Girls will be boys

I was something like thirteen, when I first heard "Lola" by the Kinks.  The lyrics and content flew over my barely adolescent head.  

Well, that was a long time ago.  A lot has happened since then, including the coming-out of one of my relatives.

When Iphis announced he was a trans man about five years ago, our family circle adjusted accordingly.  Elder daughter, who switched Iphis' pronouns seamlessly, worried about younger daughter's reaction.

"She's so binary," she told me.

She needn't have worried.  One of younger daughter's music coaches switched from "Mr Lucas" to "Lucy" years ago.  As long as younger daughter is acknowledged as a woman, her life on the spectrum, both neurological and and sexual, seems relatively in balance.

Having a relative in the rainbow has made me somewhat more aware of gender differences, and last week, I stumbled across a video labelled "I'm a Boy - 1966":

And yes, this song by the Who did first appear in 1966:

One girl was called Jean Marie

Another little girl was called Felicity

Another little girl was Sally Joy

The other was me, and I'm a boy.

My name is Bill, and I'm a head-case

They practise making up on my face

Yeah, I feel lucky if I get trousers to wear

Spend evenings taking hairpins from my hair

I'm a boy, I'm a boy

But my mother won't admit it.

I'm a boy, I'm a boy, 

But if I say I am, I get it.

Put your frock on, Jean Marie

Plait your hair, Felicity

Paint your nails, little Sally Joy

Put this wig on, little boy

I want to play cricket on the green

Ride my bike across the street

Cut myself and see my blood

I wanna come home all covered in mud

However, the clothes in this video are from two decades later, and, furthermore, closer viewing revealed that "Bill" is a biological girl.  In those far-off times, Bill would be called a "tom-boy", but now, this video seems way ahead of its time; Bill would definitely be considered a nascent trans man in 2025.

But what the heck is this?  It turns out to be a BBC programme from the mid-to-late 80s called The Golden Oldies Picture Show, the mission of which was to provide 80's-style music videos for songs predating the same.

Don't think I'll be forwarding this video to Iphis, though.

A hell of a place to find heaven

This has been one strange Christmas. Not awful, but not one we'll forget in a hurry. Details later.

In the meantime, here's one of the odder Christmas songs I've encountered. It's called "Joseph, Better You Than Me", by The Killers, released in 2008.

The vocals are provided by lead singer Brandon Flowers, with guest vocalists Elton John and Neil Tennant (of the Pet Shop Boys).

 

[Vocalist: Brandon Flowers] 

Well your eyes just haven't been the same, Joseph 

Are you bad at dealing with the fame, Joseph? 

There's a pale moonshine above you 

Do you see both sides? 

Do they shove you around? 

[Vocalists: Elton John & Brandon Flowers] 

Is the touchstone forcing you to hide, Joseph? 

Are the rumours eating you alive, Joseph? 

When the holy night is upon you 

Will you do what's right? 

The position is yours 

[Vocalist: Elton John] 

From the temple walls to the New York night 

Our decisions rest on a child 

When she took her stand, did she hold your hand? 

Will your faith stand still or run away? 

Run away 

[Vocalist: Elton John] 

When they've driven you so far 

That you think you're gonna drop 

Do you wish you were back there at the carpenter shop? 

[Vocalist: Neil Tennant] 

With the plane and the lathe 

The work never drove you mad 

You're a maker, a creator 

Not just somebody's dad 

[Vocalists: Brandon Flowers, Elton John & Neil Tennant] 

From the temple walls to the New York night 

Our decisions rest on a man 

When I take the stand, will he hold my hand? 

Will my faith stand still or run away?

And the desert, it's a hell of a place to find heaven 

Forty years lost in the wilderness, looking for God 

And you climb to the top of the mountain 

Looking down on the city where you were born 

(Oh, the years since you left gave you time to sit back and reflect)

Better you than me  

Better you than me, yeah 

Well, the holy night is upon you  

Do you see both sides, do they shove you around? 

Better you than me, Joseph

A most rare vision

 I awake some time after midnight, and the little girl is about eye-level, standing three feet away in front of our bedroom curtains.  She's leaning to her right, looking mildly curious, dressed in pink and turquoise - looks like windbreaker.  Small ponytails stick out from her brown cheeks. She looks indigenous, either North American or South Asian.

I can see her so well because she appears in a flash of daylight -- which tells me in a split second, that she's not really there.  I blink, and the room is dark again.  I know she's gone, and fight the impulse to reach behind me to wake the Resident Fan Boy.

