From The City That Always Sweeps: July 2021

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I can’t believe it’s July already, the month we celebrate our nation’s stumbling democracy’s independence from those bastard limey colonialists on the fourth. Yes, plenty of us will be attempting to croon the Anthem that day, what with its words of “bombs bursting in air” and “ramparts,” ’tis thee.

Hold on. Ramparts? I’ll bet you a buck two-eighty if you asked the majority of our country-men-and-women to define “ramparts,” they’d say it’s something you’d find in your gyro sandwich down by that Greek joint, I kid you not.

It’s high time for a new national anthem to replace the “Banner”—something bouncier, peppier, something people can actually sing, especially since I recently read this: “Wisconsin Assembly votes to require national anthem at sporting events in publicly funded venues.” Jeez louise, probably even at your little kids’ soccer game at the county park. Good lord.

So, I suggest we reconfigure “Elmer’s Tune” as a new “anthem,”—a popular song from the 1920s, you can hear a nice version by Glenn Miller & His Orchestra on YouTube so’s you know the melody—and let’s call it “America’s Tune.” (Don’t forget that F. Scott Key ripped off the melody to an English drinking song for our Anthem, so what the fock.)

OK, got the melody? Here’s the lyrics, so let’s all sing along, a nice, bouncy key of G, the people’s key:

Why are the stars always winkin’ and blinkin’ above?

What makes a fellow start thinkin’ of fallin’ in love?

It’s not the season, the reason is plain as the moon;

It’s just America’s Tune.

What makes a lady of eighty go out on the loose?

Why does a gander meander in search of a goose?

What puts the kick in a chicken, the magic in June?

It’s just America’s Tune.

Listen, listen,

there’s a lot you’re li’ble to be miss-in’;

Sing it, swing it,

any old way and any old time.

The hurdy gurdies, the birdies, the cop on the beat [I’m thinking that last phrase may need to be tweaked along with some gender stuff here and there, you think?];

The candy maker, the banker, the man on the street;

The city charmer, the farmer, the man in the moon—

All sing America’s Tune.

Now, there’s a sentiment to be shared in peaceful unison before whatever event you got, I’d say. Play ball!

Oh, one more thing. I could soon be coming into a million bucks. I was unpacking some boxes from when I moved 20 years ago into my dinky apartment and rediscovered that in my possession is what actually appears to be a parchment-fragment of a daily diary belonging to the long-departed Greek philosopher who went by the handle of Plato, you betcha. New-found writings by these ancient guys goes for big dough these days since they’re not shoveling out any more of it. I had it translated by a guy I know, Greek, he knows from ramparts—hope it’s legitimate:

Summer in the Countdown 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 open with my half of the show and I’m killing, literally killing. I start 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. 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...”

So, I got to go and secure my case of Old Grand-Dad for the froth of July—talk about a bottle rocket that will give (80%) proof through the night, what the fock. And let us be gallant through the perilous fight with the third-world heat and humidity of our Mid-western July so that come Aug. 1, our patriotic digits and assorted body parts remain attached and functional, god bless America ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.