THE BEATLES - A THOUSAND YEARS FROM NOW

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"YULE HORROR", BY H.P. LOVECRAFT

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

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MUST BE SANTA, ONCE AGAIN

All this Christmas-stuff is making blogging a tiny bit difficult. Pressed for time and all that stuff.

While we do what we have to do before Santa comes calling, we tend to play Mr. Zimmerman's latest. I've already shared his video to Must Be Santa with you, my dear readers. That song made me search YouTube for more Christmas polka. And I found this, a live version of the same song, by the kings of modern American polka, Brave Combo:



You sort of hear where Dylan got his inspiration ...
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TO BE OR ... WHAT TO BE?

Brian Cox happens to be one of The Dodologist's favourite actors. He also turns out to be a great teacher. Here he is teaching young Theo a not entirely unfamous monologue by some Danish prince:



Priceless, isn't it? Though as someone points out in the comments on YouTube: "I don't know. Cute, yes, but his performance lacked substance. I had trouble feeling any real inner torment from him. I think Hamlet should be cast a little older, in my humble opinion."

Some of the discussions between teacher and student reminded me of this little dialogue, that I found on the website of Twitter favourite @lipstattoo.

– You remind me of the babe.
– What babe?
– Babe with the power.
– What power?
– Power of Voodoo.
– Who do?
– You do.
– Do what?
– Remind me of the babe.
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Thanks to Trond for bringing it to my attention.
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MUST BE MR. ZIMMERMAN (AND THAT SANTA DUDE)

The Dodologist isn’t among the biggest fans of Robert Allan Zimmerman. He has made some good records, by all means, but as being of his biggest fans means never listening to anything else, The Dodologist limits himself to liking Mr. Zimmerman.

But, as The Dodologist’s wife was very clear that Mr. Zimmerman's Christmas record was destined for The Nest, off His Grumpiness went, ho-ho-ho-ing.

And lo and behold what a good idea that was. It’s playing right now and it’s great fun. Yep, it actually sounds like Mr. Zimmerman is having fun. Now that’s a real surprise for Christmas.

Whatever, here is the man, singing William Fredericks and Hal Moore’s Must Be Santa. Now that’s what we needed: Christmas polka.



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FOUR POEMS BY DOROTHY PARKER

A Very Short Song

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.



Inventory

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I’d been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.



I Shall Come Back

I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply;
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity-
A mild and most bewildered little shade.
I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid,
But softly come where I had longed to be
In April twilight's unsung melody,
And I, not you, shall be the one afraid.

Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead
I shall come back to you, who hurt me most.
You may not feel my hand upon your head,
I'll be so new and inexpert a ghost.
Perhaps you will not know that I am near-
And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear.



Portrait Of The Artist

Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.

Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair,
With hempen cord go bind me,
And, of your mercy, leave me there,
Nor tell them where to find me.

Oh, lock the portal as you go,
And see its bolts be double….
Come back in half an hour or so,
And I will be in trouble.


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ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS ...

Christmas is closing in, and it is time for those familiar sounds that create that very special Christmassy feeling:

Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, Eartha Kitt moaning Santa Baby, a bunch of adorable little boys singing carols in some English church. And of course this tender classic from the Australian folkie Kevin “Bloody” Wilson:



For some reason The Dodologist seems to be the only one who finds this funny …
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THEIR PALL FOOT FOOT

In a comment to my last post, my good friend, themostexellent Lord Bassington-Bassington, reminded me of the once existence of The Shaggs. I haven't heard them in years, so I just had to dig them up on YouTube and share this, their, eh ... best ... sort off ... in a weird sense ... track with you, my dear readers.

As it was the last time I heard it, some ten years ago, it is still fascinating and sort of catchy, in a very, very painful way. Enjoy! The lyrics are below.

If you don't know The Shaggs, read Wikipedias article on them.


My Pal Foot Foot

My pal's name is Foot Foot (Foot Foot)
He always likes to roam
My pal's name is Foot Foot (Foot Foot)
I never find him home

I go to his house
Knock at his door
People come out and say
Foot Foot don't live here no more

My pal Foot Foot (Foot Foot)
Always likes to roam
My pal Foot Foot (Foot Foot)
Now he has no home

Where will Foot Foot go
What will Foot Foot do
Oh, Foot Foot
I wish I could find you

I've looked here, I've looked there
I've looked everywhere
Oh, Foot Foot
Why can't I find you?