What I've seen is not terrifying, but I'm startled, and as I settle my head once again into my pillow, I hear my heart hammering.

Ghost of Christmas cats

A few months ago, a large lithe tabby joined our household.  Like Rum Tum Tugger, he's a curious cat.

Early morning, pre-dawn,  I'm standing by the bedside table, engaged in my morning routine. I'm applying lip balm, when I hear a strange noise.

The cat is crouched by the bedroom door, gazing out into the dark hall that leads into the living room.  He's giving that rising and falling growl that cats emit when threatened.

I peer out into the direction in which he's glaring.  Nothing, but it's dark.  I venture into the hall, turning on lights, and feeling rather creeped out.  Nothing.

I return to the bedroom, and the cat has vanished, except for irregular intervals, when I hear that growl.  I lie across our large bed, and hang my head over the edge to see underneath, where the cat is crouched, dead centre.  He's never hidden under the bed before.

I decide the wisest thing is to dress quickly, and get my shoes on.  All sorts of unpleasant possibilities race through my brain: an intruder, or some sort of feral animal - cats can see ghosts, can't they - and don't they sense imminent earthquakes?

I hastily insert my contact lenses and check the apartment again.  The Resident Fan Boy is bathing; younger daughter is in bed, reading her phone.  I retreat, and set to applying my makeup.

As I pull on my jacket, the cat emerges from under the bed by inches, slowly, slowly.  His ears are back, his spine is in a high arc, and his striped tail is like a bottle brush.  He creeps to the door, pauses, then crawls into the hall, smelling the floor and baseboards.  He continues in this fashion out to the living room, then returns through the kitchen, back to the hall, where he pauses by younger daughter's slightly ajar door to sniff some more.  I return to the master bedroom to collect my things.

By the time I depart to the coffee shop, the cat's body has relaxed, and I feel confident enough to stroke him.

Unnerving.

Whoops apocalypse

Oh gawd. Just before waking, I dreamt that Alex Trebek was gesturing to me, indicating the safe way to negotiate a sidewalk blocked and surrounded by some sort of construction. (Actually, a way of life in Victoria, which is in a frenzy of pipe replacement and condo-building these days.)

I reached a place of relative safety beside Mr Trebek, and we paused to chat about gardening decisions in the wake of the construction. I perused the plantations fronting what was apparently my building -- odd, considering it was neither my actual home, and I do not garden, but that's typical of my dreams, which usually involve things I don't do and places I don't frequent.

I turned to Alex Trebek, and he had flung his arm around the shoulder of William F. Buckley Junior - a big clue that this wasn't real - and then Alex Trebek made some sort of apocalyptic statement while gazing into what looked like molten lava bubbling out of the building. I struggled for a polite and appropriate remark, thinking: This is all very well for him; he'll be dead soon.

Then I thought: So will we all.

Not, on the whole, a pleasant vision from which to awake. I think world headlines must be getting to me: Australia blazing away, kids dying from the cold in Syria, locusts in East Africa, some dang virus causing people to stock up and racial-profile...

As for the real Alex Trebek, he doesn't seem to have any plans to die soon.

Ying-tong merrily on high

As November drifts out the back door, and Christmas barges in the front - wasn't Advent supposed to be a time of fasting and reflection? - we find our social life is picking up, which is something that never happened in Hades.

As a result, I was in the kitchen, having hauled out a simple recipe for an appetizer to take to a neighbours' do. The trouble is, there's no such thing as a "simple recipe"; they all seem to require a deal of chopping, so I fired up a CD I'd borrowed from the library - yes, I am a dinosaur - and eased the cutting time by listening to a blast from the recent past: a collection of the corniest and slyest from A Prairie Home Companion's latter years, interspersed with such choral offerings as "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" (Monty Python - yes, yes), "Be Prepared" (Tom Lehrer - yep, yep), and then, I positively paused in my chopping in bafflement. A tenor began with what sounded like an Eastern European lullaby, before the choir careened off into a frantic gabbling of nonsense, interrupted periodically, by horse whinnies, raspberries, and explosions.

As the track faded away, and I stood slack-jawed, I could just make out Garrison Keillor explaining to the audience that this had been "The Ying Tong Song" from the Goon Show.

Okay, that explained a lot.

Vocal Essence on A Prairie Home Companion - March 2012

I was aware of The Goon Show, mainly because I knew the Beatles were fans, and thus rather excited that their producer George Martin, and their film director Richard Lester had had dealings with Harry Secombe, Peter Sellers, and Spike Milligan. I'd had a listen to the Goons from time to time, but found their break-neck speed bewildering.

