R.I.P., Tom Lehrer

“And this is what he said on / his way to Armageddon. …”

I have no idea where or when I made the acquaintance of Tom Lehrer, who has gone west on us at the ripe old age of 97.

But I was immediately enthralled. What a mind!

I couldn’t do math at gunpoint. What few resources I possessed were directed at trying (and often failing) to make people laugh.

But Tom Lehrer could do both, and seemingly with ease. Numbers and words alike danced to his merrily sardonic tunes.

In the end, he chose academia over comedy. I expect his GPA was a wee bit more impressive than mine. At the age of 18 he received his bachelor’s degree in mathematics from Harvard; at that age I was a freshman on drugs and academic probation at Adams State College in Alamosa, Colo.

As Lehrer’s obit in The New York Times recounts:

I never caught his mathematical act at those venues. But I saw him perform on TV a time or two, and heard him now and then on FM radio, both freeform and public. My faves were “Wernher von Braun,” “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park,” “The Vatican Rag,” and “A Song for World War III,” which I suspect may have inspired Randy Newman’s “Political Science.”

And five years before he left us on Saturday, he remembered us in his will. Well, on his website, anyway, where he announced that:

In other words, he relinquished the rights to all his songs, except for the melodies of a few that used his words but someone else’s music.

The curtain may have rung down, but his satirical legacy survives. So long, Tom, you never dropped a bomb.

The Dullard Lame-o

“Blabble gabble Obama yammer stammer landslide gibber jabber treason. …”

Gautama H. Buddha on a flying zabuton, how does someone get this fucking stupid in just one lifetime?

Best argument for reincarnation I’ve ever seen.

We are in the moist and clammy paws of the Bizarro World Buddhists, and this slobbering eejit is their Dalai Lama. His Assholiness.

Speaking of the actual DL, there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that His Holiness has declined reincarnation, saying, “If Yosemite Samsāra over there keeps coming back, I’m giving it a miss.”

R.I.P., Ozzy Osbourne

“The End.” For real, this time.

O, Lawd — can I say, “O, Lawd,” in this connection? — Ozzy and I made some powerful noise on South Loring Circle back in 1970.

I played “Paranoid” on the folks’ console stereo so loud, so many times, that they finally told me to take it with me when I left. It had been ruined as a stage for Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and Benny Goodman. It had become the Devil’s Juke Box.

Don’t get me wrong — I liked the big bands. But I liked a big noise, too. Thus I rattled the windows with Led Zep’, Iron Butterfly, and of course, Black Sabbath.

I was born in 1954. We spent a lot of time under our desks, hiding from nuclear weapons and/or the Selective Service System. Some of us came out humming “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” Others shrieked about “War Pigs.”

Eventually I wound up somewhere in between, with John Prine and “Sam Stone.” But man, did I ever enjoy rattling those windows. Thanks, Ozzy. Peace to you and yours.

And if you happen to see Hunter S. Thompson on the Other Side, the two of yis stay the hell away from those goddamn bats.

Looks just like a penis, only smaller

“It’s down here somewhere. …”

The Pestilence has been diagnosed with Chronic Penis Insufficiency*, which should surprise approximately no one.

According to the usually fabricated sources his condition has become so dire that two aides are compelled to help him find it come time to pee.

As the first sprinkles pepper into his unzipped trousers, the second stands at the ready, holding a powerful magnifying glass and tweezers. When the little fella reveals its location by sneezing, the second aide spots it with the glass, grabs it with the tweezers, and aims it at the gold-plated toilet.

Mission accomplished!

It’s a process both delicate and cumbersome, as the two aides are immediately fired, gagged with NDAs, and deported to Lower Spaminacanistan before they can run giggling to the press. And thus replacements must be found. Repeat ad infinitum.

*Oh, pardon me. He has chronic venous insufficiency, not the other thing. As far as we know. …

The Rio Ground

The Rio Grande, pictured July 11, two days before it was declared officially dry in The Duck! City.

Welp, piss on the dogs and call in the fire — the Rio Grande is now the Rio Ground.

John Fleck reports that the “official” call is that the Rio ran dry in the heart of Albuquerque last Sunday evening, for only the second time in the 21st century.

I was down by the river last Friday (not to shoot my baby; I was on a longer-than-usual bike ride) and took the above snap from the Gail Ryba Memorial Bridge paralleling Interstate 40. A stone bummer it was and will be; the future does not look bright, but we’ll have to wear shades anyway. And possibly Assos stillsuits as well.

I wasn’t wearing my dancing shoes.

Happily, I took two tall iced water bottles on this 45-miler. And I had drained both of them before I saw something that made me smile, in Lynnewood Park just short of The Old Home Place.

The Paseo de las Montañas Trail runs right through the park, and on the concrete path someone had drawn a rough square with a message inside: “Dance Here.”

I would’ve, too. But I was hot, tired, and thirsty, and the soles of my ancient Sidis have been ground down to nubbins by the years and miles. Plus it would’ve felt a little like dancing on my own grave.