American Fez

Every Day Opera

Last night, while listening to the Die Obamaramadung section of Wagner's opera Farcical for the first time, I was extremely surprised to discover that the Fat Lady begins singing, quite loudly, in the first act. Of course, the Emperor-has-no-clothes theme is as old as the Bavarian Alps, but this opera's Emperor-has-no-clue plot is apparently even older. Based on ancient myths of the Clinton clans, the protean hero must confront the sub-human Congressmen and demand the fabled "stimulus" from them.
Frankly, I found the whole thing rather ridiculous and contrived, but the most dismal part of the recording was when former New York Metropolitan star Rudolph Julieandrews warbled his senile aria: "If you somehow take that (Wall Street banker) bonus out of the economy, it really will create unemployment. It means less spending in restaurants, less spending in department stores, so everything has an impact."
Oh how I wish Wagner would compose another opera as good as his brilliant Das Rheingold Standard.

Not Tonight, Benzedrine

"Cuirassier and cuirassier!" exclaimed Alice as the ever-shrinking Napoleonic parade passed by, a gleaming procession of mounted walruses wearing breastplates and helmets.
"They are retreating from Costco," the White Rabbit said. "Because they forgot to bring their membership card along and therefore couldn't take advantage of the great savings to be enjoyed."
"We are not retreating," protested the nearest cuirassier. "We are advancing backwards to the Price Point from which we set out in order to take it by surprise."
"Able was I ere I saw Elba on a brand new sixty-inch plasma TV at an unbeatable value," agreed Napoleon. "Everything looks so much better in Tweedle H. Dee."

Things To Do as the Long Winter Nights Draw In

I spent most of the weekend locked in my dance studio, developing a new movement discipline that combines elements of traditional Scottish and Spanish forms. It's called Highland Flingmenco and the steps are very easy to learn.
To an accompaniment of bagpipes and castanets, the dance begins by banging your head violently against the far wall for five beats, as if you were blind drunk. As the music swells, gallop haphazardly around the room pretending to be a bull by snorting and holding your fists to the side of your head with the index fingers extended forwards. Then, when the castanets suddenly stop, stand still in the middle of the dance floor, swaying precariously on your feet, and point aggressively into the middle distance at nobody in particular. Finally, as the last notes from the bagpipes fade into silence, launch yourself forward and fling your body out of the nearest window. This will be the signal for your dance partner to take center stage. Dressed as a figure in mourning from a painting by Degas with a kilt on, he or she will immediately collapse on to the floor, weeping uncontrollably.
After a respectful interval of five minutes or so, the castanets will pick up the rhythm again. Your partner will rise slowly and unsteadily from the floor and begin beating their heads against the far wall, before following all the steps described above. Repeat until you and your partner are either concussed or completely fed up.
If you are interested in studying this unique and rewarding dance form, I provide private and discreet lessons at a specially reduced rate for people who read this blog of just $500 per hour: weekdays, evenings and weekends only.

Men's Problems

My personal dignity, sense of style and I are analyzing the possibilities of growing a beard upon my face. Needless to say, "due diligence" requires that a sort of Grand Council of the Ego be convened to negotiate matters relating to the proposed beard: planning permission must be granted by the Department of Dignity; designs must be submitted for approval by the Board of Style; and then I suppose I must award myself the contract to begin cultivating the necessary hairs.
But first things first. Slow and steady always wins the race with beards. And so my Ego's Grand Council must spend several days negotiating many important matters relating to the beard's eventual construction. For instance, what form should this architecture of hair take? And what facial function? Will it be structurally sound? Should it be?
Ignoring the upper-lip for the present, the so-called "mustache" section of flying buttress hairs, if we consider that the beard will conform, a priori, to normal beard conventions - that is to say, it will appear as an inverted arch - then the Grand Council must ask itself serious questions regarding the foundation layer of stubble, and henceforth the overall impact of the future arrangement of sprouting and curling hairs upon the landscape of my face. For example, should this inverted arch of beard be constructed in the Gothic Arch manner? Roman Arch? Or Moorish? And more to the point, can we hire the Sir Christopher Wren of chins? Do we want a dome effect? One that echoes? A whispering gallery, perhaps? What would I.M. Pei think? What would he think of a "goatee"? Should he even be told about it?
Such problems of facial geometry occur with greater frequency as one's jaw begins to recede with the onset of .....

