things-that-rhyme

[things-that-rhyme]

Men Without Hats, The Safety Dance: is it?

This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands:

We open with a wide 2-shot of men traversing a field of waist-high grass. Or, I should say, waist-high and shoulder-high, as one of the men is a dwarf. Judging by the dress, we appear to be in Merry Olde England. The relationship between the two men will remain ambiguous for the duration of the video, but for now we may say they appear collegial. They are not yet dancing, safely or otherwise, but the dwarf is, confusingly, wearing a hat. Perhaps we’re meant to contrast the behavior of the man WITH a hat against the man WITHOUT a hat, who will—through titular implication—be joined by similarly-bareheaded compatriots to form the collective (plural) men without (multiple) hats.

(NOTE: I did google the preferred terminology for people with dwarfism, but there didn’t seem to be a consensus of opinion. There was this sensible guidance: “Unless physical stature is of relevance in a conversation, simply using a person's name is appropriate.” While the actor is Mike Edmonds, the character remains unnamed. But since he wears a Rhythm of Youth t-shirt throughout, let’s just call him Roy. Roy’s traveling companion is of course is Men Without Hats lead singer and 1983’s top-ranked Canadian heartthrob Ivan Doroschuk, who for clarity’s sake we’ll just call Ivan.)

In due course Roy and Ivan exit the field and arrive at a literal forked road, the interpretation of which is left up to the viewer. Is one choice “safe” and one less so? Does only one route lead to dancing? Both seem equally well-traveled, so Frostian guidance is of no use here. In the absence of any state-approved signage, our pair is left to attempt to find meaning in the ambiguous movements of a manic blonde siren, who one can assume is engaged by the local municipality to encourage/discourage tourism depending on the preferences of the town. Roy falls under the siren’s spell, but Ivan, displaying Homeric fortitude, concentrates on the task at hand, quickly opting for the up-pitching left fork—literally and notably, the high road. He is followed by the dancing siren, who abandons her post with shocking insouciance, and Roy, now dancing as well, in what can only be viewed as a commentary on the contagious nature of joy and definitely NOT a commentary on anything else that was contagious in the early-to-mid-1980’s because Ivan Doroschuk has said it’s definitely not that.

The high road quickly appears to be the best of all possible choices, as Ivan and friends are greeted by the denizens of a quaint village with waves and smiles, which Ivan returns to the best of his ability, though his attempts appear less like greetings and more like someone angrily trying to swat invisible bees. This is reflected in the accompanying lyrics: “And you can act real rude and totally removed, and I can act like an imbecile.” Maybe he’s bitter because he was raised hatless among the hatted? We can only hope time will tell.

Briefly thwarted in their bipedal progress by a locked fence (not to worry, the lyrics assure us, “everything is under control”), Ivan seizes the opportunity to update the viewer that in regard to dancing, “They’re doing it from pole to pole.” Ivan punctuates this lyric with body language that can only be described as “deeply paranoiac,” a sort of duck-and-cover maneuver paired with a rapidly shifting side-to-side eyeball movement, which leaves the viewer wondering how comfortable—if at all—he is with this exponential global expansion of dancing. (The parallels with our current misfortunes need not be commented upon, though the lyrics “everybody look at your hands” are particularly prescient.) It’s here that the signature symptom of the dancing contagion is observed: the affected form a stiff, almost robotic “S” shape with their arms, while simultaneously bending spasmodically to one side. The “S” presumably indicates the “safety” in “safety dance,” though other s-words can’t be definitively eliminated.

There’s a small time jump here, as we don’t see how the locked-fence obstacle is overcome, but let's assume they were granted access by one among the crowd we see in the next shot. Our heroes are now in the town proper. During a brief series of shots of general revelry the viewer can contemplate if the enclave is meant to symbolize literal geographic isolation or perhaps the spiritual/emotional separation one feels when one perceives oneself as “other”—by virtue of one’s own internal nonconformities or one’s external lack of hats.

There is now universal dancing.

The village—which exhibits the ethnic diversity that is to be expected in a gated community—appears to have been wholly affected, with every man, woman and child (and not a few human-sized chickens) participating. “Everybody,” as Ivan remarks, is—zoonotically speaking—“takin’ the chance.”

