Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 12

Music Monday: Automatic Man

I very nearly posted an original ukulele video today, Gentle Reader – but the beauty and perfection of this ridiculous nonsense was far too good not to share. You’re welcome.

Tagged: Automatic Man, Eyebrows for Days, Michael Sembello, Science-Wizard, The '80's

Poetic Interlude LXXXIV

I’m feeling some whimsy right now, Gentle Reader. So how about some Edward Lear?

The Owl and The Pussy-Cat

By Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
         You are,
         You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
II
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
   But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
             His nose,
             His nose,
   With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
   Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;   
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
             The moon,
             The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.


Tagged: Edward Lear, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Whimsy

Poetic Interlude LXXXIX

I’m feeling some whimsy right now, Gentle Reader. So how about some Edward Lear?

The Owl and The Pussy-Cat

By Edward Lear

I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
         You are,
         You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
II
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
   But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
             His nose,
             His nose,
   With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
   Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;   
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
             The moon,
             The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.


Tagged: Edward Lear, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Whimsy

Post the Ninety-Eighth: In Which Romanticism and Classicism Are Revisited

Gentle Reader, you’re surely familiar with the twin concepts of Romanticism and Classicism? I’ve written about them before, after all. And provided a laborious transcript of a quiz that would allow you to determine which, in fact, you were? If you don’t remember or aren’t familiar, here’s an excellent resource. Miss Ward hadn’t realized that I’d put that online. Miss Ward, feeling her own nostalgia for the test, searched for one of the answers that stood out in her mind – the phrase “Robust, Athletic, and Manly.”

Hilariously, that search led Miss Ward, a dear friend of mine for more than half my life, to my blog. We laughed; we both retook the test for the millionth time, and then -for me- it was time for bed. When I arose, Miss Ward had taken my transcript and made it into a quiz that actually does the math for you, which is available right here.

You’ve no notion how important this quiz is, Gentle Reader. It defined an era. Naturally, as young proto-Bohemians in High School, we were enamoured with the Romantic Movement – the Shelleys, the Villa Diodati,

Lord Byron, and poor, sainted Keats – with orgies and absinthe and graveyards and overripe fruit and rotting leaves and all that sort of rot.

During the FPA years, we’d sometimes play Romanticism-Classicism Test, treating it as a party game.

Secretly, we’d use it to determine how far we’d drifted from our youthful ideals, how we should interact or relate to our guests, where we were at in our lives, whether we were who we thought we were once upon a time.

I’m proud to say that I’m much more Romantic than I was those many years ago. I was a hidebound Classicist, using assumed Moral Superiority™ to shame others and try to fit people into little boxes they had no desire to fit into. I also had rigid ideas about dress, manners, gender roles, sexuality, religion, etc. and if you didn’t agree with me or society at large you were completely wrong and lessened in my eyes. At the same time, most of my close friends, passionate Romantics when we were young – all for wild hedonism and damn the costs – have mellowed. No one’s going to their death in a rowboat because they want to feel what it’s like to be a leaf in the wind. We’ve all mellowed. And that’s life, isn’t it? At the same time, on taking stock of our lives again, and taking the test again, Miss Ward and I were both very relieved to find that we’re both still Romantics.

Tagged: Absinthe, Classicism, George Gordon Lord Byron, Graveyards, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and Percy Bysshe Shelley, Overripe Fruit, Poor Sainted Keats, Profound Influences, Quizzes, Romanticism, Romanticism-Classicism Quotient, Romanticism/Classicism Test, The Villa Diodati, Troubled Past, Ways of Being

Post the Ninety-Seventh: The Swingin’ Fourth

Don’t you know that there’s a war on, Gentle Reader?

Now, I’m not much for blind patriotism, despite the fact that Ex-Husband was an airman; I am huge on the Big Band era, however, and the costuming in general. Thus it was that when Miss Ward and I, co-chairs of the F.P.A., needed a summer theme for one of our fêtes, I suggested WWII. As Miss Ward was in a period of dress-making, she readily agreed. We shifted the date from  summer solstice to Independence Day, and the Swingin’ Fourth Extravaganza was born.

