rather. You’ll get less abuse.

Back in the primordial soup of 1998, Walter taught a bunch of sceptical students how to make a pinhole camera. I found mine yesterday, I’d forgotten all about it. It’s a completely magical thing, and it was the most fun I’ve ever had with cardboard and tinfoil. There was philosophy involved, and faith, there were rose bushes everywhere, there were definite rules that had to be followed but only upside down and inside out, and so what you had to do in order to make a picture was sneak round the back and catch it by surprise, before the rules noticed.

What else got lost between then and now? Plenty. I’m going through impenetrable cupboards, drawers, teetering stacks of books and papers and boxes and stuff, trying to throw out junk so I can find important misplaced things like birth certificates/little Buzz Lightyear figurines, etc, and so I can try to think straight, but the more stuff I find the less I throw out and thinking straight seems to be completely out of the question at this point. I’m hoping it’ll all just catch fire so I can be done with it, but I’m also terrified that it might. So I’m taking a little chisel, some fine brushes and a virtual mini-obscura to the chalky cliffs on an Archaeoillogical Preservation Expedition, just in case it does all catch fire. Please excuse the dust, but this is an alleyway after all, remember, not a reception desk. Makes a nice habitat for small fauna and flora, anyway. Like a shipwreck.

Oh, look – Fossil 1: here’s Great Gran’s rabbit-fur coat, f’rinstance. Great Granddad made it for her himself out of some of the bunnies (I can see it clearly, “Och, puir wee bunny! Hahahahaha BANG”) who were having regular tea parties in the veggie patch. The thing is revolting, is a luxury hotel for small fauna and sheds more hairs than twenty mad English dogs in the Karoo midsummer noonday sun, but I. Just. Can’t. Throw. It. Out.

*sigh*


Fossil 2, mothers

Mothers don't know shit.
They ought to know that
if they say "Don’t," you will
and if they say "Do," you won't
but they say "Don’t," so you do
and now that you have a daughter or two
you want to say "Do,"
so that they won't
but you're scared because maybe
just maybe times have changed
and daughters might listen.
Mothers don't know shit.


Fossil 3, lintscapes

Perhaps there was a funfair here,
there, see, with lights strung along the pier.
The deck would have been scrubbed nightly
of ice-cream archipelagos.

Little girls would have chimed
the morning in with coins for the lacquered
pastel ponies on a carousel, pretty breezes
playing among the pigtails


Fossil 4, french musicians

Suleiman Bin Daoud
Had a harem of quarrelling queens
To amuse himself with, in idle moments
Trinkets, baubles, playthings

He'd enchant them all in turn,
fill their seven-veiled nights with
honey’d almonds, sweet ambrosia -
Make them believe they were Balkis.


(Note: these are not poems and they’re not trying to be. They are a special sort of self indulgent post-its, as used by archaeoillogigists and other invented people.)

And so on. Come back in about a year if you can’t stomach it, it should all be over by then, fire willing. I’ll understand.

Sit Vis Vobiscum

(May the force be with you)

You know when someone says to you, “Illiud Latin dici non potest!” (“You can’t say that in Latin!”) and your usual response goes something like, “Huh?” (“Huh?”)
Ja, me too. Well, not anymore, thanks to Chris Kawalek at http://www.rktekt.com/ck/LatSayings.php

For example:

Quid Fit?
(Wazzup?)

Vidistine nuper imagines moventes bonas?
(seen any good movies lately?)

Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari?
(How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?)

Quomodo cogis comas tuas sic videri?
(How do you get your hair to do that?)

Nihil est--in vita priore ego imperator Romanus fui.
(That's nothing--in a previous life I was a Roman Emperor.)

Tum podem extulit horridulum.
(you are talking kak)

In dentibus acticis frustrum magnum spinaciae habes.
(You have a big piece of spinach in your teeth.)

Credo nos in fluctu eodem esse.
(I think we're on the same wavelength.)

Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem.
(In the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags.)

Feles mala! Cur cista non uteris? Stramentum novum in ea posui.
(Bad kitty! Why don't you use the cat box? I put new litter in it.)

Gustatus similis pullus.
(Tastes like chicken)

Canis meus id comedit.
(my dog ate it)

Veni, vivid, volo in domum redire.
(I came, I saw, I want to go home)

Te audire non possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure.
(I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear)

Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare.
(I think some people in togas are plotting against me)

Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur.
(Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out.)

:-)

Lucky Packet

Intergalactic Tabloid Headlines, 2065: “Humans Fail! Parktown Prawns Rise to Claim Earth!”

I missed a great many things last week, partly on account of being busy helping an old lady to cross the road (no, really. She was moving house and had been standing in the queue at the municipality being ignored by the cashiers for a fortnight. Whether that’s just the MO of municipality cashiers, or whether it’s because she’s really short and can’t see over the counter, I don’t know) but mostly on account of suffering from Chronic Futility Syndrome (see Intergalactic Tabloid headlines). This always makes me retreat into Terry Pratchett. So I spent most of my time hanging out with Johnny in Only You Can Save Mankind, and also with Tiffany Aching and the Nac Mac Feegles, and I had a lot of fun. Fiddling, while Borneo burns, but anyway.