The song is damn catchy, though. I'm including the lyrics below, because they will be of no use to you whatever, but so you can sing along if you want, although I don't recommend it.

In fact, I suggest you skip this video altogether.

Why? Because this song is an insidious ear-worm, that's why.

I walked out this morning, and caught myself singing: "Ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-iddle-I-po..."
Bloody hell.

This is not a song you want to be singing to yourself on a public street. You get some hard stares.

Apparently, Spike Milligan had a war buddy, jazz musician Harry Edgington, and Harry Secombe had trouble pronouncing "Edgington", so Milligan would yell "Ying-Ton!"

I guess you had to be there.

I also gather, from the comment-field for this video, that "The Ying-Tong Song" has been used more than once at funerals, because of its sombre beginning that quickly veers into that crazy, demented chorus.

Imagine those poor mourners, finding themselves, days afterward, murmuring: "Ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-iddle-I-po..."

Diabolical.


Tenor: There's a song that I recall
My mother sang to me.
Spriggs (off): Oh! (a sigh)
Tenor: She sang it as she tucked me in
When I was ninety-three.

(harp plays a rising chord...)

Spriggs: I diddle, I. Who was that bum?

Bluebottle + Spriggs:
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po,
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong (bluebottle drops behind)
Ying tong iddle I po
Spriggs: Keep lad up. Keep.
Bluebottle: Keep up lad up.


Both: Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po
Spriggs: lad
Both: Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po (lad)
Iddle I po (lad)

Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong (Spriggs: iddle) (Bluebottle: ying tong)
Ying tong iddle I po
Ying tong ying tong iddle

Bluebottle (spoken):
Ying tong iddle I po!
(short raspberry, Secombe)

Both: Oh!
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po
Iddle I po!

(trumpet bit)

Bluebottle:
Ying. Ying tongy tongy.
Ying tong iddle I po.
Ying tong iddle I po.
(Secombe under this: What a lovely lovely boy!)
(or Secombe under this: What a lovely melody devine!)
Ying ying ying tongy tongy.
(Milligan: Get out the rifle, sir.)
(or Milligan: Get off the record.)
Yeeeng.
Ying tong ying tong d'gy-n'o.
Ying tong d'ga.
(Secombe: Get away.)
D'g d'g d'ga.
Ying tong iddle I po.

Seagoon:Hear that crazy rhythm
Driving me insane.
Strike your partner on the bonce (bonk?).
(thump)
Eccles: Ooh. I felt no pain.
(Seagoon screeches)

Seagoon, Bluebottle and Eccles:
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying...

(harp chord rises)

Soprano: Take me back to Vienna....

(Raspberry section, probably Milligan)

Bloodnok: Ohhhhh!
Eccles: Oh!

(harp chord)

Soprano: Take me back to Vienna, where the....

(crash!)

Seagoon, Spriggs and Bluebottle (far off):
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po

And so on, and so on....

Peeping Thomasinas

I was standing in my bedroom with my coat on, waiting for younger daughter to emerge from her own bedroom and gazing out the window, when I saw a woman peering around the corner into my room.

My bedroom is tucked in almost behind the pathway leading to our building's front door. This is usually not a problem; one would have to know that the window is there, and make the effort to lean around the partition -- which is what made this apparition disturbing.

I wasn't frightened, just a bit annoyed, even more so, when her companion, standing out on the sidewalk that follows the street, pointed me out, and the woman's fingers appeared as she gripped the wall to lean sideways to peer again.

I turned and stalked from the room. (I should have tugged the blind down.) I wondered what on earth was going on. Two units in our building are on the market. Were the women there for a viewing, and if so, where was their realtor, who would normally let them in? Were they visitors flummoxed by the entry-phone? Someone should tell them that looking into private windows is rather creepy.

I decided to leave by the side entrance in order to avoid them. No luck. As I rounded the corner into the small side parking lot, I nearly ran into the Peeping Thomasina, who was being followed, at a slight distance, by her companion, who smiled faintly at me as I passed. I returned a stony sidelong glance.

Younger daughter and I strode up the sidewalk en route to her voice lesson, as I suddenly wondered if the women had been able to slip into the building as younger daughter, trailing me by a few steps, exited.

"I was wondering if those two women in the parking lot...."
"What two women?"
"They passed us as we left."
"I didn't see them."

Great. Spooky as well as creepy.

"You don't understand my phrases"

As winter nights (and Donald Trump and his merry band) close in inexorably, I bury my head in art, drama, and music.

