Twas the week before Christmas, when all thru the show . . .
Musicians heads were floating, their bodies no mo' The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that some torsos soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, What? You think we want them to see disembodied heads? And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my tuque, Had just settled in and were ready to juke — When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the hi-fi to see what was the matter. Away to the window, like a bat out of hell, I grabbed my shotgun and a handful of shells. The streetlight shown on the rain-slicked blacktop, Revealing Jackie Gleason's head falling like a raindrop.
AND NOT just his, but Sinatra's, too, Join Lena Horne's in a floating boogaloo. Bodyless Webb Pierce yelled "3 Chords & the Truth!" And I ran to the hi-fi -- it didn't take a sleuth. I'd forgotten it was time for the Big Show, And the famed floating heads were ready to go!
"Now! Frankie, now! Lena, now! Simon and Garfunkel, "On! Frankie, on! Jackie, mind your carbuncle! "To the top of the charts! Eschew all your clinkers! "And we need a band -- disembodied heads got no fingers!" This may seem strange for a Yuletide regalement, I guess you can blame that nail-gun impalement. Be that as it may, tell 'em from Dover to Doha, It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.
Oh, holiday of the disembodied head, how we love thy floating '50s splendor!
Thy strings are lush . . . and so are we, for the Christmas parties are upon us.
How we adore thy understated album covers -- oh, how mine soul is made warm by the crackles of the record which spinneth upon phonograph platter!
Thy martini, thy orchestra, they comfort me! And, lo! Thy floating head on the back of thy LP cover, it doth not creep me out!
Album cover of the disembodied head. It's a '50s thing.
Instead, it giveth me the comfort of sepia memories of a time long past, when verily the heads without torso spread across record albums and advertising like grains of sand upon the ocean shore.
May thy Christmas album be flippeth unto Side B, and may the joyful, soothing sounds of mine youth sound unto the people forever more!
My cup of egg nog runneth over. Surely music and jocularity will follow me all the days of December, and the soundtrack shall evermore float upon the aether . . . like Jackie Gleason's head.
We're all amped up here on the Big Show as we come out of the big Thanksgiving turn and floor it down the straightaway all the way to Christmas. That is, if we make it through December. These days. . . . You know? Having dispensed with the preface here, allow me to attempt a summation of this week's episode of 3 Chords & the Truthin but a single sentence. It may be a run-on, of course, but still. . . .
Here we go.
IT'S NOT GOOD out there as we hurtle toward what promises to be a strange Yuletide, more or less, but we're celebrating anyway because we might pull through despite everything, just so long as we can keep anyone in Washington from getting his hands on a Les Paulverizer, because that assuredly would result in the end of life on Earth as we know it.
IF THIS confuses you -- and we're sure it does -- your only recourse is to listen to the Big Show forthwith, which should allay your concerns. I just used the word "allay." Yay, Favog! It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.
With a couple of intensive years in charm school, Il Douche (pronounced "DOO-shay") could possess enough tact and social graces to join the Ku Klux Klan.
This, America, is what we have elected president -- a deeply cruel, stupid, bigoted, tactless and mentally unstable fascist man-child. This is who represents the United States to the world . . . and who the United States comes to more closely resemble with each passing day he sullies the American presidency. Donald Trump is a vile man and a worse president. If this is not what we are as a people -- yet -- it apparently is what the Mortal Minority would have us become. From Politico:
President Donald Trump mocked Sen. Elizabeth Warren at an event Monday honoring Native American veterans, invoking his “Pocahontas” nickname for the Massachusetts Democrat as he talked about how long Native Americans have been in America.
Trump hosted Navajo code talkers, who were recruited into the U.S. Marine Corps to communicate in the Pacific region during World War II, at the White House.
“I just want to thank you because you’re very, very special people,” Trump said to the group. “You were here long before any of us were here — although we have a representative in Congress who they say was here a long time ago. They call her Pocahontas. But you know what? I like you. Because you are special.”
Trump — who spoke in front of a portrait of Andrew Jackson, the former president who signed the Indian Removal Act — did not mention Warren by name. But he frequently mocks her by calling her “Pocahontas,” a nickname he created during his 2016 presidential campaign. The derisive sobriquet pokes fun at Warren’s claim of Native American heritage when she was a law professor, which became a campaign issue during her 2012 Senate run.
A Face in the Crowd is such a powerful movie because it's so very human.
Last year, people said it predicted the rise of Donald Trump. That's correct. On the other hand, any number of students of sociology -- students of human nature and the fallenness of mankind -- saw Trump coming.
Now, we seem to be in a season of “There is nothing concealed that will not be revealed, nor secret that will not be known." No grope that will not be revealed, no powerful lecher that will not be known.
I'll be home for Christmas
