Frewbud Bought a Rubber

Frewbud bought a rubber!

Didn't know why
Just had to have one.
Others had them
They seemed to have fun.
When he walked back from the corner drug
He felt like giving the world a hug.

Frewbud bought a rubber!

'Twas stashed away
In a special spot
For times to come
When he'd take a shot.
He didn't know what would come to be
Believing that thing would set him free.

What are you gonna do with it, Frewbud Frewbud?
You really oughtn't play with it, Frewbud Frewbud.
Will you ever go through with it, Frewbud Frewbud?
You've got a lot to say with it, Frewbud Frewbud.

Frewbud LOST the rubber!

One laundry day
Confusion abound
It slipped away
Never to be found.
Flailing his arms and embracing rue
Sopping up tears, he knew what to do.

Frewbud bought another rubber!

What are you gonna do with it, Frewbud Frewbud?
Don't be so debonair with it, Frewbud Frewbud.
You will never go through with it, Frewbud Frewbud.
If you don't take some care with it, Frewbud Frewbud.



(This song took over 30 years to write, mostly in the last week or so.  Music to come...eventually...maybe.)

To Roderick From Maggie May

Maggie May stopped by for a visit earlier this week. I was surprised to see her, since I had no idea who she was. After I made some tea and we caught up with what each of us has been doing the past sixty years, I asked her to explain her presence in my abode (I ask the same thing of my children each day when they come home from school. The first few times they would answer something like, “I live here”, but eventually they grew tired of my interrogation and now simply give me the ignorant look and head for the snack cabinet.). Maggie told me she needed my help to contact Rod Stewart so she could tell him something about the song he wrote about her. She has not been able to regain contact with him over the years. I informed her that I was not acquainted with Rod. She explained further that Barbra Streisand had referred her to me because of Leper Pop. Apparently, Ms. Streisand is a regular reader and knows for a fact that Rod checks in a few times a week. So, Maggie asked me if I would help her and post a note for Rod on the blog. Below is her message.

This is a personal communication between two ex-lovers. I would appreciate if everyone else would respect their privacy and not read it. Thank you for your cooperation.

Hello Roderick,

It’s been quite some time since I’ve talked to you. The last time I saw your face in person, you were grimacing in ecstasy, chucking your muck on top of me. It is an image that is etched upon my mind. I’d like to say I hope you have been well, but I can’t.

I appreciate that you had written a song about me. While I do not think you depicted our relationship accurately, I understand that you were very young and confused at the time. What I do NOT understand is why you chose to make a comment about your perceived impression of the aged state of my face (in case your decrepit mind does not recall the line: “the morning sun when it’s in your face really shows your age”). There was no need for it as it relates to the rest of the song, unless you felt the urge to let the world know how superficial you really are. I was only 29 years old at the time, for crikey sake! You didn’t seem to mind my aged face while I was giving your tadger a tongue bath, now did you? Besides, you went on to state in the song that my face didn’t “worry you none”, so why even bring it up?

You can’t imagine the ridicule I’ve dealt with over the years because of that lyric. Men would chide me in the street. “Maggie, could you please step into the shade so we don’t see your age?” “Maggie, would you mind wearing this burlap sack on your head until dusk?” “Maggie, can we finish this conversation at night or at least in a closet?” It got to the point where I would only go outside or near a window at night. And even then, some guys would shine a torch in my face and tell me how old I looked. I know I was no Felicity Kendal, but I was no trog, either, even at the still young age of 29.

I don’t know if you have looked in a mirror recently, but it doesn’t take the brightness of the morning sun to show your age lately. Blimey, a full solar eclipse in a dense fog could do the job. Maybe I should write a song about it. Tell me, what rhymes with crag?

The song was a nice little earner for you. I wish I could say the same thing about me. There are no royalty laws on the books governing the compensation for the muses of popular, lucrative art. Otherwise, I would not have had to spend the last thirty years heaving pollocks in a Newlyn fish market and living in a caravan underneath the wharf. I know you are a very talented man and deserve your riches. Still, it would not have killed you to send some of that crust my way.

I’ve said my piece. But, before I go, I do have to question another lyric in my song. “Oh, Maggie I couldn’t have tried anymore.” I think you quite possibly could have. Instead of writing a song about the feelings you had about our relationship, maybe you could have, I don’t know, maybe talked to me about it. Unless your definition of “trying” is sneaking out before I woke up without saying a word or leaving a note. Heavens, if you had written, “Later, bitch!” on my mirror with your lipstick, that would have been considered trying harder than what you actually did. But, I’m not bitter. I will leave you alone now.

Good-bye, Roderick.

Maggie May

p.s. what is that thing on your face by your mouth, by the way? Is that a button you installed to make your wanker go up and down? Just wondering. But, I’m not bitter.

This has been a public service announcement brought to you by Leper Pop and the Council for Aged Faces.