(this essay is continued as Topic 85b, Link # 3482 at www.tedious_topics.com/really_boring_beard_talk)

Spirits of the Brain Dead

Surely the eeriest, most disturbing aspect of "The Unknown" is that we know so much about it. Cable television devotes zillions of hours of broadcast time to this perennially popular subject; mostly under-lit docu-dramas presented by bald-headed men with goatee beards sat inside prismatic crystal skulls. Meanwhile, an out-of-focus and curiously earthbound Moth Man buzzes around in a shaky flashlight beam on You Tube; a bug-eyed blogger writes himself into circles about crop circles and stone circles; witchcraft and wizard supplies are available in your local High Street, just add water, light a candle, chant for a minute or two, and then wait for your aura to turn from red to green. Did you know that nine-out-of-ten suburban Zoroastrians keep their homunculi in a tupperware container?
Exhaustive studies are continually written about The Unknown: endless shelves of books about being propositioned by ghosts, having close encounters with UFOs, sighting the Loch Ness monster or one of the many other photo opportunities that go bump in the night; and as for Bigfoot, well, we even know what size shoes he takes (size 14.5). In fact, publishers print more paragraphs about the paranormal than they do books of self-help advice, Bloomsbury Group biographies, and collections of lesbian erotica (probably because these three subjects often amount to pretty much the same thing).
But fortunately one mystery of The Unknown does remain unsolved: why ostensibly sensible people waste their money on all this worthless phantasmic junk? Now that is an uncanny fact of life.

Windows into the Coming Year

Looking both backwards and forwards at the same time, Janus is the Roman god with two faces after whom the month of January is named. Of course, possessing two faces means he has two noses, which must be incredibly inconvenient in this chill winter weather, since it means suffering from twice the nasal drip of ordinary mortals when he catches a cold and gets all stuffed up.

At the beginning of 2009 we treated Janus's backward-facing nostrils with soothing Olde Stephenesque Vapor Elixir, and his forward-facing sinuses with another leading brand of nasal spray. Within three weeks he already feels much better looking into the past than he does into the future. So, what does this mean for the year ahead?
Get out your handkerchiefs.

If I May Speak Perfectly Franklin

Benjamin Franklin supposedly claimed that there were only two certainties in this life: death and taxes.  Yet there is surely a third certainty: that you can always cheat on your taxes if you work in the death business, so the old kite-flying enthusiast was wrong, as usual.
But speaking as the proprietor of Stephenesque's Fantasy Funeral Homes, I am not here to discuss Benjamin Franklin's mental disorders and frivolous hobbies. Unless you require a full critique of the man's penny-strewn grave in Philadelphia, Franklin remains a stranger to me. He may have signed the Declaration of Independence but I sign the checks, if you know what I mean (although not the ones to the IRS obviously).
Anyway, you are probably asking the question why I, the proprietor of Stephenesque's Fantasy Funeral Homes, am addressing these profound words to you today? Is it to promote my new "Beowulf" fantasy funeral service, wherein the deceased is painted gold from head to foot and then cremated in the nude for all to see? Is it to advertise my fabulous range of fantasy coffins, which include the Victorian Mahogany Long-Box, the Augustan Marble Sepulchre, the "Yellow Submarine" for specialty burials at sea, the perennially popular budget-priced Pine Needle scented model, and the recently much-in-demand square-shaped Family Pack? Or am I merely a smug, sanctimonious funeral director who just enjoys the sound of his own cloying voice?
Well, as that pedantic bore Benjamin Franklin once mumbled into his beer, we must "all hang together or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately," and so, unfortunately, since these paragraphs of mine don't seem to hang together at all, I suppose I shall have to answer the question in a separate blog entirely. For I believe the elderly drunkard Franklin also said that "by failing to prepare you are preparing to fail," and I am certainly guilty of not only failing to prepare my taxes, but also failing to prepare this essay, which we must now consider to be a complete waste of time for which I apologize.
Meanwhile, if you are interested in buying one of my fine, luxury coffins, I will throw in a free catafalque. Cash only, please, we don't want any paper trails.