Décor, food, and music, of course, were criminally easy to procure and set up for this event. Vintage Americana is still widely available, and as long as there are countries on this earth, there will be an abundance of bunting.

We arranged a bandstand in a borrowed backyard where we were holding the event. It came complete with Victory Garden and a “bombed out” shed. As this event was to remain strictly out-of-doors, we were enjoined to actually rent an outdoor toilet for this event. It was very glamorous.

Naturally, we arranged for photographs for all the young bucks leaving their brides behind for the war. Miss Ward and I are seen here; I will be gone by morning.

Our entertainments began with a swing-dance lesson. It went over reasonably well – if you’d like your guests to dance, always find someone to give a quick lesson. It encourages participation, makes your event vaguely educational, and is a hell of a lot of fun, even if you’re not very good at it.

After that, the celebrated DJ Tons-o-Fun played vintage tunes while people enjoyed our extraordinary barbecued buffet. Standard American fare; hamburgers, corn on the cob, baked potatoes of all sorts. Straying a little from period, we had a variety of Jell-O mold salads – the sort that grandmothers like to serve, with carrots, celery, raisins, and whipped cream in. Delish.

Before the sun set, we ran period-themed Karaoke – or we attempted to. Requests quickly went from “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy” to things like “Lola” and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which were clearly enjoyed by our boys as they liberated Paris. Still, the guests were having fun, and an impromptu chorus line formed on stage, which is all that really matters.

As the evening grew darker, we deployed our Cigarette-Girl, Miss K, to bring an extra period flare to the evening.

Meanwhile, S., our pyrotechnician, set up our glorious fireworks display in the area prepared for it. At a given cue, when the first went off, I alerted the guests to the fact that we were not actually under attack. They were not amused. S. sustained an injury during the fireworks, however, and that proves that we were under attack. Clearly.

The evening wound to its natural conclusion, as these things so often do. The guests departed in groups of two or three, and we basked in the knowledge of a job well done for a moment, before beginning the lengthy process of cleaning up.

Tagged: Cigarette-Girl, Fabulous Parties, FPA, Independence Day, ReRuns, Swing Dance, WWII

Music Monday: Brutality

I’m just going to leave this here without explanation. Cheers, Gentle Reader.

Tagged: Black Box Recorder, Brutality, Lazy Blogging, Music Monday, Not a Real Post, Whatever

Poetic Interlude LXXXIII

What happens this week, Gentle Reader? Armistice day happens this week, Gentle Reader. Or Veteran’s Day, if you’re in America, I suppose. Which I am. But there are already several days set up to honor martial valor and sacrifice and so on, and I think it’s important, specifically, to honor the end of the War to End All Wars.

I mean, it didn’t, obviously, but it was a turning point. The whole world was weary, a generation had been lost, and everyone collectively vowed never to do it again. We should honor that. Despite… what happened afterward.

In Flanders Fields

John McCrae

 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
 
We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.
 
Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.
 
Tagged: Armistice Day, Flanders Fields, John McCrae, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Red Poppies, Veteran's Day, World War I

Post the Ninety-Sixth: In Pursuit of Happiness

When people are worried about me, Gentle Reader, they tend to all say the same thing – “I just want you to be happy in life.” Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of it, in the long-term – and then, for an hour, three days, sometimes a whole glorious week – I feel alive and fulfilled and exactly where I want to be.

And then the euphoria washes away, leaving me – if I’m lucky – in an easily irritated blasé base state – and, if I’m not, awash in a comfortably familiar vale of self-loathing, fear, and despair. It takes a massive effort and all available energy to be around people at all when I’m in the most frequent, most despised place, and I’m not the easiest person to be around at those times, either.

