Loving You Has Made Me Bananas

Here’s an audio version of a piece I published here a while back about wrestling with a favorite fruit.

Click on the triangle or link above to hear the piece as broadcast today on The Arts Express radio program on WBAI FM NY and Pacifica stations across the nation.

Everybody Eats When They Come To My House: Cab Calloway

The heppest cat ever, Cab Calloway singing a post-Thanksgiving Song.

The song was written by Jeanne Burns who I could not find out too much about except that she was once briefly married to Broadway composer Harold Arlen’s younger brother, Jerry. In the thirties she was a big-band singer and also wrote songs for the Cotton Club revues.

Thanks to YouTuber UbiquitousLazar

Buster Makes A Break For It

It’s the concluding scenes from Buster Keaton’s The Scarecrow. (The opening scene was here).

Here’s what you need to know: Buster is being chased by the following: an overly friendly dog, his One True Love’s father, and his roommate, a rival for his Love’s affections.

There’s a Happy Ending!

Ready To Rumble

Finally! I’ve been looking for this clip for years. Phil Hartman in one of my favorite fake advertisement parodies from Saturday Night Live, the commercial for the new breakfast cereal, Colon Blow.

More at Saturday Night Live

High Anxiety

Monday morning, while waiting for our Insect Overlords to choose our leaders, the rest of us chumps remain in a state of High Anxiety.

Kudos to Mr. Brooks for the perfect Sinatra phrasing and Nelson Riddle-like arrangement.

Thanks to Youtuber OST&Covers&so and Jeffrey St. Clair at Counterpunch for reminding me about this song.

Breakfast With Buster

From The Scarecrow, made in 1920, it’s Buster Keaton who lives in a house “where all the rooms are in one room.” Keaton multi-tasks and makes multi-use of every square inch of space. New York City apartment dwellers, take note.

Click on the image to play.

Thanks to YouTuber iconauta

Pay It Forward

Weird Al Yankovic with his hilarious song about unwanted forwards. And hey–I think I spotted myself at 1:43 to 1:50, especially since this video was first posted in 2011. Thanks, Al!

Click on the image to play.

More at alyankovic

The Seven Words You Mustn’t Say

(Click to enlarge)

Despite the President’s use of the F-bomb Friday on the Limbaugh radio show, we here at ShalBlog® Industries have long taken heed of the fines and the sanctions that can be imposed on a broadcaster who allows the use of any of The Seven Dirty Words on the air, an FCC ruling which was upheld against WBAI by the Supreme Court in 1978.

As a constant reminder of the Seven Dirty Words to staff, the Second Executive Vice-President For Communications and Signage at ShalBlog® Industries has taken swift action to post the proper signage in ShalBlog® Radio’s Master Control room.

We thank him for his foresight and swift action.

The Secret Revealed, Avocadally

There’s an old magicians’ dictum that if you want to hide the secret to a magic trick, print it in a book. That probably goes double for blogs. So after much thought, I’ve decided to reveal in this blog the secret of one of the world’s most perplexing problems. Probably no one else will ever bother to read this, so the secret’s safe just between the two of us.

As far as I know, I’m the first and only one to crack this particular code. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t been tackled before, Lord knows. There have been dozens of hare-brained schemes, some of which may have even sounded logical and promising at first. But none of them stood the acid test of successful experiment. All other solutions faded, like a mirage that shimmers on the desert’s dust. Only my solution remained.

I would like to claim that the answer came to me in a flash of blinding light, or in a dream, or perhaps was whispered to me by some Holy Man at the end of a long and perilous mountain climb. But I would be indulging in romantic fantasy were I to maintain such. No, the truth, as it so often is, was more mundane, grittier, sweatier. As Thomas Edison so aptly said, genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. How true that was. So Herculean were my efforts, I could have used a whole barrelful of deodorant.

It would be, perhaps, foolish to proclaim myself a genius. The word is bandied about so freely and carelessly in this present slipshod generation, so much so, as to almost lose all sense and meaning of the word. And yet in this one instance, in this one happenstance, it would be, perhaps, false modesty and a dereliction of the historical record to downplay my achievement. Through constant toil, testing, tedious trial and error, sleepless nights, days when my bones cried out for rest, still I continued on, persevering against the greatest of odds, first trying this, then trying that. Over and over and over again.

All for the trivial avocado, you say? Nay, a thousand times nay. And no. For humankind I say, for our children, and our children’s children, and for their descendants everlasting. And perhaps, too, for the ancestors, who now smiling down upon us, may rest more easily, knowing that that which had tormented them in their all-too-brief sojourn on this mortal coil, could now, at long last, be put to bed. Rest, rest, perturbed spirits!

One cautiously cuts the avocado in half. Rather than greedily devouring the entire avocado, like the judicious ant and not the profligate grasshopper, one places but one half of Nature’s gift carefully on the plate to enjoy what Mother Earth hath given unto us: one hemisphere of verdant green to eat but then, one hemisphere, equally verdant, to carefully store in some manner.

And here is the crux of the matter: no matter in what way one stores that half globe of delight for a later meal, when one returns to it, it has turned into an unrecognizable foul thing, scarcely of this earth, marred with all manner of mold and rottenness, like a Cabinet member in office for more than two weeks. With the pit or without the pit; in a baggie or exposed to the winds; in the refrigerator or by the hearth; immersed in unnamed secret liquid potions or dried under the heat of diverse planetary suns, the sickening result is still the same: base, blight, decomposition, decay, and heart-rending waste. The Gods mock our pitiable efforts to stop the hands of withering time.

That is, until now. Listen up, guys. Here’s what you do.

Cut the avocado in half, vertically. The pit will be in one side of the avocado. That’s the half you’re going to store. Get yourself some Seventh Generation unbleached recycled paper towels. No, believe me, it’s not going to work with just white paper towels. Forget that Bounty crap. With one sheet, wrap up the half avocado with the pit. Put it in your refrigerator. Eat the other half. Now come back a day later, and if the avocado wasn’t too ripe to begin with, when you go back to your refrigerator and unwrap the half with the pit, you will have a very respectable looking half avocado. Yes, as Mama used to say, God never sends us a problem more than we can handle.

Now go, and godspeed. And wipe that green junk off your lips.

The Semicolon Song

A very silly, clever song. Make sure you stay for the end, if you don’t want to be completely confused. Language definitely not suitable for work or the easily offended.

More at thelonelyisland