Foot Foot, where can you be?
Foot Foot, why won't you answer me?
Foot Foot, Oh Foot Foot
Wherever you are
I want you to come home with me

I don't have time to roam
I have things to do
I have to go home
Oh, Foot Foot, where are you?

If Foot Foot didn't like to roam so well
He would still have a place to dwell
Foot Foot, please answer me
I know where you are
You're behind that tree

Foot Foot, please come to me
Foot Foot, now that you're here
Won't you come home
Foot Foot, promise me this
That you will never again roam
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TOMORROW BELONGS TO ... ME?

Irony is difficult stuff – especially if you are really good at it – because people all to easily misunderstand.

Wikipedia defines irony as “… the expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite”. In other words: Saying one thing, but meaning the opposite.

Over at Harry’s Place they are making fun of Swedish Neo Nazi folkstress Saga, because she sings the song Tomorrow Belongs To Me – from the musical Cabaret.

Making fun of Saga is always a good thing, not the least because her version of the song is unspeakably dreadful. (Though you’ve got to hand it to her: At least she sings in tune – in itself rather remarkable among Neo Nazi singers, as Prussian Blue time and again has demonstrated.)

For one thing Cabaret was an all out anti Nazi musical, and as such it is rather remarkable that Saga performs the song. For another, as Harrys’s Place enjoys pointing out, Fred Ebb, who wrote the lyrics to Cabaret, was Jewish. And gay. Not the most popular personality traits among Nazis. (So was John Kander, who wrote the music, by the way.)

The point of the song, as someone pointed out in a comment to one of many versions on YouTube, is that bad ideas don’t present themselves as bad ideas. They present themselves as – and more important: are considered by the people who hold them to be – good and noble. The Nazis were a bad lot – because their political ideas where really bad stuff. But they considered themselves brave defenders of nation, volk and family – and surrounded by enemies to on all sides.

As do Saga, Prussian Blue (or at least their mother) and most Neo Nazis of today. And they are right to consider themselves surrounded by enemies. At least we do our very best. Tomorrow do definitely not belong to them.

But the real irony of the story, I guess, is that the man who adopted Tomorrow Belongs To Me as a Neo Nazi hymn, in all probability knew exactly what he was doing. He was the skinmeister himself, Ian Stuart Donaldson of Skrewdriver, who recorded the song for their 1984 album Hail The New Dawn.

A lot can be said about Stuart Donaldson – most of it bad – but he wasn’t stupid. Recording Tomorrow Belongs To Me was an act of sheer arrogance: You may make caricatures of our beliefs, but we’ll adopt them and use them as our own. It was an act of real chutzpah, to use a very, very inappropriate term.

Some people within the Neo Nazi scene know this very well. I believe Joe Owens points it out in his autobiography. (Though I’ll be damned if I’m going to check. Reading it once was enough.) Others though, tend to speak of the song as traditional, as they do with The Green Fields Of France by Eric Bogle, another folkie tune Ian Stuart Donaldson recorded. (So does, by the way, Wikipedia's article on him. Funny that.)

There is probably some moral to this story, but I’m uncertain of what it may be. Except to beware of Nazis, even when they are singing gay Jewish tunes.

Here is the song from the movie version of Cabaret (a dubbed version, though that's hard to notice). And below that are the lyrics.




Tomorrow belongs to me

The sun on the meadow is summery warm
The stag in the forest runs free
But gathered together to greet the storm
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

The branch on the linden is leafy and green
The Rhine gives it's gold to the sea
But somewhere a glory awaits unseen
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

The babe in his cradle is closing his eyes
The blossom embraces the bee
But soon says a whisper, arise, arise
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

Now Fatherland, Fatherland, show us the sign
Your children have waited to see
The morning will come when the world is mine
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

Tomorrow belongs
Tomorrow belongs
Tomorrow belongs to me!


