Photo courtesy of Joseph Hahn
Ganity, New Zealand
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, there I was last Sunday evening eyeballing our country’s Super Bowl extravaganza when commenced the halftime entertainment and all I could say was this: “What the holy fock.”
Another big-time musical display with not nary a tune I would find myself humming the next day, I kid you not. And I’ll tell you’s, if I’m not elected your president come November, the next thing I’d most like to be is the guy in charge of appointing the headline “talent” for the next Super Bowl spectacle, you betcha.
And I would address an egregious fock-up and anoint The Beach Boys (or what’s left of them) for the top-dog spot at next February’s affair. For christ sakes, there have been 50-something of these Super Bowls and not once has America’s greatest musical group shown up onstage between the 2nd and 3rd quarters, what the fock.
We’ve had Carol Channing, Up with People and the Ma-focking-roon 5 but never The Beach Boys? Justice must be served and I’m just the guy to dish it out.
And it was then that I got a call from my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine with some bitchingly disturbing news regarding an old friend of ours from out west.
And so:
The State of the Essay 2020 (Today, anyways)
Sail on, sail on sailor, ’cause now is now and then was then and right now maybe I’m not feeling like your essayist-at-large, maybe I’m feeling more like a sewer rat onboard some U.S.S. Shipwrecked Daughters and brothers sailing wicked waters. A rock in the landslide, the leaf on a windy day, cork on the ocean often frightened surely unenlightened, lost and goner. Empty Styrofoam cup in a California sandbox, god only knows.
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Heroes and villains, that’s the beat. The first mate sang the children were raised, you know they suddenly rose like wild honey, they started so long ago and to turn healthy, wealthy and wise though restful waters and deep commotion… And I’ve been in this town so long, so long to this city that I’m fit with this stuff, to write in the rough, but you can bet your buck two-eighty that I’m all right by the heroes and villains, my life with the heroes and villains, always this valentine to the heroes and villains.
But if my beat were advice for all over the nation, maybe I’d say that maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true, maybe then there wouldn’t be a single thing we couldn’t do. Wouldn’t that be nice? You bet your sweet dupa it would.
And don’t forget that it’s always a good thing to remember all the places you’ve surfed and danced and, all the faces you’ve missed that in this late day are too outta site; and then think and wish and hope and pray that you can do it again.
And then sometimes a guy needs a break from his beat, a slight reprieve, I don’t care who you are. So, what do you say, let’s have one.
Whoever’s left in the room and somebody wants to know just where the heck everyone is, you just tell the teacher we’ve gone surfing, surfing U.S.-focking-A. ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
