I’m not moving to Montana soon. Too many dental-floss tycoons cluttering up Big Sky Country, with their zircon-encrusted tweezers and pygmy ponies.
But Frank Zappa was thinking about it, and said as much during a concert in Stockholm in 1971. Open your little umbrellas and rejoice, O my fellow Zappatistas.
I was up until 10 last night posting ’cross goodies at VeloNews.com, then dragged ass out of the sack at 6:30 this morning to crank on some World Cup stuff. The lads in Igorre all wound up looking like chocolate Easter bunnies, or maybe Zappa on the cover of “Joe’s Garage.” Didja get any onya?
Pop round to zappa.com for a holiday message from The Central Scrutinizer and relive those glorious days of yesteryear with a video mashup from A Modified Dog via Ketchup Is a Vegetable.
Then shed a tear for the kids of today who must endure what Tom McGuane calls “their stupid fucking tuneless horseshit.”
The faithful among you need no reminders as to the deeper meaning behind the Festival of Zappadan, but for the noobs, Frank Zappa was taken from us on Dec. 4 and subsequently born on Dec. 21. According to Blue Gal, The Aristocrats designated this period Zappadan — “the days of the year between death and birth, that ethereal time when there was no Frank, so we must celebrate him to keep his spirit safe until his birthday again. Or it’s just a great excuse for a party that has nothing to do with the greed and debt festival known as Christmas in America.”
This year the festivities seem largely confined to other blogs and Twitter. But that doesn’t mean we can’t all be happy together.
It’s not the Tree of Liberty; frankly, I’m not certain that species even exists any longer. And while it’s a cherry tree, little Georgie Washington probably never took a whack at one of its ancestors, because it’s a Canadian red cherry.
And it’s in our backyard as of this morning. I’d be happy to water it with the blood of a tyrant if one happens by, but we’re not rich enough to merit the gummint’s personal attention. For plebes like us, the dung is flung wholesale, from a safe distance.
It’s fertilizer, to be sure — you can tell by the smell — but the compost being spread by the plutocracy’s lawn boys in DeeCee is not the kind that encourages green, vigorous growth in anything other than their masters’ portfolios.
So, lacking tyrants’ blood, we’ll just water the little dickens and keep our fingers crossed. This yard has not been kind to trees. You’d think this place had been built on a Republican graveyard or something.
Anything of value that lot takes with them when they go.
Man. Nothing like a successful visit to the chiropractor. Doc managed to solve the crick in my neck despite being a finger shy of a full load, hands-wise — she slashed the bejaysis out of her left index finger the other day while chopping veggies for dinner and was sporting a big ol’ bandage on that digit when I turned up for my appointment today.
Five hours in the waiting room at the ER, a dozen or so stitches, no problem. She latches onto my melon like LeBron James grabbing a basketball and makes my neck go crack crack crack — yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.
You gotta play hurt.
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