We catch glimpses of Roy and the blonde siren, now they are but two among many. Our attention focuses on Ivan. He is a man at war with himself, alternately joining the crowd in choreographic unity and pacing in dissonant confusion, both participant and observer, puppet and puppetmaster. He claps on the 4 but not the 2, signifying his deeply conflicted feelings about the effect his presence has had on the village. “It’s safe to dance!” he declares, to no one in particular. “Yes, it’s safe to dance!” he reiterates, unprompted, to convince the crowd…or himself? No matter. They are beyond hearing. We close on Ivan, waving his arms and repeating “It’s safe to dance” to various spots in the air above him, again seeming to address the invisible bees by which he was earlier plagued. He seems discomfited. He’s created…something…among these country people, the lasting effects of which he can never know. The safety of his dance is by no means certain. And yet he remains to the end…defiantly and eternally…hatless.

[things-that-rhyme]

The Raving, A Political History

Once upon election season, all of us abandoned reason, Arguing the arguments we'd argued all to death before. We were drowning in division, goaded by the television, Either Fox or "Indecision" on last night's Colbert Report, "Take me back in time," I muttered to that night's Colbert Report - "To before 2004."

Ah, distinctly I remember two weeks prior to September, How each active party member cast his vote upon the floor, The air was filled with celebration, as each state's own delegation Raised their voice in nomination, nomination for Al Gore. For the man who came to office when Bill Clinton named Al Gore, (Officeless here, forevermore.)

As I watched that year's convention the vice president's ascension Seemed assured, despite his predecessor's shameful intern score. Considering the GOP had chosen for THEIR nominee A man who could - just possibly - be slightly dumber than a door. (No seriously - test them both. He's slightly dumber than a door.) (Really, who could ask for more?)

However something went awry, the race grew close as weeks went by, Polls indicated people were unsure who they were voting for. Somehow "smart" became "elitist", criticism was "defeatist", "Relatability" was all that seemed to matter any more, Who folks would rather chug beer with was all that mattered any more. ("Voting! brought to you by Coors.")

Election Day, the race was tight, but exit polling seemed all right, The Democrats were edging out George Bush something like 5-to-4. But as we watched the news transmit, the day wore on, Joementum quit, Then shit met fan and fan met shit. The tide was turning on Al Gore. As hours passed, the tide was turning slowly against Albert Gore. (Time to buckle up, press corps!)

With several states too close to call, who knew WHO would win it all? We all had voted yet it came down to the final three or four, Iowa! New Mexico! There's no predicting how they'll go! But Florida held the death blow - the Sunshine State would tip the score. That's right, Grandma and Grandpa! Your adopted state would tip the score! (Maybe if we'd called you more…)

What happened then is too upsetting, really only worth forgetting, The counts and recounts, hanging chads, decisions via Supreme Court. Then the height of lunacy, the victor declared finally, (The right said justifiably) was NOT the stalwart Albert Gore! Despite receiving far more votes, the winner WASN'T Albert Gore! (Times that this has happened? Four.)

So thanks to that sad exercise we got George Bush, not once, but twice! And how'd he do? Our folksy git-er-done cowboy conquistador? There's Katrina, 9/11, Kyoto no-go and recession, Inappropriate discretion sent our nation into war, Flat-out lies and misdirection sent our nation into war. (Quoth Obama: nevermore!)

The point behind this tale of woe, is just so that my kids could know, From whence the deep divisions flow, what happened in the years before. This unfortunate resentment, seeming-endless discontentment, Aren't new, and so my story thus meant things weren't different heretofore. Alas, divisive politics were not that different heretofore. (Partisan forevermore!)

So kids, perhaps your generation, next in line to lead the nation, Will do better than the other generations who have gone before, Try to see more that unites you than the crap that will divide you, Come together to decide you want to give YOUR children more. Keep focused on the future, leave your children and their children more. Only love's worth fighting for.

[things-that-rhyme]

LMM's Process, or, How it Went Down in Real Time (A Theory)

Chernow’s “Alexander Hamilton”, Prologue: “Yet many distinguished commentators have echoed Eliza Hamilton’s lament that justice has not been done to her Hamilton.”

LMM: That’s true. Someone should fix that.

Chernow, Chapter One: “That this abominable childhood produced such a strong, productive, self-reliant human being - that this fatherless adolescent could have ended up a founding father of a country he had not yet even seen - seems little short of miraculous.”

LMM: The fact that he survived IS a miracle. I wonder if I could make this into a musical…

Chernow, Chapter Two: “Hamilton did not know it, but he had just written his way out of poverty.”

LMM: Damn. He wrote his way out of hell. This could totally be a musical.

Chernow, Chapter Three: “He (…) soon made his first friend: a fashionable tailor with the splendid name of Hercules Mulligan.”

LMM: *grabs pen* Okay, so we’re doing this.

