Freaks and Geeks… and Greeks: A Prelude
I attended a free swing dance lesson this afternoon, as I did several times toward the tail end of '09. The lads remain in one position and the lasses periodically shift one bloke to the right (their left), until the girl at the end walks all the way back to the other end, like returning the register on an old typewriter. One particularly bright eyed lass informed me that she was in a sorority, and that several of the other distaff dancers were her sorority sisters. She asked me if I was in a fraternity and seemed genuinely surprised that I was not. Later, when the company was dispersing, she invited me to a party at a fraternity house with which her sorority is affiliated. I would have accepted, Project MERCATOR demands no less, but I was under obligation to my father, to attend and take photographs at the Prime Ribs and Politics dinner, organized by his pals—yes, his pals, not mine—in the U of M-Flint College Republicans. I prophecy that there shall be similar invitations in my future; I will report again when all this comes to its predictable, inevitable bad end.
Apropos of nothing else, poetry!
"The Story of Uriah"
by Rudyard Kipling
"Now there were two men in one city;
the one rich, and the other poor."
Jack Barrett went to Quetta
Because they told him to.
He left his wife at Simla
On three-fourths his monthly screw.
Jack Barrett died at Quetta
Ere the next month's pay he drew.
Jack Barrett went to Quetta.
He didn't understand
The reason of his transfer
From the pleasant mountain-land.
The season was September,
And it killed him out of hand.
Jack Barrett went to Quetta
And there gave up the ghost,
Attempting two men's duty
In that very healthy post;
And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him
Five lively months at most.
Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta
Enjoy profound repose;
But I shouldn't be astonished
If now his spirit knows
The reason of his transfer
From the Himalayan snows.
And, when the Last Great Bugle Call
Adown the Hurnai throbs,
And the last grim joke is entered
In the big black Book of Jobs.
And Quetta graveyards give again
Their victims to the air,
I shouldn't like to be the man
Who sent Jack Barrett there.
The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Fountains of Wayne, "Comedienne" from Out-of-State Plates, Disco Two (T.L.A.M.)
Commentary: The R.B.D.S.O.T.D. is often chosen for whimsical reasons, but not today. I've felt like the titular comedienne all day, and then again when I watched in slightly horror-tinged resignation as my father turn what could have been a rousing campaign speech into another lunatic tirade, I had the same thought over and over again:
"Comedienne, please make up your mind.
Are you laughing or crying?
Are you killing or dying tonight?"
5 comments:
I'm just going to use this opportunity to vote that you update your template so I don't have to click on posts to see if there are any comments. I know, I know, selling out or whatever, but it's annoying to have to click on all the posts.
I know, it's wicked annoying having to click on each individual post just to see if there are any comments. There really is no choice but to change The Secret Base's template. I've known that for a little while now, but you know how little I like change. And I've had this template from the beginning of The Secret Base, eight years ago this month.
I'll take this weekend to see what templates are on offer.
None of them are great but I don't think they're particularly egregious or anything. Most are relatively simple, like this one.
It's not that I think this is even a particularly good template, it's just that I've had it for so long that I can scarcely imagine The Secret Base looking any different. I am tempted to wait and not upgrade to a new template until 21 February, the eighth anniversary of the founding of The Secret Base, but I very well might make the change this weekend, while it's at the front of my mind.
"I didn't sell out, son, I bought in."
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