Category: Filk

Not even with a beer in my hand and a few comments on social media

A series of large losses can make a small loss feel enormous. I told Rob I wouldn’t cry until I had a beer in my hand, and I lied then too.  I’m crying now, but Jeff is meeting the situation with sympathetic noises and the welcome sound of the coffee grinder.  I was going to say more tender things about him, but he’s off in his room now belching so loud something in my room vibrated in sympathy…. still in keeping with the theme, I spose.

There was a brief flurry of amusement last night at Robof9’s going away party while one party member commented to another, “We’re friends, right?” but in reference to facebook.

I now have more than 150 facebook friends.  I have met and spoken to every single one of them.  Some of them are my dearest friends; some I barely know; some are more other people’s friends than mine.  But they are my facebook tribe and I follow their doings, their triumphs and tragedies, the way folks follow soaps. Not so much on the story arc, but man, the set pieces entirely rock.

Livejournal is for filk buddies and church buddies.  When I realized that – that was the point I realized that filk is the religion-friendly portion of SF fandom.  Because all the most religious people I know who are also fans are also filkers.  Things that make you say hmm.  And when I say religion, I mean Judaism, paganism, UUism, and Mormonism.  We all get together in a room and sing our faces off, and we make sure that people’s dietary requirements, both allergy and religious, are met, and we don’t even talk about it because that would all be beside the point anyway, we’re here to sing and love each other.  Livejournal merely supports the meatspace- we are meant to be together, and LJ helps us do that.

Twitter is for people who like the kinds of things I like.  Twitter is mostly people I don’t know, will never meet.  The most recent person to start following me had two midwife attended births, co-slept, baby carried, tandem nursed and looky looky, she’s a vegetarian. All those things in common, and then, clunk.  Uh, no thanks. Personally I fucking hate it when people say they are vegetarian and eat eggs and milk.  You’re still robbing babies and eating them, so how does that bring you to fluffy bunnyhood?  Either be vegan or be sparing in your meat consumption or be like me, the meat on meat inside meat, with meat on the side, kind of person.

I will be a vegetarian when I have to, and not one second sooner.  My brain doesn’t work properly without meat protein and it sure doesn’t work properly without animal fat.  Wish it were otherwise.

Now I have to go outside and plant the saplings work gave me for Earth Day.  I have a funny story about that but I can’t publish because the inertnets are temporarily forever.  I hope Margot joins me.  There’s something very comforting about her watching me work.

Tom and Peggy and singin’

Tom and Peggy put together a housefilk last night, complete with little kids, blackberries and Brooke PLUS special guests from Washington state.  I really like Jeff C and Jeri-Lynn and Jeri-Lynn’s cello adds that touch of class to any musical gathering.  Was amused (and mentioned it to Paul) that Diane Loomer had done the choral arrangement for her sheet music for “Frobisher Bay” which is about getting on a whaler and not getting off it cause it gets stuck in Arctic ice.  Diane Loomer is the genius what directs the Chor Leoni, of which I have spoken many times here on the blog.  So it is all cunningly intertwingled, as it were.

Creede played Crossroads (how I love that man’s whiskers!  His whiskers should have their own TV show!) and when he didn’t play the last verse (the one which mentions the banjo) there was a simultaneous sad face across the entire room, followed by a couple of people saying, Hey, what about the last verse, at the completion of which Paul burst out laughing because he’d never heard it before.

Brooke played Orion Swings, which is such an ominous tune, but so pretty.  And there was a little bit of everything else, like all filks.  Oh, and I debuted “Forty Million Light Years” minus the last five verses, which I still have to write.

I forgot how to tune a mandolin.  It was like having an outbreak of Alzheimer’s in my head, or I could say something about how long it’s been since I cradled Mistress Aria in my arms.  Yes, indeed, Tom finished the repairs just in time for the filk, and I don’t think I ever thanked him. Well, that’s just how I roll, diving into things and then figuring out the social niceties afterwards.  Fortunately Tom knows me well enough not to take it personal.

