Calculating

...and December flits by like an Anna's hummingbird: here for the blink of an eye, then vanished out of sight, leaving nothing but a sound rather like a clicking abacus.

This is the first Christmas in some years where I have felt Christmassy for a sustained period. It's probably because we're Christmassing our new dwelling, marking it with the holidays, much as a cat rubbing around my ankles.

Elder daughter has returned to be with us for twenty days. It's the eighteenth day. Already.

It's also the seventh day of Christmas, as we tremble with trepidation on the threshold of one far too interesting year into the, as yet, blank face of 2020.

I wish you and yours all the possible joy of it, and that much joy may be possible, all evidence to the contrary. Perhaps it's better if we pass through the evidence, and create some better evidence. Whaddaya say? Who's with me? (What's that clicking noise?)

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....

Bone idle

This time last year, I was locked out of my blog, and making almost daily descents down Linden Avenue, from Fernwood, through Rockland, then down into Fairfield.

Almost exactly a year ago, I glanced to my left, and was halted by this sight.

Someone having trouble letting go of Hallowe'en? A social commentary on texting? The ghost of Christmas Future?

Bye-bye November. Advent begins in earnest tomorrow.

What message is being sent?

I had completely forgotten this INSX video from 1984.  It baffled me then, and does now - not because of the headphones and sock feet.  The band was filmed in an ancient Buddhist temple in Tokyo, Japan, and they couldn't make any noise, so mimed in time with music played in their ears.

I am a bit puzzled about the geisha and her handlers, but then, I am no expert on the Willow World.


I also don't know why this video is only available at Daily Motion.  In these days of cultural appropriation, is it considered inappropriate?

Facebook follies by fellas

I've had the odd inadvertent adventure in social media.  Some very odd.

Recently, I posted a quick comment on the "Old Victoria" page, a Facebook group I've seriously contemplated leaving more than once, as it's often a hotbed for political grumblings - largely directed at our current mayor - and the usual wearying men (it's always men, somehow) who troll the comments of others.

Some guy had begun the morning with a memory question, which he jokingly called a way to unmask "imposters".  (There had been a recent reminder from the group administrators that only those with some actual connection to Victoria could be members.)

Well, you can imagine.  Someone ignited at the word "imposters" and let fly.  Others flew to the bewildered poster's defense, and he was posting parting shots.

I decided to post my own, remembering a distant brief period when there were local bumper stickers, emblazoned with such devices as:  Pave the Gorge and Ski Mount Tolmie - unremarkable unless you live in Victoria, and know that the Gorge is a waterway, and Mount Tolmie is more like a very steep hill in the centre of the suburbs.

I added that this was a "playful" test for imposters, and that I knew that the original poster of the "imposter" had meant to tease, not torment.  Having grown up in British Columbia, I know when BC guys are leg-pulling.

Eventually, I had something like 75 likes and 85 comments - more than I've received on anything I've put online, even though this was mostly people chatting to one another and not to me.  I didn't mind.

It was a cross-section of everything that is right, and, as it turned out, almost everything that is wrong with the group -- and perhaps with social media in general.

One youngish fella - meaning to be funny, I suspect - said that only people over the age of 100 would get the jokes.  While I was replying mildly that I was in my twenties in the era of the bumper stickers and still managed to "get" them, a guy I'd known in junior high leapt to my defense (I think), saying, "Whoaa...hold on there!"

Some other guy remarked that you needed to be over 100 to be considered a "true" Victorian, and for some reason, Youngish Fella flew off the handle, telling him that he didn't know what he was talking about, being from Nanaimo, and to *&%$ off.

I stayed out of this particular fray, but an administrator deleted the comment.  Youngish Fella reappeared and accused Nanaimo Guy of being a dip@#&%.

The administrators reminded the group about "coarse language", and here's where things got truly silly.  Several men (they're always men, aren't they?) started going on about Freedom Of Expression, and one even posted a gif of Rodney King.

Rodney King, so far as I can recall, was beaten to a pulp by the L.A. police for being black, right?  Not for dropping f-bombs in a private Facebook group.

*Sigh*  For the most part, I have found the historical aspects of "Old Victoria" a gentle pleasure.  I'd hate to be driven away by the foolishness of fatuous fellas.

