A Foggy Day

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, time for Sports Update:

It ’twas a piss-poor blimey kind of Sunday morning I experienced the last weekend when London came calling on my TV on account of our football Packers playing a regulation game right there in the heart of the former rapacious slave-owning British Empire, but what the fock.

Kick-off at 8:30 a.m. Can do. Had alcoholic beverages at the ready so’s to enjoy the contest (usually I’m coming to the cocktail at that time of the morning from the back-end of a Saturday night as opposed to the front-end of the Sabbath, but hey, “Go Pack!”). Had a nice ring baloney boiling in the pot ’cause at some point during the game, a guy like me might need a nice snack, I kid you not.

So, I’m all set for the Pack to colonize the New York Giants into submission. And then, of course, the broadcast has to begin with the renditions of the national anthems (our “Spangled Banner” really needs a musical rehab, you think?); why, haven’t a focking clue.

So after the “Banner” comes the British go-to-war tune, now called “God Save the King.” And I’m listening, took a sip from my pre-game libation, and said to myself: “Wait a cotton-focking-picking minute. ‘God Save the King’”? What the fock, sounds suspiciously like a song we sing on our side of the Atlantic called “America (My Country ’Tis of Thee”), with lyrics like “Land of the pilgrim’s pride” and “Land where my fathers died,” (no mention of the “mothers” in the stanzas, just so you know).

So I had to do some research as to why I never heard of centuries-past copyright lawyers suing the bejesus out of pilfering a nation’s anthem so that kids had a patriotic tune to sing in their grade-school classes when it came to “Music Time” or “Song Time,” what the fock.

I did some research for you’s ’cause that’s the kind of guy I am, you betcha:

I found that, melodically, “America (My Country ’Tis of Thee”) is totally ripped off from the British anthem. But the lyrics, by Samuel Francis Smith in 1831? Give me a focking break, what with all the “God” schmutz, cripes.

However, I found a lyrical twist, an abolitionist version written by an A. G. Duncan, 1843, that begins like this (hum along if you’d like):

My country, ’tis of thee,

Stronghold of slavery, of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,

Where men man’s rights deride,

From every mountainside thy deeds shall ring.

My native country, thee,

Where all men are born free, if white’s their skin;

I love thy hills and dales,

Thy mounts and pleasant vales;

But hate thy negro sales, as foulest sin…

OK, that’s the rail, take a ride here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/America_(My_Country,_%27Tis_of_Thee)

And I remember being handed to my small second, maybe third,-grade hands a school-owned songbook so’s to buttress our early musical education, a song-book containing Stephen Foster’s (1826-1864) greatest hits, tunes we were to sing-a-long with at the crack of a pitch pipe, songs such as “Old Black Joe,” “Camptown Races,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” and our youthful voices were commanded to sing “Gone are my friends from the cotton fields away,” “De Camptown ladies sing dis song, Doo-dah! doo-dah!” and “The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, ’Tis summer, the darkies are gay….” Jeez louise, a Cole Porter-with-the-lyrics Mr. Foster was not, ain’a?

This was the mid-late 1950s. You’d think rather than get a songbook from a racist from a 100 years earlier, the musical teachers could’ve substituted the racist Foster tunes with a nice collection from the George & Ira Gershwin catalogue of the 1920s-’30s. I’d like to believe that us kids back then would rather sing “They’re writing songs of love, but not for me…” or “And through foggy London town / The sun was shining upside-down!” or “You like potato and I like potahto / You like tomato and I like tomahto…” than songs about cotton fields, plantations and goddamn banjos, for christ sakes.

Now, where the hell was I? I think it was a Sports Update. OK. So the Packers stunk up Britannia in the second half of the game and I’m just relieved that the queen wasn’t alive to smell it. I hear the team has arrived safely back to Titletown; although, on the flight back I hope there was one empty seat on the plane because they left behind “defensive coordinator” Joe Barry on account of locking him up in the Tower London, date of execution yet to be determined, what the fock.

Anyways, to wrap this up ’cause my deadline approaches in more ways than one. I received the latest issue of the National Geographic the other day with a cover story titled “Animal Sentience: What Are They Thinking?” And it reminded me of a little story from out of my past:

I knew this butcher. One day a dog runs into his shop, but before he could chase the dog out, he spots 10-dollar bill and a note in the dog’s mouth. Note says, “Ten lamb chops, please.” Flabbergasted, the butcher takes the money, puts a bag of chops in the dog’s mouth and quickly closes the shop. He follows the dog and watches him wait for a green light, look both ways and trot across the street to a bus stop. Dog sits on a bench checks a bus schedule. Bus comes, dog checks the route number and then boards. The butcher follows ’cause he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

So the bus travels out to the ’burbs and the dog takes in the scenery. Eventually, the dog stands on his hind legs, pulls the “stop” cord and exits. The butcher follows and sees the dog run up to a house and drop the bag of chops on the porch. Dog goes back down the path, takes a big run and throws himself against the door, which he repeats two, three times with no response from inside. Dog walks to the side of the house, jumps up on a wall, beats his head against a window, then runs back to the front door and barks. Some guy opens the door, starts to cursing a blue streak and spanking the dog with a rolled-up newspaper. The butcher screams at the guy, “What the heck are you doing? Stop. That dog’s a genius.” Guy says, “Genius my aching hinder. That’s the third time this week he’s forgotten his goddamn keys.”

Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.