I don’t link to Nazis, even on YouTube. If you want to hear Saga’s version (and believe me, you don’t) search for it yourselves.
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BAD CHRISTMAS JOKES – THE RERUN

Last December, on a now extinct Norwegian blog, His Grumpiness ran a string of posts with Christmas jokes; all of them funny, though maybe not all of them in the best of taste.

To avoid the temptation to be too lazy and once again post them in bits and pieces, here are the ones worth repeating:


















If that did not make you laugh, you are on the wrong blog.
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FAVOURITE PAINTINGS: ECCE ANCILLA DOMINI

Click pic for larger version

Dante Gabrile Rossetti's Ecce Ancilla Domini (aka The Annunciation) was painted in 1850, and is thus one of the earliest Pre-Raphaelite paintings. The model for Mary is Rossetti's sister, the poet Christina Rossetti.

As so often in Rossetti's paintings, the perspective is rather weird. But the highly emotional portrayal of Mary makes it a stunning picture, one of Rossetti's best actually.

It is also, as often is the case with Pre-Raphaelite pictures, rather small: 73 x 41,9 cm.

Ecce Ancilla Domini is owned by Tate Gallery. The Victorian Web has an interesting analysis.
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IN MR. HILL'S GARDEN (OF LOVE)

Deep thoughts ought to be thought, but in the dodological corner no great thinking is being done at the moment.

As both love and horticulture are important to civilizations continued existence, The Dodologist instead presents the everfunny Benny Hill’s ode to both: My Garden of Love:



Great song, isn’t it? And in the tradition of the last days on this blog, there is of course a veryfunnuy fungus-joke.
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LOVECRAFTIAN JOKES

All this talk of Lovecraft and fungi, drove me to dig out some favourite lovecraftian jokes from my archives:


“You Goth?”

“No, I’m just a Fun Guy”


So Nyarlahotep pops across to the library where Cthulhu’s actually a bit more rugose and squamous then usual. And he says, what’s up?

And Cthulhu says “Rl’yeh fthagn, ahem! Blimey! Sorry, phlegm. Bit ill, actually.”

So Nyarlahotep rubs three of his pseudopods together and says, “I have just the thing!”

And he leads the mighty Elder One across the non-Euclidean town sqaure, down a dodgy back alley, where an eldritch couple of debt collectors are lurking.

And Nyarlahotep says:

“Here’s that sick squid I owe you.


“Waiter! Waiter! There’s a dead squid in my soup!”

“It’s not dead, Sir. It’s just dreaming.”


HP Lovecraft and August Derleth are sitting at an al fresco cafe on the abominable plateau of Leng. Sipping absinthe, as you do. It’d be a nice place if it wasn’t for the maddening cyclopean architecture with the obviously alien non-Euclidean geometry, but it’s the only spot for unthinkably vast distances and it’s got a lovely view, so you make do.

As they sit there, the ground before becomes disturbed by the passing of a great Dhole, burrowing beneath the earth, space rippling around it as it goes.

They sip their absinthe as the Dhole is followed by a Mi-Go, flapping and screeching – the noise driving several nearby patrons mad.

A shoggoth comes after, shambling along. It takes some time to pass, so they order another round of absinthe.

Then a long train of the spawn of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods, ooze, crawl and tilt their way past – the locomotive systems reminiscent of slime running down a rock… but sideways… unthinkably sideways.

Then for a moment, there’s quiet and the plateau is empty… and Derleth turns to Lovecraft and says…

“Good Lord, Howard. Today it’s just one damned thing after another.”


Necrotelecomnicon: the book of dead phone numbers.
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"THE COURTYARD", BY H.P. LOVECRAFT

It was the city I had known before;
The ancient, leprous town where mongrel throngs
Chant to strange gods, and beat unhallowed gongs
In crypts beneath foul alleys near the shore.
The rotting, fish-eyed houses leered at me
From where they leaned, drunk and half-animate,
As edging through the filth I passed the gate
To the black courtyard where the man would be.

The dark walls closed me in, and loud I cursed
That ever I had come to such a den,
When suddenly a score of windows burst
Into wild light, and swarmed with dancing men:
Mad, soundless revels of the dragging dead -
And not a corpse had either hands or head!

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"The Courtyard" is poem no. IX from the cycle Fungi from Yuggoth.
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THE EMO VAMPIRE SONG

Some things ... some things really need no comment:


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