Kenmore Square: The Land That Public Works Forgot

Although Roald Amundsen was the first man to conquer the North Pole, he died regretting that he never managed to complete his circumnavigation of Kenmore Square in Boston, Massachusetts. This infamous icebound New England neighborhood proved to be one frozen hell too far even for that brave explorer. Kenmore's giant ice floes, inhospitable tundra and man-eating college students were a frigid challenge the intrepid Norwegian simply could not face.
But I am determined to reach this winter wasteland where snow plough and gritting machine dare not venture. Indeed, I have already established base camp on a northwestern passage of Commonwealth Avenue, using sheets of waterproof tarpaulin, abandoned Boston University classroom furniture and a local Starbucks as a temporary haven from the freezing winds. Soon my fearless team of dog-sleds and I will penetrate the forbidding center of the square itself. And then, after planting the flag, I'm going to open up a Pizza Igloo franchise.

Stone Faced

From the Neo-Cons to the Obama-Cons, there are simply far too many cons and not enough pros. Indeed, that recent rogues gallery in Washington of American Presidents past, present and yet-to-come, a motley crew if ever there was one, recalled to mind the mystery of those empty-eyed, slab-foreheaded, stone statues on Easter Island: who erected such monstrosities and why?

Hopefully, future generations will judge our absurd democratic system to be merely the archaic and deluded ritual of an uncivilized, apathetic and chronically insecure collection of bottom-feeding invertebrates. After all, there really is little intellectual between the primitive, chanting weirdos of Easter Island and the gullible voters of the modern USA: just take a look at Mount Rushmore if you don't believe me.

Recession Reminisce

Wedgewood, the British pottery company famous for manufacturing fragile objects that sit stoutly on your mantelpiece or lounge elegantly in your china cabinet, is tottering on the edge of bankruptcy.
Many years ago I had a cameo in a film about Wedgewood. I had to cover myself in white flour and  pose in profile against a pale blue background. The name of the film was Jasper Ware and the Case of the Waterford Adminstrator.

(An Idiots Guide To This Post: the term "cameo" and the name "Jasper Ware" are both dry puns employed by the author, me, to engender minor levels of mirth.)

Healthy Skin Tips

My skin has been especially dry recently, peeling off my face in great, long, curly strips like a medieval scroll and necessitating a visit to my local dermatologist.
"Idiot. I said use an exfoliant, not a defoliant!" Dr Gleedle screamed as he confiscated my can of Agent Orange.
"I've been spraying that on my oily t-zone three times a day." I told him. "It has been reducing the shine a little bit even if my complexion is a lot redder.
Eventually he calmed down, suggesting that I should restrict my beauty regimen to a simple face mask worn every night.
But choosing the right face mask for me proved to be a complicated and frustrating task. I was torn between a cheap, plastic Incredible Hulk that fastened around my head with an elastic string, and the far more expensive Sauron The Dark Lord costume mask that was expertly fashioned from latex rubber. Of course, the sales clerk was absolutely no help when I asked him which one was best for troublesome pimples.
Anyway, in the end I plumped for the Sauron since at least it sort of sounded like a bona-fide cosmetic ingredient: Sauron Peroxide or something like that.
I've been wearing it to bed each evening, just like Dr Gleedle recommended. My skin isn't much better, but my girlfriend claims our sex life has improved immeasurably.

2009's Movers and Shakers

Israel moving into Gaza; Barack Obama moving into Washington DC; Pluto moving into the fourth house of Capricorn; and hordes of hapless families moving out of their improvidently mortgaged homes. These are obviously the prime and sub-prime movers so far this year. But what of the Shakers? Well, as far as I can tell the United Society of Believers still doesn't believe in procreation which means that their numbers are ever-increasingly decreasing; a great shame because I desperately need a craftsman to fix the joints on my rocking chair.
On the whole, then, it seems that 2009 will be a topsy-turvey time for people's furniture, as it is either blown apart by Israeli tanks, damaged while in transit from Chicago, left on the sidewalk in the rain outside repossessed properties, or simply dumped in my basement because it is unsafe to sit upon.