Humour VII

No, I remember the friskiness of youth--I'd never tell you to stop horsin' around.

OK, I'll way date myself... That reminds me of an old Chad Mitchell Trio song: after she removes her glasses, wig, and cosmetics--and while she's working on her "foundation garments"--the suitor of cooling ardor says, "When you get to the part I want, just toss it over here."

Yeah, I'm sure--but I doubt we'll find a link to a recording.I heard it in concert in nineteen-sixty-ohmigodthatlongago, and it wasn't the sort of thing that made it onto vinyl in those daysToo bad it wasn't a decade later; we'd have bootleg tapes.But I'll look. I'll even blow the dust off my crates of vinyl, just in case.One of my faves is The John Birch Society:

quote:

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Join the John Birch Society, the John Birch Society:
Here to save our country from the Communistic plot!
Join the John Birch Society, help us fill our ranks:
To get this movement started we need lots of tools and cranks.

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Edited by Omnivorous, : No reason given.

Why close the barn door now? Besides, you'd just think I was a nag.

NPR aired a report on accusations that pork sphincters were being resold as fried calamari.I never before appreciated my seafood allergies.

As many expatriates have discovered, a popular sport in Asia involves pressing the Western guest to try an exotic traditional dish, usually something in which modern locals have zero interest.But ah!, the pleasure of watching a foreign devil trying to maintain savor faire while chewing something unidentifiable (because it's been buried for ages); or gnawing the bones of some poor creature one would rather play with than eat, after it has baked for days in the curious, communal, crock-pot type ovens in which tender becomes dissolute...Of course, in most East Asian cultures, a flat "No" is exceedingly rude, so more elegant avoidance strategies are required.Let me pause here a moment to assure you that I went gustatorily native in Asia, buying snacks from street vendors, for example, favoring noodle shops that had me cheek to jowl with laborers and street girls, and avoiding the expensive Western-import specialty food shops. I even came to enjoy the open air markets where the sights and stenches leave most Westerners gagging and gulping.But I grew tired of being toyed with, so, finally, at a kisaeng dinner thrown in my honor by one of the Hyundai brothers in Seoul, after I got up and sang "Take a Walk on the Wild Side" to the accompaniment of a three-piece band, I listened with growing horror as a shining-eyed, demented vice president in charge of consternating Westerners described the violence planned for my palate."I am honored beyond my worth," I replied (it sounds more earnest in Korean), "but I must beg your forgiveness. I cannot eat this wonderful creation of your ancestors because it is against my religion.""I'm a Rotarian."Worked like a charm, and the demands of courtesy were met. Only the rabid VP looked at all suspicious.We apologized to each other profusely for five minutes, and then I sang "Suzanne".I used it from Jakarta to Shanghai, fantasizing about serving the lot of them prion-rich squirrel brains lightly sauteed in authentic Appalachian squalor.

Yes.NB: And I must say I did a bang-up job on "Suzanne".All business travelers to Asia should be forewarned that they will sooner or later be asked to sing for their supper.Learn a handful of songs you can essentially talk your way through--Yesterday, Suzanne, Take a Walk on the Wild Side--and you'll be better prepared than any travel guide could make you.Edited by Omnivorous, : No reason given.

I appreciate xongsmith's defense of story for its own sake, but I agree: it really does matter, and it really is true.

By the time the singing starts, all are deep in their cups--everybody sounds good. Drink enough makkoli (rice wine) or soju (rice vodka), and you'll think you sound good, too. I fondly recall rocketing through Seoul in a taxi, trying to beat the midnight curfew, the driver and I belting out Arirang, a sort of unofficial national anthem of unrequited love.In Korea specifically, and East Asia in general, everyone I met could sing quite well. They know that we are more inhibited about public performance: they will insist, implacably, that you sing, but they will also erupt into enthusiastic applause, no matter what violence you do to their ears.I love song; I love to sing. It was a revelation to me to live in a culture where any effort to sing was genuinely welcomed, instead of becoming an occasion for semi-jocular groans and complaints. I once sat all night in a moon-watching pavilion above a small lake near Pusan, sipping soju and singing American folk songs with a group of Korean college students I met on the trail. I was soju soused, for sure, but I've never felt so moved by the common humanity found in song.Interestingly, I read recently that a survey study found perfect pitch far more common in East Asia than in the West, possibly because of languages that employ pitch to shade, or even completely change, meanings. I suspect the lack of cultural barriers to the pleasures of song also plays a role.Oh! This is Humor!One of the first tests of my capacity to avoid Ugly Americanism was attendance at a professionally-produced musical revue by Korea's most popular stars, performed as a thank you to U.S. troops.I am proud to say that I sat through a long, rockin' version of "Lolling on the Liver" without a single snicker.

Yeah, but I didn't know it until afterward. A formal Korean dinner might have 20-30 dishes, none of them featuring large amounts of animal protein, and all of them thoroughly spiced.It was good, but I soon learned the words that let me avoid it.Elsewhere in Asia, I may have, but I doubt it: dog is an expensive delicacy, and seldom served without fanfare. Also, the tradition of hospitality is powerful there, and Western objections to eating Fido are well known.One of my landlords in Seoul, who was a senior government bureaucrat, had a pet dog, which was unusual in the 70s. I came home one night three sheets to the wind and sat with the dog for a while, explaining to him in Korean (since he was a Korean dog ) that I wouldn't let them eat him, no matter what.My landlord listened at his window and told me later I had given him the best drinking story ever. One day the dog was missing, and I asked Mr. Lee about it: he smiled, patted his stomach, and said, "Good dog!"-- then roared with laughter at my expression.The dog was at the vet.

They claimed no one could taste the difference.How can we trust them now?

I'll do my best, sir.

That reminds me of a crime novel every crime novel lover should read, an under-recognized classic by Lawrence Block, "When the Sacred Ginmill Closes."It is, beyond a doubt, an American soused classic, as boozy and dark as they come.The title's from David Van Ronk's "Last Call":

quote:

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And so we’ve had another night
of poetry and poses,
and each man knows he’ll be alone
when the sacred ginmill closes.

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And so we’ll drink the final glass
each to his joy and sorrow
and hope the numbing drink will last
til opening tomorrow.

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And when we stumble back again
like paralytic dancers
each knows the question he must ask
and each man knows the answer.

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And so we’ll drink the final drink
that cuts the brain in sections
where answers do not signify
and there aren’t any questions.

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I broke my heart the other day.
It will mend again tomorrow.
If I’d been drunk when I was born
I’d be ignorant of sorrow.

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And so we’ll drink the final toast
that never can be spoken:
Here’s to the heart that is wise enough
to know when it’s better off broken.

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Personally, I used mute.Pretty cool though.

That reminds me of a similar city-country exchange.The city fella concludes, "Well, you're a pretty ignorant fella. You lived here all your life?""Not yet."