Archive for the ‘Filking’ Category

(Dulce, with some apologies to John Rutter)

There has been cleaning and packing and painting
Dust and fur tumbleweeds vacuumed away
Momma has wrestled a piece of the forest
Into the parlor and now decorates.


Gloria! Gloria!
Who is this person?
Gloria! Gloria!
What’s with this tree?
Gloria! Gloria!
This is quite confusing
There’s all this fuss, but it’s not about me.xmastree2016-decorated

I like the smell of this piece of the forest
I like the taste of the fruitcake and cheese
I like the people who offer to scritch me
They all seem tame and seem eager to please.ember-expects-xmasdinner2016

Gloria! Gloria!
Why inflate this mattress?
Gloria! Gloria!
It’s in my way!
Gloria! Gloria!
Out of Momma’s office!
Go sing more songs about babies in hay.

After the fussing, the feasting, and singing
After the guests have fin’lly gone away
Momma and Other Mom sit sipping eggnog
Smiling at sparklies and watching me play.


Gloria! Gloria!
Eggnog and day old!
Maybe that isn’t quite
What all they say?
Gloria! Gloria!
Someone was born!
Gloria! Gloria!
I can sleep near Momma
The house is quiet
And Momma is warm.


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[with apologies to Gilchrist’s SSAA arrangement of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Bells”, available here]

In the early morning light, hear the wrens…
I am sure they take delight
In the metal that they bend

To stake out their territories
They must warble, they must boast
While the humans trying to sleep all dream
Of having them on toast!

How they kvell kvell kvell!
It’s a special kind of hell!
Oh the tintinabulation of the Troglodytidae Nation
It’s the wrens wrens wrens wrens
Wrens wrens wrens wrens wrens!


Courtesy of Google image search; all photo copyrights assuredly belong to other people. The wrens are suspicious of the whole arrangement.

Even in the dimming light, hear the wrens
They’re an auditory blight
And it never seems to end

They are perky, they are chipper,
They can keep this up all night!
They are tiny feathered creatures who
Cannot afford to fight

So they yell yell yell!
It’s a special kind of hell!
Oh the tintinabulation of the Troglodytidae Nation
It’s the wrens wrens wrens wrens
Wrens wrens wrens wrens WRENS!


This image of wrens is my responsibility. The wrens may or may not believe I have taken that seriously enough….

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Summer evenings have often echoed with people down by the bandshell singing along with Trout Fishing in America. We’d pack a picnic, invite friends of all ages, and plunk ourselves down on the slope for a splendid evening of laughter, food, song, fireflies, and indiscriminately-applied bug repellent.

Oh, and some guy who liked dancing with a stick.

But I digress. Here is today’s view out the window:


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It is appalling and a source of glee every time…

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…please do the Tonys again next year!


[For those of you who missed the closing credits and Neil’s song, see it here.]

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Super Puma,
Ditching in the water:
Not supposed to do
Someone’s swearing blue!
And somebody’s career is through.

Okay, so it just seemed filk-worthy…

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Locusts on Prozac
Are a no-no
Spiked serotonin
Tweaks their mojo
So they’re swarming
Oh, they’re swarming!

[cue the sound of whirring wings and relentless chewing]

Yes, researchers have found that high serotonin levels in locusts seem to trigger the change from the green Solitary form to the darker, ravenous Gregarious form.

Strangely, I feel no reason to apologize to the Moody Blues for the filking. But I will refrain from a chorus of “Getting to Gnaw You”…

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Yeah, you betcha I had a great time — Minnesota is a lovely state, the conference I was attending is always a pleasure, and the weather was quite lovely until this morning, when it was cold and drizzly, and I had to drag my suitcase through the rain to the metro stop, because roads were blocked for the annual Marathon.

As I waited and dripped in the plexiglass station shelter, prying the chocolate frosted donut out of the styrofoam cereal dish [Originally it had seemed a good idea to put it in frosting-side-down, so the frosting wouldn’t stick to the napkins on top of the bowl], it occured to me that the runners were probably going to be much, much, MUCH more inconvenienced than I was.

Useful link: Dale Sullivan’s blog of his time at Arhus University, in Denmark.  This is where the conference will be next August.  So we have months of scheming ahead to figure out how to fund such an adventure.

I’ll have more about the trip tomorrow.  Right now, I will lie in my own sweet bed tonight….

Music:  Eleanor McEvoy [sp?] and the Indigo Girls [which I have to confess is how I know where the Mississippi starts…]

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As the plaster falls in the bathroom, one of my contractors says “You still teach technical writing?  You should look at Buzzwhack.com.”

He used to sell security software, and tells of assorted verbal sins, many of which he would record to compare with colleagues after sales calls. I told him about faculty Gr’bingo games, where we’d be tracking how many ridiculous things our college president would say during his addresses.

I looked at Buzzwhack just now, and I think my first favorite is “jingle mail”, which is apparently how you refer to mailing “your house keys back to the bank because the mortgage is worth more than the house itself.”

[pause, rifle through site some more]  Oooh, wait:  this one’s better:

deja moo: The nagging feeling that you’ve heard this bull before.

It’s even funnier if you can imagine imagine Dionne Warwick singing about it…

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Tonight, NBC wanted to show us BMX racing, but instead had to ‘settle’ for showing us dripping wet women diving into the sand and then hugging each other in the rain.

Oh, I think there might be a ball involved somewhere.  They seem interested in keeping it off the sand, which I understand because repeatedly slamming your fist into a grit-covered surface can’t be pleasant.  For those of you not watching, here’s a typical sequence of play:

  • Thud
  • Crowd roar
  • Mad scrambling
  • Thud-smack-thud
  • Dive into sand
  • Leap
  • Scramble
  • Smack!
  • Wipe hands on bikini top
  • Hug

Sometimes NBC lets us hear the music being played during the matches, but this time, my brain connected the scrambling with Bangles lyrics — “They do the sand dance, don’cha know”, and then pulled in an earlier string of thoughts about the incredible potential for wardrobe failures here, and my Lord, all the places they probably get sand…..such that when the tune rolled around to the title chorus section, my brain happily supplied “Wax like a Brazillian” instead.

My brain cannot be taken anywhere in polite company.

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