Hazards of living in Victoria

I'm headed for the pharmacy, when a motorized wheelchair wheelchair whizzes by, on my left.

I can't help myself.

"Oooh!" I gasp, softly - I think.

The gentleman glides to a stop, and waits for me to catch up.

"Did I startle you?"
"Yes, a little."
"Well, they say I should used my horn."
"But that would startle me even more!  You can't win!"
"That's right!"
"You could call out, 'Good Morning'" I suggest.
"Or, 'Coming up on your left!'"
"Even better!"

We both wish each other good day, and he zips off.

Imagine this happening in Hades.  I can't.

Sounds good to me

 Look.  According to my FitBit, I've walked 21,000 paces today.  (Younger daughter had a song competition, among other things.)  I'm wiped, and running out of day.

The spring before last, I had the pleasure of hearing Lucy Wainwright Roche, a daughter of Louden Wainwright III and Suzzy Roche [of The Roches], in concert with her half-brother Rufus Wainwright.

Spotify sent me this gem, where LWR sings with another three-barrelled name, Mary Chapin Carpenter, another firm favourite of mine.

Have a listen.  I'm dragging myself off to bed, where I hope to lie comfortably in my own quiet line.

Siding with the angels

The more I look at the news, the more I miss Mr. Rogers.

I don't think he was a saint - he certainly didn't think so - but I think he was on the side of the angels, and it's remarkable how much what he said is close in message and meaning to the Dalai Lama - someone else who would deny sainthood, but is on the side of the light. Both men were/are highly disciplined spiritually, and in an almost indefinable way, available and elusive at the same time.

Take this past weekend - and you may.  It was a bit of a minefield with younger daughter, whose anxieties, for a multitude of possible reasons, have been particularly acute.

It seemed the right time to saunter down to the cinema, enduring the half-hour of commercials and promotions (because we're not good at finding our seats in the dark), to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood, with America's 21st century version of Jimmy Stewart, Tom Hanks.

This is a story "inspired by real events", so we've been warned it's largely made up, and this is emphasized by the introduction, which moves the plot from an imagined Mr Rogers' Neighborhood episode in Pittsburgh to New York by means of the miniature cityscapes of the sort that began each show.  You can tell that the toy cars are being moved by unseen human hands.  Seeing as Fred Rogers himself was always very clear about the difference between reality and make-believe, this is very appropriate.

I won't go into the story, which is based upon (okay, inspired by) a magazine article written by a journalist who is renamed for the movie.  It's a tale that pretty well anyone in the audience will recognize, and see the parallels of, in their own lives.  The Resident Fan Boy thought of his late parents and almost wept; I thought of my complicated relationship with my father, and my shortcomings as a mother, and didn't weep.  Heaven knows what younger daughter thought about, but she reported that she liked the movie.

It is well-written, well-acted, and believable, even if not literally true.  There is a remarkable moment in a coffee shop, where Fred Rogers, ever solicitous, ever elusive, asks the troubled journalist to perform one of Rogers' favourite spiritual exercises:  thinking, for ten seconds (it seems longer), of the person or persons who "have loved us into being."  The astonishing thing was the palpable silence that fell upon the audience at our cinema-showing.  It was quite a bit like the Silence that descends upon the Quakers at a Friends' meeting for worship.

There were a few musical surprises for me in the film; songs I've loved.  Only one of them reminded me of the 1990s in which the story is set.  It's a song by Tracy Chapman entitled "The Promise".  It's really not got much to do with Mr Rogers - yet it does, rather like the film has surprisingly little to do with Mr Rogers, yet is all about him.

Clouds in my coffee

I never wanted to become one of those people who take pictures of their food.

However, sometimes, I become painfully aware of the transiency of life, and of lattés, in particular.

It's also a kind of Rorschach test. For example, what do you see here?

How about if I stir the coffee? (I admit it's a different coffee on a different day.)

I see a profile silhouette in the first, and a bird on a perch in the second. Not being a trained professional, I can't tell you if I'm deranged or not, although taking pictures of one's beverages is probably not a good sign...

Did I dream this?

In one of the more surreal videos from the eighties, here's Breeding Ground in Toronto from about 1986. Molly Johnson was guest-singing with them, and this was, I think, my first exposure to her.