Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? Listen, once again after all these years when it comes to this time of year, year-in, year-out, if you even begin to think I could possibly have any gas left to pass through another essay on that annual Summerfest musical racket down there by our lakefront—then you are abso-focking-lutely correct. Of course I do. The gas may be a tad overripe, but it smells like this:
I’ve pored over and indeed rifled through all the big-gig Summerfest guides, lists, brochures, pamphlets and… HEY! Know what? I think the people in charge of that shebang have gone deaf from all that NOISY ROCK GUITAR MUSIC HELLABALOO they got all the time down there, I kid you not.
I think those people have gone to deaf because for almost 30-focking-years, I keep asking a-loudly over and over for two simple things on the grounds in the Summerfest: A TOPLESS TENT and a BOURBON TENT—like it would really kill the hippies who run that fest-joint to have a little something for which the common man to enjoy himself by. It may come as an unexpected thunderclap to some, but we’ve been known to drop a couple/three bucks here and there, now and then, for entertainment purposes, what the fock.
And that’s about all I have to say this week, besides that I almost forgot I could soon be coming into a million bucks; so ladies, please take a number. That’s because the other day I was finally unpacking some boxes from when I moved 15 years ago and rediscovered that in my possession is what actually appears to be part of a daily diary belonging to that olden-days long-departed Greek philosopher who went by the handle of Plato, you betcha.
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New-found writings by these ancient guys goes for big dough these days since they’re not shoveling out any more of it. And if some grandma can walk away with $100-grand from the “Antiques Roadshow” show for some rancid-looking “still life” she lifted from a yard sale, wait ’til you get a load of a page of the diary I had translated by a guy I used to know:
Summer In the Year 402 Before the Birth of A Guy Named Christ
“I’m telling you, if I have to work one more gig with that old fart Socrates, I’m leaving the business and that’s a focking promise, I kid you not. So what’s the beef, you ask? Here’s just the latest:
“So we’re on our way to do a Dialogue up around old Mycenae, a real jerkwater crowd but the bread’s good—and the wine’s not half bad, either. Ba-ding!
“But, seriously. It’s hotter than hell and I’m boiling my butt off, so I say, ‘Let’s take a break, Socks, I’m too focking hot.’ He asks, ‘What is hot?’ I say, ‘Listen pally, I got to take a load off. My dogs are aching and my head’s killing me.’ So then he asks, ‘But what is pain?’ I am so sick of that shish ke-knob’s stale, old schtick of all-the-time with the questions that I give him a good, swift sandal to the privates and when he’s done barfing, I say, ‘OK Einstein, does that answer your question?’ I mean I’ve been carrying this guy for years. I wish the old fart would just retire but he can still bring a crowd through the arch, so he keeps getting booked.
“So we’re at the gig in Mycenae. I’m doing my half of the show and I’m killing, literally killing. I opened with some of my new boffo cave material, then did a couple perceptions and decided to go out with my ‘The Material World’ stuff with that great, new closer I just came up with—the one about the thirsty skunk, a duck and a giraffe who walk into a public house. Skunk says, ‘Sorry guys, I can’t buy. All I’ve got’s a scent.’ Duck says, ‘Hey, don’t look at me. I only got a bill.’ So the giraffe says, ‘Well fellers, looks like the high balls are on me.’ Ba-ring-a-ding-ding!!!
“But right before I get to the punchline, I pause, do a take to the crowd and just about crap my toga ’cause there’s that asshole Socrates with his...
How ’bout that? And this from the guy who wrote: “Is that which is holy loved by the gods/because it is holy, or is it holy because it is/loved by the gods?” Hey, beats me since I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance, what the fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