While a lot of this feels controlled by the whims of the moon and the stars, I nonetheless set out to make myself a sort of roadmap: the following are the things that bring me happiness. I shall try to spend more time pursuing them.

A Different Sort of List:

Things that bring me joy, pleasure, or happiness:

Writing poetry, but only when it’s inspired, well-formed, and I feel clever.
Painting, apparently.
Sewing something fabulous.
Making pretty much anything, actually, so long as it’s turning out well.
Being elegantly dressed, in clothes that fit well

Esoteric knowledge of refined subjects – etiquette, mixology, grammar, etc.
Elegant entertaining – or at least elegant-aspiring
Solving a tricky crossword clue and feeling damned clever and smug about it
Anything that makes me feel clever, actually
Really fantastic socks
Being surrounded by fancy things, and also bizarre things
Intimate friendship with the correct people – the people who I feel a certain je-ne-sais-quoi with. They’re all too rare, and valuable.
Ridiculous, fabulous, and above all enormous hats.
Being prepared for any situation that may arise as best I may
Meeting new people with whom I feel a connection
Being knowledgable about things
Really excellent food, wine, and spirits

Strange or silly curiosities
Good photographs of myself and my friends
A well-told story, in print, in song, on screen, or in any other media
Anything bespoke
Tending bar
Making friends with woodland creatures, like Marzipan the Crow and Balthazar the incredibly stupid moth
Following Whims
Naming things, actually. Like Arvingdale, my house; Bucephales, my shoulder-bag; Chordelia, my ukulele, etc.
Having all the accoutrements for and also performing fussy little civilized rituals – like absinthe service, tea ceremonies, straight-razor shaving.

Spending time in the forest, in company or alone, overnight or on a day-trip
Honoring the tenets of my private little patchwork faith – full moon ceremonies, communing with the dead, celebrating solstices and equinoxes, that sort of thing.
Trying new things spontaneously.

That’s all that I can think of off-hand, Gentle Reader, but I know for a certainty that there’s plenty more out there that I’m forgetting. Perhaps you could help – what things bring you happiness?

Tagged: Depression, Happiness, Longing For The Sweet Embrace Of Death, Mental Illness, Really Excellent Food Wine and Spirits, Things That I Love, Trying To Find A New Way Of Living, Trying To Find What Makes Me Tick

Music Monday: And When I Die

This was my father’s favorite song, Gentle Reader. In honor of his passing, I’d like to share it with you. Have a lovely Monday.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XS-gwb8eSc0

Tagged: And When I Die, Blood Sweat and Tears, James Allen Yoder, Music Monday

Poetic Interlude LXXXII

Gentle Reader – today’s the anniversary of my father’s death. All Soul’s Day, when we remember our beloved dead – fitting, is it not? I’ll be spending time with Maman, today, and when we go to dinner, I’ll order a brandy, up – my father’s signature drink, when he was out. It’s comprised of brandy, served straight, in its proper glass – the snifter. Somehow, no one can ever manage this – it became a family joke, for years and years.

At any rate, as is fitting for today, I grow introspective and glum this time of year. Today’s poem, Charlotte Brontë’s “On the Death of Anne Brontë”, feels massively appropriate. Enjoy.

On the Death of Anne Brontë
by Charlotte Brontë
 
There’s little joy in life for me,

And little terror in the grave;

I’ve lived the parting hour to see

Of one I would have died to save.
 
Calmly to watch the failing breath,

Wishing each sigh might be the last;

Longing to see the shade of death

O’er those belovèd features cast.
 
The cloud, the stillness that must part

The darling of my life from me;

And then to thank God from my heart,

To thank Him well and fervently;
 
Although I knew that we had lost

The hope and glory of our life;

And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,

Must bear alone the weary strife.
Tagged: Death Poems, In Memoriam, James Allen Yoder, Mourning, Poems of Loss and Death, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, The Sisters Bronte