Recently, we went to see the New Zealand String Quartet (one of whom is actually a New Zealander) at the lovely Dominion-Chalmers United Church.

Younger daughter was furious, saying it would be too long and at night, but I felt her relaxing into a Haydn concerto, and stimming happily during a piece composed specifically for the NZSQ, which involved a playful popping bass-line (rather like that in "Somebody That I Used to Know"), and a lot of dramatic pauses to stretch on the part of the violinists.

The Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter made a quick exit during the intermission. Good thing -- the Schubert quintet that followed (with a guest cellist from the U of O faculty to make up the number) was lovely, but l-o-o-ong, especially when the regular cellist broke a string during the vigorous third movement, and had to vanish back stage for several moments.

I spent much of the time listening intently, of course, and following elder daughter's movements with my bird binoculars, as she slipped quietly into the darker recesses of the balcony to take snaps with my camera, to be published on social media -- part of her job as a communications and marketing specialist.

I recognized the second movement immediately, a summery, sleepy bit of beauty which brought out-of-focus green fields of tall grass to my mind's eye, and tried to remember which film this might have been. When I looked it up at home, I realized that it's the music that closes Conspiracy a dramatic, all-star imagining of the Wannsee Conference of 1942.



On Bank Street, largely and rather worryingly deserted at 10:30 on a Saturday evening, I searched for a bus stop where the shops weren't dark, and was accosted by a bag lady, who had a few conspiracy theories of her own. She even gave me the name of another lady who, she assured me, would tell me a different story.

"You don't understand my phrases," she said.

She was right, there.

Only in Britain

So Absolute Radio in England was collecting listeners' memories of their dead dogs (as you do), and someone got the idea of putting these to music and making a loopy video. Would this happen anywhere else?

I've been "memed"! (7 weird things about me)

I'm a virgin blogger no longer! P., author of What Possessed Me (a blog that takes a minute or so to load, but is well worth the wait), has tagged me for a "meme". I'm a little vague on the rules for these things, but I'm going to answer the meme challenge "Seven Weird Things About Me", then tag other bloggers and pray they don't curse me so I'll have to stay in Hades forever:

1. I can cross one eye. If I really want to flip someone out, I cross one eye, then both, or the other way around.

2. This has been the subject of another post on prosopagnosia, but I don't remember people's faces on a pretty regular basis, yet I ace the tests meant to identify people with face blindness. I'm either a really good guesser in test situations, or am more socially inept (or lazy) than I thought. Possibly both.

3. I've haven't set foot in a McDonald's since --- well, never you mind how long, but it's been a fine stretch of years. I worked there for five hellish months when I was seventeen going on eighteen and vowed I would never return. Ottawa may be Hades, but McDonald's truly is the Den of Despair. I count this as weirdness-in-other-people's-eyes, because they don't believe I mean it until I refuse to go in with them. Wouldn't even take my girls there; the Resident Fan Boy had to do it. Elder daughter now owns a DVD of Super Size Me, and refuses to go as well.

4. I don't own or operate a cell phone, nor do I drive. This is another weirdness-in-others'-eyes item. I don't find my life untenable without either device; the only difficulty is the assumption by others that everyone has a car or mobile: "It's not far; it's only about 15 minutes. Take the Queensway..." "I don't have a car." "Oh."

5. I am incapable of getting stoned more than three times per year. Mind you, the last time I got stoned was when I was 24, so I haven't tested this in a while. I found, in my misspent youth, that I couldn't get stoned for several weeks after a nice session with grass or hash. (Just as well. Couldn't afford it anyway.) This may also be why I never became addicted to cigarettes, despite smoking regularly between the ages of 13 and 20.

6. I'm related by marriage to Len Cariou. Not weird per se, but you have to understand, that he's married to my fifth cousin. Yes, I'm a family historian, and when I try to explain my hobby to most people, their eyes glaze over, even if they're in my family... I think, for sheer dottiness, genealogists rank somewhere between train-spotters and bird-watchers.

7. When I was a little girl, I used to purposely scare myself silly by lying awake at night and imagining how real I was. I don't know how I did this; I can't do it anymore.

There. Now to alienate a couple of fellow-bloggers: I tag Marie, author of the witty and touching novel Gods Behaving Badly (go buy it, it's great!) and the highly engaging blog The Woman Who Talked Too Much, and Jonas the US Poet Laureate Presumptive (who also appears to be channeling Vladimir Nabokov [as in Pale Fire]), author of the new blog Poetry in Motion. I notice he hasn't written in it in over a week. I do hope his poetic duties haven't forced him to give it up...