There was a brief moment of WTF as I woke up this morning without being in my own bed (yes, I was at Planet Bachelor, where Keith woke me up with the blessed scent of coffee,  moving right along now) and now it’s the mad scramble for church and hopefully deking home to fetch Margot and give Brother Jeff the instructions for getting her home.

Miss Crankypants sits in her corner

I have lots and lots to complain about.  Like, lots.  But I’ve decided to save my best and purest bile for real live people instead of the intarboobs, and the saddest and teariest of complaints for other real live people, and the horrid consequences of brutal self-examination strictly to myself. Continue reading Miss Crankypants sits in her corner

Off to breakfast

I bagged out at midnight, which is scandalously early for filk; but I have Tapioca with ass on my H2, which means I recorded it.  I have been too scared to listen to it.

It is a charming convention, full of twists, turns, and sequin covered capes.

I think I want to do the next Conflikt entirely in steampunk costume.  Gives me a whole year to prepare, don’t you know.

It should come as no surprise that Tom Smith is awesome.  I got to hear him play Sheep Marketing Ploy and many other grand pieces of flurrious words and fantastical songs.

That is BASS not ASS.  But I leave it anyway…

Christmas in Vancouver

I don’t know why, but I am very happy this morning.  It’s a smiling contentment triggered by Christmas and the prospect of seeing my folks and Granny and my cousins and aunt and uncle; the weather continues mild, which is a nice change; there’s this which I watched with the sound down, SFW, and then there’s this, also SFW.  There’s also the prospect of biscotti, a meal to cook for Peggy tonight (Tom may or may not be joining us), a post Christmas filk at Cindy’s place, a non denominational Christmas carol to work on, a phone call which may or may not presage work, a meeting that had no minutes and scarcely any action items, and the calm happiness that comes with knowing that you don’t have to buy any Christmas presents.

There are other reasons to be happy, of course, but those will do for the time being.

Oh, and here’s William Gibson’s review of Avatar from Twitter.  I guess I’m going.

Bill Gibson reviews Avatar

Pondfilk

Pondfilk / John’s memorial was great.  A neighbourhood stranger wandered in with his daughter and picked up the guitar and started singing Wish You Were Here and THAT was the point I had to flee.  I like two people singing that.  One of them is me, and the other is Mike, and this guy’s version was raucous and came close to being guitar abuse.

I wandered around the pond, talking to Katie on my cell phone, and cherishing the tech that allows me to do that, and all the men and women who maintain the network… because I could BE there for her while she was crying and unhappy about her life.  I told her to quit worrying so hard about finding a job.  To tell her to stop feeling bad about Dax – who has another girlfriend named Kayla now – is pointless, so I didn’t try that.  And I talked to her for 45 minutes.

My Unca Dave is going back for more radiation therapy in Kelowna next month.  He had a health blowout that sounded, and was, very scary, and I got the description from his own mouth yesterday in a phone conversation.  I chaffed him – people who are quite sick get sick of being treated with a pall of frightened solicitude, so I decided to be bracing, rather than go all, There There on him. 

Paul turned up at Pondside about 7 and we sang and played and talked until about 11, when I hauled him out of  there pleading exhaustion (no, it was some guy playing Wish You Were Here with no delicacy or spirit of overwhelmed longing).  Thank you mOm for putting up with both of us.

Breakfast (porridge and decaf coffee with skim milk and no sugar) has been consumed, and now Paul and I will turn to the great Stack of John’s Books and try to make some sense of them.

Carrie and her spouse John attended, it was lovely to meet John.  They are headed back up to Telegraph Creek soon.  She seems to think I’ll be going up there, but alas, unless I fly most of the way, or somebody gives me a ride in an extremely comfortable vehicle, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell.  The wine was awesome!

Douglas sang Bigfoot.  I updated John’s memorial site… the man who wrote, and taught John, “Hit them in the Bottom Line” Alan O’Dean, was there so I got the skinny on that song and by the blessings of reason, did we make a loud singing noise on the choruses.  Or Chori, as Douglas would say.  Also found out that the Mother Nature song was written by the Berrymans.