(I gotta add this part to match the title of my blog, See my other post below for a #yayhamlet monologue)

[things-that-rhyme]

#YAYHAMLET

To be or not to be, that is the question before me, Persist to exist or desist, just no more me? Is it noble to suffer? I don't know what's enough or If this shit's gonna kill me, or it's making me tougher. Lady Luck's got me fucked, she's a whore, this bad fortune's Outrageous, could it possibly be more courageous, To just walk away? Remove myself from the fight? Take up a gun or a knife and just be done with this life? To die - to sleep - like in the arms of a lover, Say goodbye to that last girl, be consumed by another. Peace would be a release, letting go of the pain, Soothe the ache in my body, finally settle my brain. To die - to sleep - it's almost too much to wish. To sleep - to dream, ah, now ain't that a bitch? Do you dream when you're dead? Do you scheme when you're dead? See a scene of something that makes you scream when you're dead? There's the fear, there's the catch, there's the thing in our way, There's the cause of this pause, the reason that we delay. When wrongs are lifelong a long life's a calamity, It's a given we should give in, shuffle off this humanity. But we don't and we won't, we sing our song to the last verse, We're scared the nightmare over there will be past worse. The second someone dies should we feel pity or be jealous? Is it beautiful or scary? No one's coming back to tell us. Our conscience makes us cowards, our wits make us weak, Resolution's overpowered and the mighty turn meek. No one wants to trade the frying pan for the fire, We choose the devil we know when it comes down to the wire. The momentum that could make this moment something momentous thus Gets sicklied o'er by the thoughts that blocked and prevented us. We lay down our gun, we step away from the knife, And defenseless, face senseless... relentless... real life.

(Oh snap here comes Ophelia, Imma have a little fun, you see? I'm gonna act the fool and tell her GET THEE TO A NUNNERY!

It'll be funny. She'll laugh.)

#YAYHAMLET

[things-that-rhyme]

a little feminist rap

Margaret Fuller, Lucy Stone, Susan B. Anthony, Sufferin’ suffragettes won the vote for you and me. In the wars the Air Force let the women get to it, Then Rose struck a pose and said “Yeah, We Can Do It” Ah, but THEN when the MEN all got back from their mission, They said, “WELL! You did swell! Now get back in the kitchen.”

But the hazy having babies had some ladies going crazy, They thought daily that just maybe there was something ELSE they may be.

Betty Friedan argued freedom was a feminine goal, And then Steinem got behind ‘em, got them ladies on a roll, bell hooks, Toni Cade, bad grrrls do it how? We got Maya, we got Oprah and that brings us up to NOW.

Jolie, Hillary, Hermoine and Queen Bey, Gotta holla at Malala fighting for equality. Ruth Bader Ginsburg is our lady in black, We raised our voices and got choices and there’s no going back. So it’s treason when you reason that you’re not a feminist, You should be proud to join that crowd, and now I’ll end this: CLASS DISMISSED.

[things-that-rhyme]

Star Wars, the Seussical Edition

Our story begins on an ordinary day, With a boy in a galaxy far, far away. The boy's name was Luke - no more than a teen, He lived on a planet they called Tatooine. His parents - so tragic! - they both were long dead, Young Luke was an orphan (well, that's what they said). He lived on a farm with his uncle and aunt, Luke wanted to leave but they both said, "You can't! "We need you for this and we need you for that! To bring in the crops and to hunt the womp rat!" So Luke waited and stayed and he stayed and he waited, And helped with the work on the farm (which he hated). At night he would stand and gaze over the dunes At the one setting sun and the two rising moons. He would sigh as he'd think to himself, "It's not fair, That I'm stuck on this rock while my friends are out there!" But Destiny had a few tricks up her sleeve, Luke stood, gazed, and waited… but soon he would leave. MEANWHILE…

Not so far away from where the boy stood, Was raging a battle of evil and good! Imperial forces with their mighty hand, Were crushing the Rebel Alliance's band. The rebels had stolen the plans - newly minted - To the worst weapon mankind had ever invented. The Empire wanted to get their plans back, So they gathered their troops and went on the attack. The Stormtroopers, gleaming insidious white, Swarmed through the whole ship, just to fight, fight, fight, fight. The rebels, outnumbered, outgunned and outlasted, Had only two choices: give up or get blasted. But one of them wouldn't let herself concede Without first performing one most crucial deed. This rebel - a princess! - before they could shoot her, Hid the plans deep inside one small android's computer! And with it, a message, of limited scope: "Help me, Obi-wan, you are my only hope!" With the droid and his counterpart now on the run, The princess was hit with a blaster (on stun). And though she resisted, the stormtroopers made her Confront their feared leader, the evil DARTH VADER!!!!!!