William Byrd: A High School Report

William Byrd was one of the most celebrated English composers of the Renaissance. He was born in 1540, underneath a milking cow. He had begun as a musician at an early age. He was so young, in fact, he whittled a flute in his mother’s womb out of one of his newly generated femurs. Later in life his leg would play beautiful music when he stood pantless in the yard on a windy day. He sang in the Chapel Royal during Mary Tudor’s reign which placed him in the best choir in England. He was the worst one in the choir, but it was still the best choir. It looked the same as the best singer on his resume’. He had trouble hitting the middle E #. Because of colon polyps in his throat, his voice would skip right over it. William was 18 when Mary Tudor died and her half-sister, Queen Elizabeth, succeeded her. Elizabeth was only her half-sister because the other half of her was her cousin Murray’s half-uncle. It was a strange family. In his middle 20’s Byrd became an organist and a choir master of Lincoln Cathedral, and lived at 6 Minister Yard in the Cathedral house. This is significant because most Lincoln Cathedral organist lived in the boat house, but he was probably given better quarters due to his role in the choir. He was the first to incorporate show tunes into the mass. The Clergy apparently had to reprimand him for playing excessive length services, although he did continue to write music specifically to be played at Lincoln even after his move to London. They never played that music, but he wrote it for them, anyway. William Byrd married Juliana in 1568, and had at least 7 kids. He lost count after a while because he wasn’t really trying to have kids – he was just trying to have sex, but the damn kids kept coming out. After being named a gentleman of the Chapel Royal in 1572, he moved back to England. Prior to that he was considered a churlish brute of the Chapel Royal and didn’t feel he could show his face in England. He worked there as a singer, composer and organist for more than 2 decades. As an inside joke, he always set a bouquet of tulips on his organ, just to lighten his mood. He wrote a large amount of Anglican Church music for the Chapel Royal, and they were toe-tappers, to be sure. In 1593 William moved with his family to the small village of Stondon Massey in Essex and spent the remaining 30 years of his life there. From a very young age, Byrd was fascinated by stone hills. Moving to Stondon Massey completed him as a person. On July 4^th, 1623 he died and was buried in an unmarked grave in the Stondon Churchyard. He didn’t want anybody looking at him when he was dead. How embarrassing. William Byrd’s life is interesting because of his association with the Roman Catholic Church and his work in the court of the Anglican Queen Elizabeth I. Yes, that was VERY interesting. Unbelievably interesting. So interesting, in fact, that when somebody speaks of his life at a cocktail party, I always say, “My, how interesting.” William Byrd was a great composer, a talented man and should be remembered for a long time. But he won’t be, unless people are forced to keep writing stupid reports about him.

The Duke Spirit

As I pulled into the parking lot of Nick’s Fat Boy one Thursday night some days ago on a mission to score a dose of food-molded grease and pseudo-edibleness, I heard a song on the radio that caused my ears to poke me in the head and say, “Hold off on that nourishing bag of fat and listen to the rest of this.” So I did, and was glad, even though, due to the delay, my bag of fat ended up being a little more coagulated than I prefer. The song had a sleeky vibe – the kind that fills you with a cool warmth basted with lurid, subconscious tingles. The song was The Step and the Walk and the band was The Duke Spirit.

The Duke Spirit is a rock and roll band from Great Britain. All I know of them I have learned from the Internet, so I encourage you to learn about them from there too, because I don’t feel like regurgitating it here. But I will tell you they are fronted by the adorable, yet savage, Liela Moss - she of the saddened muse. The rest of the band are a bunch of English gits. And I mean that in a good way, since I’m American and don’t know what a “git” is, but it’s foreign, so I find it endearing.

After voiding my Duke Spirit virginity that fateful Thursday evening, I put the word out about them. Most ignored my preaching, but one man turned an interested lobe in my direction. I asked him, “Is that an interested lobe you are directing at me?” And he said, “Indeed, it is an interested lobe.” Then I asked, “What does your interested lobe want us to do about it?” And he said, “The interested lobe wants us to attend a The Duke Spirit event at our next earliest convenience.” That convenience coordinated with our space-time path about a month later at The Empty Bottle in Chicago.

Prior to the show that evening, I met the man with the interested lobe at a small barstauraunt aptly named The Small Bar on west Division Street. The Small Bar is decorated with unapologetic brick walls spotted with window pane paintings by an artist whose only artistic ability was reflected in xe’s choice of painting surface. The crowd consisted of those who find it chic to be served by greasy fat guys with unkempt beards, so we fit right in. The manager even offered me a job. The interested lobe man and I each ordered the tater tot platter; him with a side order of cheeseburger and me with the BLT. They only served the real gusto of Schlitz in cans, so I chose Miller High Life in a bottle to quaff. I think he ordered a caraff of Lobe Lube to sip during dinner, but I don’t remember exactly. As we mawged by candlelight, we discussed the temporal advantages of having all the Olympic swimming events conducted at the same time in the same pool. We also discussed our expectations of The Duke Spirit. We didn’t have any. In fact, we had confirmed our intent to attend the show with a conversation of “You still wanna go?” - “I guess.” the day before. Good guess.