It will be sad to see them go.  With John dead, Juliana has little reason to stay in Victoria; she’ll be heading off to Columbus OH sometime later this year.  They have purchased a house there.  They’ll need somebody to stay in the house but she’s hoping to arrange that through church. 

I missed Tom and Peggy by minutes.  Sigh. Her bass on Tapioca is always something to look forward to.

The Devon Rexes, especially Sugar, previously shown on this blog, were in fine form, as was John’s erstwhile cat, Vincent.

Anyway, apart from a little residual sadness from talking to Katie, who really is having a rough go of it if her facebook posts are anything to go by, I am in a really happy, centered place.  So I guess I can be more or less guaranteed that something interesting and challenging is about to happen… cause you know, it never lasts.

Lovely email

I sang Careless at the housefilk and Carly asked me for the tabs.  I may turn into a musician at this rate.  A lot of people love John’s songlist.

I can now sing, or sing and play When you’se a viper, Careless, That godforsaken Hellhole, Long Black Veil, 2&20 Blues, A Christmas Carol (Tom Lehrer), A Fierce Unrest (Don Marquis and Ananias Davisson),  Absolutely Bonkers (Brenda Sutton Three Weird Sisters), Acts of Creation (Cat Faber), Ain’t No Cure For Love (Leonard Cohen), Anna Marie, Cats in the Dawn (Heather Rose Jones), Clem’s Song (Just Call me Clem, Allegra Sloman), Columbus Stockade Blues (actually I got John singing that!),  Demon Java (Steve Key/David Goldfinger), Dirty Movie (Steve Sajich), Don’t Go Looking For Trouble (Steve Goodman), History is Made By Stupid People (The Arrogant Worms), Honky Tonkin’ (Hank Williams), I Can’t Get Over You… (Nate Bucklin), I Pop Pills (Nate Bucklin), I Will Not Sing Along (Actually it’s called the Anti-Singalong Song), I’ll Fly Away, I’ve Been All Around This World (and GOSH did I like Creede Lambard’s version at the housefilk), Jack Frost, Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon, Let’s Go Down to the Water (Willie P Bennett), Livejournal Shanty (Brooke Lunderville), Lost Highway (Hank Williams), Mind Your Own Business (Hank Williams), Nessie, Come Up (Dr Jane A Robinson, the singing paleontologist, who is now James as of 2004), Never Set the Cat On Fire (Frank “You Scum” Hayes), No High Ground (Leslie Fish), One Meatball, One Time Only (Tom Paxton) which I also think that I encouraged John to learn… and nautilus3 and Loki will remember it well, Paint me A picture (David Essig), Paradise (John Prine), Pornographic Pictures of Queen Victoria, Ramboing, Rastus Brown, Show Us The Length (Bob Bossin), Some Other Planet (Joe Hall), Tapioca Song (Allegra Sloman), That Godforsaken Hellhole I Call Home (Austin Lounge Lizards), The 20th Century Is Almost Over  (Steve Goodman), The Jig of the One-Celled Organisms – anon, but John and Paul taught it to me, We Didn’t Know – Tom Paxton, The Word of God (Catherine Faber), Horizontal – Original Sloth Band was who he learned it from (Ken Whitely) but no idea who wrote it.

And I keep updating the songlist, because man o man he knew a lot of tunes.

Like I didn’t have enough planned

I told Tom and Peggy and Paul last night that I wanted to learn every song John used to sing.  They obliged by teaching me two; one was Careless by Nancy Freeman which turns out to be super easy and frikkin awesome, and the other is way harder, because Dave and Tracy’s Gentle Arms of Eden (which I also long to parody, may the Goddess strake me privily) is played at breakneck speed with chord changes to match.  My finger tips have almost completely calloused up again.  It’s like they learned how to get calloused when I was young (I took up guitar at 11) and now when I return to it they get busy.

