Sippican Cottage

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Blast From the Past

Every video ever made is a requiem mass. You just don’t know it at the time.

Real Men of Genius, Chapter Eleventy-Two: Creatividad con Sencillez

The title means: creativity with simplicity. I’m not sure it qualifies, really. If all you’re trying to do is keep the cows from getting out of the enclosure every time someone drives through, it would be much simpler to kill all the cows right away and then eat them.

I’m here to help. If you have a problem that requires creativity with simplicity, let me know. I’ve often overheard people remarking on how creative and simple I am, so it must be true.

Happy New Year From Sippican Cottage’s Spare Heir

My eleven-year-old son is the last person on the face of the Earth to produce animations in Microsoft Paint. He may also be the first, but there’s no way of knowing one way or the other. At any rate, Happy New Year to everyone. Hope it’s a good one for you and yours.

I’ve Seen Supreme Evil, And It’s As Cute As A Puppy

Ah, pop music. There’s serious money in unserious music. And wherever there’s money, people sense importance.

After a professional football game, which involves around one hundred illiterate and innumerate neanderthals, looped on steroids and ADHD medicine, shoving each other on a striped lawn over possession of a malformed basketball for a few hours, dozens of likewise illiterate and innumerate sportswriters and TV hair farmers push microphones into the players’ faces and ask them their opinions, more than occasionally about topics outside their field of expertise — said expertise solely consisting of fooling a piss test. Such is the end result of lots of money applied to trivial things.

People ask pop singers who should be president, which is much the same. And if a person has a million-seller, you can be sure some intellectual holding down a chair and a sinecure at a university or a magazine will invest that success with the veneer of seriousness. Lady Gaga’s meat dress means something, I can assure you. It wouldn’t mean something if she was playing Debbie Boone covers at the Ramada Inn, but a vapor trail of zeroes makes Goofy into Laika.

I have suffered from the syndrome myself, when I was much younger. I thought pop songs were important. You can get your fun out of taking all the fun out of things if you try. All-night arguments about whether the Dave Clark Five were superior to the Monkees can fill your life with meaning. It’s sad and pathetic meaning, like worrying over a State Senate election, or arguing on the Intertunnel, but it is meaning.

If you see it as just fun, you can make more fun out of it, without worrying overmuch. Mashing E.L.O. and The Supremes together isn’t going to cure cancer, but hey; it isn’t going to cause it, either. Enjoy. 

Make It Fonky!

I mos def must be the funky! I desire to shake my grooved thang higher! I must melt the hot stax of wax in my ears, and take off to an astral plain! We will, we will, biological clock you in the face! Raise the roofie on the sucker! It’s a crisco inferno! Burn your mother’s down!

(Legion of Rock Stars)

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! Let’s put hope in your soul finger! And ebony and Merchant Ivory soap in your hole! Maceo, take me to the bridge of sighs! I wanna take your squier! Good God alrighty! They’re gonna spank that plank like a rented joule! So high, I can’t get over Stitt. So wide, you can’t have it your way, have it your way! Make it fonky!

(Andy Rehfeldt)


by: Sippican Cottage

Sun’s beaming in the window,
There’s rumbling from the floor,
We’re swinging and we’re swaying
Boxes dancing out the door.

Oh how our muscles ripple,
We’re making twenty knots,
We’re alternating; current —
We’re glowing with the watts.

Pounding down the corridors,
With Bill of Lading piles;
Our output’s put the boss on ice
We’re blowing out the dials.

They count the beans but can’t keep up,
We’re cooking with the gas;
Our arms are made from tempered steel,
Our heart is made of brass.

That brass is rolled to make a tube,
The tube is bent just so;
And if we blow that trumpet, Jack,
The girls get all aglow.

The whistle blows at five o’clock,
It’s twenty-three skidoo;
The guys and gals that made that stuff,
Go out for dancing too.

They box the compass of the steps
Then swing from chandeliers;
They leave the clerks there in the lurch
Then kick it up a gear.

They pound the floor into the ground,
They swing and then they sway;
They’d drink to all their troubles,
But they’ve long since gone away.

They close the places late at night,
And walk home ‘neath the stars;
Arm in arm, exchanging charms
One’s Venus, one is Mars.

Mighty children spring from them,
To keep the flame alight;
They nurse them with acetylene,
And ultra-violet light.

They grow some whiskers when they’re old,
And sit down for a spell;
Their Ercoles will take their place,
And raise a little hell.

Moveable Feast

Will you thumb through the pictures when I am gone?

Will my face, made careworn and tired, be restored in your mind’s eye? I cannot know what it was you ever saw in me. I cannot understand how you could know that when I said those things all people say to one another, almost without thinking, that I would really mean them. I said it and only half believed it myself, uttering such extravagant pledges of dubious value. Not for want of them being true. But I am unreliable.

There is nothing in this world but to love, and be loved in return. In a hundred years the most important man you ever met is anonymous. In a thousand everyone is. We cobbled together a life around the table where we break the bread, and for a few thousand times we were as one. I saw your face in our children’s faces. You said you saw mine. The universe passed the plate, and we put in our offering. We are poor, but it’s enough for anyone to give. No man could do more. No man could ask for more.

I remember when I was lying on the bed like a dead thing, and you came into the room and thought I was asleep. I wasn’t asleep; I was gone from sight, and sound, and lost in a fever. I lay there in a puddle of sweat and more; my very life coming out of every pore, leaving nothing but a husk where a man used to be.

And you kissed me. I remember.

Let’s Play Find The Spoof!

Hint: The one that isn’t a spoof seems the most absurd.

Mmmmm. Lee Remick. Little-known fact: Barack Obama was the rhythm guitar player in the Rutles.

Tag: mashups I wish I’d made

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