We arrived at The Empty Bottle just in time to catch the last two songs of the first band. I was sweaty and irritable after a lengthy walk from The Small Bar to the intersection of Western Avenue and Cortez. The greasy, fat waiter would not give us a piggyback ride to the show, even though we tipped twenty-three percent. Consequently, the first band sounded like “Gaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh” to me. I was glad to have missed most of their set.

The Empty Bottle presents itself with unabashed dinginess posing as avante-garde. The facility is a blown apart brick building with painted car doors hanging on the walls serving as enigmatic viewing ruptures. There were also some multi-media paintings created by someone with no artistic ability trying to be artistic by blatantly revealing xe’s non-artistic ability. I know bad art when I see it - I've made enough of it myself to know.

Before I became too critical of The Empty Bottle’s décor, the second band took the stage. I don’t remember their name, but I referred to them as the Hurky Jerky Funtime Band. The singer/guitar player and the guitar/keyboardist took each song they performed as an opportunity to get in some flail aerobics, while the bass player rocked back and forth at the hips like souped-up dippy bird. I think the drummer was sitting on a pogo stick. I’m not sure what they were doing musically, but it had ingredients of the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Yes, The Brady 6, The Wiggles, Madness, Cyndi Lauper and that band from the bar in Star Wars. To their credit, I must admit there was about a three minute span during their show that sounded pretty cool, until they interrupted it with a palmed-keyboard solo and gobble chant. It’s career suicide to either have “Funtime Band” in your band’s name or in your band’s personality. Most people don’t know this, but Black Sabbath was originally called The Black Sabbath Funtime Band until they realized they could not get a recording contract. They lopped off the end of their name and the rest is history. Luckily for us, the H-J Funtime Band did the same thing with their set, before long.

While we waited for The Duke Spirit to begin, I conducted some people watching. Here are my thoughts: Darn, I forgot to wear a giant red bow in my hair. Why is that guy wearing a heavy leather jacket indoors on a hot summer night? On a hot summer night, Meatloaf. I gotta know right now. Do you love me? Will you love me forever? Speaking of forever, when is the show going to start? Look at that old guy. I’m glad he’s here. That means we’re not the oldest ones here. Golly, that bartender is pale. I wish these girls would stop rubbing on me. Oh, wait. It’s the other way around. That’s OK, then. I need another beer. Maybe I should pee before they go on. People are starting to move towards the stage. I’ll just hold it.

The Duke Spirit came at me like a charger of nitrous oxide filling up a punching balloon. I was thrown backward and my bones started to melt. Their sound was argumentative yet soothing, with a consistent adherence to the doctrine of fluctuating compliance. Yeah, that’s about right.

I was unfamiliar with most of their songs, so I had to learn as we went along. Liela’s voice was that of an angel who chose to be in a rock band rather than benefit from the acoustics of an empyrean sound system. The gits in the band were solid and stayed out of Liela’s way as she attacked the microphone stand with fury only to hold it gently, but with strength, as if she were holding an insecure lover. For the first half of the show, I didn’t know what was happening to me. In retrospect, I realize I was drawn to their music while it slowly enveloped me. It wasn’t until they performed Wooden Heart that I discovered that I was engulfed. Liela had engulfed me. That song made me feel like I was in an embrace with a lover after the lovin’, Engelbert Humperdinck, or maybe with an arbitrary drunken skank who had just puked on herself after the lovin’. Either way, I awoke from my daze lying on the floor of The Empty Bottle spooning with the drunk chick who had been standing in front of me, who had just puked on herself. I would understand your heart, if I could feel it, indeed. And if you didn’t smell and feel like puke.

I knew then that I dug this band. And if I hadn’t by then, I certainly would have later when Liela instructed us to all show her our arm pits, in an attempt to get us to clap with our hands in the air. She told us that if she couldn’t smell our armpits it just wouldn’t be good. I've been asked to do weirder things - I'm in. It was at that point she understood what it felt like to know that every straight member of her opposite sex wanted to make love to her that night. I felt close to her knowing that she and I were the only ones in the room to know what that felt like at that moment. They finished us off with an obligatory encore and sent us on our way.

On my way out I strangled the merchandise table girl because she was out of The Duke Spirit CD, Neptune. If you are reading this now, merch girl, I apologize. I was in the midst of an engulfment rage. Don’t worry, I bought the CD a few days later.

The man with the interested lobe and I walked back to our cars, both appreciating our surprised enjoyment of the show. He wiggled his lobe at me and I drove away. All the way home I relived The Duke Spirit show in my head, while I blissfully burped up tater tots.