My embroidered dragon has been located; John’s shirts and his superhero cape have gone back to Lady Miss Banjola, who startled the living mucus outta me by the sudden dramatic change in her appearance.  Yes, she has allowed her sister the hair stylist to apply yellow and orange to selected portions of what’s grown back of her hair, and she looks fabulous, and I mean it.  If I could change my hair like that and look that fabulous I would – well, I’d probably be south of 30, for starters.  I immediately wanted to run out and do the same thing, which is how I frequently feel when Lady Miss B does something… you know, the OOOO SHINY response.

Off to church now.  Keith was over at Jeff’s last night… Katie and Paul and I stayed at Planet Bachelor (singing in the evening and church in the morning = I didn’t want to go home). Katie is in good shape – we played cribbage yesterday, and because she learned to play from Doug and Elly, she whipped our butts.

Dax’ car got struck TWICE by other cars, in the last two days; one was a hit and run, t-boned at a red light.  I will now maintain a discrete silence.

Singing and playing for two hours completely re-set my brain.  And the sun is shining the way it did when I was young, before anything ever hurt me.

I must filk it.

These are the times that try men’s souls. In the course of our galaxy’s history, the people of the Milky Way have rallied bravely whenever the rights of homo sap have been threatened. Today, a new crisis has arisen. The Milky Way Transit Authority, better known as the M.T.A., is attempting to levy a burdensome tax on the population in the form of a far increase. Citizens, hear me out! This could happen to you!

(Eight bar guitar, banjo introduction)

Well, let me tell you of the story of a man named Charley
on a tragic and fateful day.

He put ten g-notes in his pocket, kissed his wife and family,
went to ride on the M.T.A.

Chorus:
Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned and
his fate is still unknown.
(What a pity! Poor ole Charlie. Shame and scandal.
He may ride forever. Just like Paul Revere.)
He may ride forever in those graffiti spattered rockets.
He’s the man who never returned.

Charlie handed in his gnotes at the Galactic Center Station
and he changed for Sag A Rocket.
When he got there the conductor told him, “Five more gnotes.”
Charlie couldn’t find any in his pocket.
(Chorus)
Now, all night long Charlie rides through the station,
crying, “What will become of me?!!
How can I afford to see my sister in Nu Aquilae
or my cousin in P Cygni?”
(Chorus)
Charlie’s wife goes down to the Galactic Center Station
every day at quarter past two,
And down the disk accretion she hands Charlie a sandwich
as the rocket comes rumblin’ through.
(Chorus)
Now, you galactic citizens, don’t you think it’s a scandal
how the people have to pay and pay?
Fight the fare increase! Vote for Creede Lambard!
Get poor Charlie off the M. T. A.
(Chorus)
He’s the man who never returned.
He’s the man who never returned.
Ain’t you Charlie?

Me singing “Health Wolves” at Conflikt II plus other necessary pictures.

Don’t I look pleased with myself.  Thanks Lady Miss Banjola.

Health Wolves was written as an insta-filk at the Saturday Brunch.  I missed the Saturday brunch last year and this year I got to sit next to Frank Hayes.  I would describe him as acerbically charming  o.0 and exhausted.

Dr. Filk at the Two-fer.

Peggy, armed and dangerous.

Frank “U Scum” Hayes, sufferer of “Frank Hayes Disease” and also the writer of “Never Set the Cat on Fire”.

Yes, that is a homemade theremin, and I heard it, and it rocked, but the sign says, “Will not play for $1/minute.”

All pics credit Lady Miss B.

watched the last half of the Super Bowl

That was really good football.  It was exciting, it was close, and there some aMAZing plays.  That Holmes touchdown catch was simply stunning, as was Harrison’s 100 yard run.

I didn’t see the first half because I was driving back from Renton (and yes, I was driving, and yes, I enjoyed driving that Prius with big happiness) with the Tom and Peggy travelling stringed extravaganza.  Conflikt II was great and I’ve already pre-reg’d for next year.

Today, more singing and playing. But first, unpacking, grr.