Most sorely missed-out on, though, was Mr Eaton’s column in the M&G, which was a Poem about sheep and toy poms and crocodiles, and other animals, and would have gone down a treat in these parts. Unfortunately I can’t link to it because the M&G has gone and pulled a “Subscribe to view” trick on us. This is fair enough but also unfair to those of us who buy our papers the retro way while also relishing the copy paste option, for the simple reason that a stapled sixty page document of favourite columns is easier to read in the bath than is its equivalent in newspaper clippings. Bah.

This week, Mr Eaton has gotten hold of Mbeki’s Secret Travel Diary. I don’t know how he does it. A snippet: “…it was discovered by our interpreters that [our Chinese hosts] are referring to us by our exports rather than our names: apparently Nigeria’s Obasanjo is “Honourable Diamonds and Shit Movies”, while I am known as “Honourable Gold and Afrikaans Engineers”. Mugabe is known simply as “Mr Refugees”.”

Have I ever mentioned the fact that I am his Number One Fan?

And, speaking about Spud (no, I know we weren’t, but Mbeki was, in his Secret Diary), I wonder how Dan Brown feels about being so solidly overthrown by John Van De Ruit on the Sunday Times top 10 fiction booklist. And how John feels about being single-handedly responsible for the ten-year waiting lists at SA boarding schools. Who knew that so many teens were actually reading, in any case? John, please can your next novel be about how cool it is to tidy up your room?

The Afghans scrub carpets with stones, to make them look older. I bet it makes the carpets look older, too.

Lemon Syllabub

Ugh. Weekus Horribilis. Instead of an account, I think a Syllabub might be more helpful. Do try this at home:

1 cup cream, chilled
1/2 cup white sugar
1/4 cup white wine
1/8 cup fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
A pinch of nutmeg
fresh mint

Whip the cream and sugar in a chilled bowl, until the cream begins to thicken. Gradually whip in the white wine, lemon juice, and lemon zest. Continue to whip until light and fluffy, but not grainy. Cover and chill. Serve in chilled parfait glasses, garnished with a dash of nutmeg, a sprig of mint, and a slice of lemon.

Chilled, ek se.

Send Pomes Now

We’ve been working round the click widdershins, and are pleased to announce that The Silvery Tay Poetry Competition is now open.

Here you go: http://ppomes.blogspot.com/

---<-@

Make a wish

I wish that as many people as have read The Da Vinci Code would read George Monbiot’s book ‘Heat’.

(You can find George, and his stuff, here: http://www.monbiot.com/
and here: http://www.turnuptheheat.org/)

Flipside # 1

There’s a downside to having teen kids in the house. No, let me rephrase that: there are downsides to having teen kids in the house. But some of the downsides have flipsides that are actually upsides.

Like, music. Thanks to them, I have been exposed to a lot of music that I wouldn’t have heard had they not been living in my house. Much of this exposure has been traumatic, but some of it has been numinous. They call it “Mom’s musical education”, as though I have none, but I am glad of it when it brings me things like Lark, and Regina Spektor.

Music lives, despite what my grandfather predicted. Even though he would not agree.

Great Scot

Now look here. They dedicate entire months to that Burns fellow, but not even a single hour to William McGonagall, Poet Laureate of the Silvery Tay. I find this shocking.

It is said that William Topaz McGonagall was "so giftedly bad he backed unwittingly into genius". He was a legend in his own lifetime, fearlessly reciting anti-alcohol poems in Dundee drinkeries and elsewhere across the world. Despite peltings of rotten eggs and vegetables, he pursued his vocation with vigour and commitment until the day he died.

So, here at Pandora’s, I decree that the 12th of January will not be my birthday anymore. I am giving it to William McGonagall, and it will be known henceforth as Silvery Tay Day. I’ll accept no more diamonds, no more pearls, as gifts. No more fine French perfume, if you please. I’ll take only bad poems, and very bad ones indeed, on the 12th day of any given January from now until my end. There will be a Competition, we’ll have a guest judge and it will be… I haven’t decided yet, and the worst poem will win a Floating Title, and that title will be called… I haven’t decided yet.

All interested parties had better get started. Forty lines or thereabouts, there’s not a purple moment to lose here. As an example of what you’re up against, I give you: The Railway Bridge Of The Silvery Tay, a Poem by William McGonagall:


The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay

BEAUTIFUL Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave
His home far away, incognito in his dress,
And view thee ere he passed along en route to Inverness.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
The longest of the present day
That has ever crossed o'er a tidal river stream,
Most gigantic to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
Which will cause great rejoicing on the opening day
And hundreds of people will come from far away,
Also the Queen, most gorgeous to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
And prosperity to Provost Cox, who has given
Thirty thousand pounds and upwards away
In helping to erect the Bridge of the Tay,
Most handsome to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
I hope that God will protect all passengers
By night and by day,
And that no accident will befall them while crossing
The Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
For that would be most awful to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
And prosperity to Messrs Bouche and Grothe,
The famous engineers of the present day,
Who have succeeded in erecting the Railway
Bridge of the Silvery Tay,
Which stands unequalled to be seen
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

- William McGonagall



But that’s not all. There is a sequel, because, alas, the Tay Bridge collapsed a year later, in 1879. I’ll post it tomorrow.

P.S. Does anyone know if there’s a video shop in Jozi that has a DVD of ‘The Great McGonagall’, with Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers?