For a Good Time . . .

. . . check out the daily picture of the sunrise over Lake Michigan.

Love that lake! Miss that lake!

For a Good Time . . .

check out the Literature Map. It's pointless, but it's fun.

For a Good Time, Call . . .

Sandra Beasley!

Now that poem is alive!

For a Good Time, Call . . .

Focus!

So, the other a day my friend and colleague, Ms. M., came to me with a song running through her head that she couldn’t identify. What she hummed didn’t ring any bells for me, and I didn’t think any more about it until she showed up in my classroom a couple hours later, having tracked down the above video.

When she started playing the song, I wasn’t watching the screen, and I called out “England, 1972.” The video actually says 1973, and the caption says it's from a 1971 album, so I wasn’t too far wrong on that, but the band, as it turns out, was not British but Dutch, which may or may not explain things. In any case, this video left me amazed and speechless on any number of fronts.

1. Where in the world had Ms. M. heard this before?

2. How had I never heard this before?

3. Who the hell are these guys?

The remaining questions I had left me so speechless I can’t even write them down. I was awed, amazed, and convulsing in laughter and disbelief. What were they thinking? It’s brilliant. And it’s awful. And even though it calls to mind Uriah Heep, Jethro Tull, and a demented Julie Andrews at times, it also is like nothing else on the planet. It's also addictive. I keep needing to see the vocalist (if that is the right word here) perform one more time. In fact, I'll probably click on the link right now, and see and hear it again.

For a Good Time, Call . . .

Rollerman!

For a Good Time . . .

. . . check out this Craigslist ad for bunk beds.

For a Good Time . . .

. . . get a Burmese Mountain Dog!

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 8)

Escalator girl!

I Don’t Know if I’m Allowed to Do This, But . . .

I highly recommend becoming Facebook friends with Avrom Schwartz. There’s more consistently funny humor there than you will find on many a website. His status updates are comic examples of absurd minimalist literature, and his recent note, “Ten Things I’m Searching For. Ten Things I’m Fleeing,” is a funny, poignant, honest, and deceptive catalog.

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 7)

These doofs. Parkour is so old school.

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 6)

Tom at Omnivoracious. It was his recent write-up on the death of Mark Felt (aka Deep Throat) and his confession of his own fascination with Watergate that took me to this site, but it is the book lists, especially his Books of the States lists, replete with ersatz author state quarters, that has me coming back, though I am not sure how Michael Martone (author of Alive and Dead in Indiana, Fort Wayne is Seventh on Hitler’s List, Blue Guide to Indiana (speaking of ersatz), and The Flatness and Other Landscapes) was left off the short scroll of Hoosier honorees.

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 5)

Jon Stewart! Until a month or so ago I'd never had cable, so I had to take everyone's word for how funny Mr. Stewart and The Daily Show are. Despite now having access to it, I've still never watched it. This clip makes me think it might be time to start scheduling a little regular tv viewing time in the evening.

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 4)

Failblog! I can't remember the last time I laughed this hard. 

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 3)

Desmond Dekker. I woke up in the middle of the night once this winter with the words "Desmond Dekker" and the refrain "The Israelites" running through my head. I hadn't heard the song for maybe twenty years. I hadn't talked about it recently or read anything about him. I don't know why I woke up, or what these things were doing running through my subconscious, but when daylight came around I went to YouTube, and there it was—every bit as good (or better) than I remembered.

On a somewhat related note, I recently had another odd experience with my dream mind. For no good reason I can think of I had been trying for a few days to recall the name of my middle school science teacher. I could picture his face and physique and certain mannerisms, but no matter what I did, I couldn't bring back his name. I even remembered that he had a son who played basketball and ran the hurdles, but for names . . . nothing. Then a few nights ago, I woke up in the early hours of the morning, interrupting a dream he was in, and there was his name—first and last!—and his son's name as well.

For a Good Time, Call . . . (pt. 2)

Count No Count (aka Little Billy Faulkner, Wild Bill Faulkner, Wee Willie Faulkner, and the Nobel laureate). Or is it the German translation machine? You be the judge.

On a more serious note, here’s Faulkner’s hit single, his Nobel acceptance speech. I could listen to it for hours, maybe even until “the last ding dong of doom.”

For a Good Time, Call . . .

David Lee Roth! You won't be sorry.