States’ Frights

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Art Kumbalek State of Oregon

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, ladies and gentlemen, with respect to however you arrived at this destination, to paraphrase the late, great Alex Thien of the old Milwaukee Sentinel, here’s a newsy bit to kick-start your day/week with this bubbling headline from nbcnews.com, you betcha:

Check this out:

nbcnews.com/news/us-news/oregon-breakaway-effort-just-8-votes-deepening-urban-rural-divide-rcna86091

The headline-plus-subhead to the story is this: 

Oregon breakaway effort is down to just 8 votes, deepening urban-rural divide. 

The Greater Idaho movement aims to redraw Idaho’s map to include 14 conservative Oregon counties, but opponents say it’s only worsening political tensions.

What the fock! 

Here’s the first paragraph from the story:

A grassroots movement to redraw Oregon’s border is gaining traction after voters in 11 rural, conservative counties approved measures that would start the process of seceding from the blue state and joining Republican-dominated Idaho.

Secession. Deepest red Ore-Ida, our nation’s 51st state, cripes. State Motto:” Fock your blackass and the slave ship you rode in with.” Yeah, god bless you, America, for the constant sneezing but yet not able to blow out the snot from the schnozz. 

So now we’ve got states trying to take over other parts of states? I ask you’s, if this eastern Oregon-Idaho kerfuffle is suck-cessful and the Gem State grabs territory from the Beaver State to set some kind of grab-ass precedent, what’s next? 

Could the Flatlanders down there in the Land of Lincoln make a grab for the Badger Land counties that host Racine and Kenosha on account that there’s so many Chicago Bears fans stuck there? Or could Kansas try to take Missouri’s Jackson County as their own ’cause therein lies Kansas City and wouldn’t those Jayhawkers prefer that K.C. was their big-time town rather than To-focking-peka?

Or, because there’s always “something on the other hand,” maybe a nutbag state governor—I’m thinking Ron DeFascist-ass (Hey, Trumpel-thinskin! There’s the nickname you’ve been searching for, but I’m guessing it cuts a little too close to home, ain’a?)—imagines he’s got a couple, three counties that screw too blue-liberal so decides to ship them outright to some other state.

“Hiya Massachusetts, this is the governor calling from Florida ‘where intelligence, empathy and compassion goes to die.’ We got a bunch of counties full-up with socialist focksticks that we’re sending your way. I’ve decided that they now belong to you. Deal with it, OK?”

Oh, boy. So, where was I? In June, I believe, the month of remembrance. And so, you must remember this:

This happens to be the week of the day when I sit in my chair, wrap myself in solitude and pray to be warmed by a sentimental mood for reveries of memories that never die—our young man Mr. B, forever to be rejoiced and blessed in the legendary land known as Kloveria. 

And so, for you’s mortals who may turn to this page for some kind of savvy succulent, I present to you the following recording that’s been long out of print but that is now available for a short time only via the remastered version that goes something like this:

It’s very clear to me that, lo, these days do conjure words from a George & Ira croon tune that begins, “The more I read the papers, the less I comprehend, the world and all its capers and how it all will end. Nothing seems to be lasting…” Jeez louise, ain’t that the truth. Yeah, the song’s chorus veers into a boy/girl with-the-hots lyrical deal, but what the fock. It’s still got a damn nice melody though, not like these songs I got to try to hum today that sound like some kid’s crammed his cat into the Veg-O-Matic and cranked it up to puree for christ sakes.

Cripes, did the goddamn Congress pass some kind of amendment when I wasn’t looking to make it against the Constitution for musicians to put out a song with some focking melody to it once in a while? I got the radio on, Jonathan, and I wish I was deaf. 

Which reminds me that commencing soon is the Summerfest down by the shore once again. Some of you’s can probably guess what I have to say about that, which I’ll express as an equation: No Bourbon Tent + No Topless Tent = No Art Kumbalek. Ba-ding!

The music? No thank you. I’m guessing Mr. Porter, Mr. Arlen, Mr. Kern, Mister Ellington, Mr. Berlin, misters Rodgers and Hart will be sorely under-represented upon the grounds; and so will I. A guy like me desires to walk away from a music event on some enchanted evening and be able to carry a tune or two inside his head that he might feel like humming a couple, three bars of later whilst patronizing a couple, three bars. 

Listen, I’ve got a theory of American popular music history that I call My Theory of American Popular Music History that seeks to help explain why a guy like me has a tough time getting his hum on.

My theory says it started back when they gave the goddamn 1971 Academy Award to “Theme From Shaft” for Song of the Year. That was no song. That was some guy cranked clean out of his ever-loving gourd dicking around with one of those guitar wah-wahs of equipment. And ever since, anybody with a hankering for a little melody with their music has been getting the musical shaft uptight and clean-out-of-sight sideways.

And not only no melody, but how ’bout those lyrics, ain’a? Let’s see if I can recall: “Shaft. John Shaft” That’s the short and long of it, yes? Hold on. Later, I think there were some more lyrics: “Shaft. John Shaft” and “shut your mouth.” Yeah, that’s it. (Not exactly “You are the promised kiss of springtime / That makes the lonely winter seem long. You are the breathless hush of evening / That trembles on the brink of a lovely song,” what the fock.)

Now I ask you to tell me how the hell some show-biz greaseball out Vegas way circa ’70s was supposed to sing “Theme From Shaft” when he was ready to bring down the house with his show-stopping Oscar-song medley? I tell you, “Theme From Shaft” wrote “yesterday’s news” all over the careers of great crooners like your Andy Williams, your Dinah Shores, your Jerry focking Vales, I kid you not.

Yes sir, used to be years ago you’d hear these songbirds on the radio and on the TV, every day of the week—but now, you got to haul your sorry ass down there to Branson, Mo. or some casino and try to get a seat at the Great American Washed-Up Entertainment Good Ol’ American-Style Our Specialty Theatre to essence a previous generation’s musical greatness, ’cause they sure won’t be at Summerfest or anywhere else around town in the summertime outdoors. 

Anyways, I’ve run out of theory so let’s call the whole thing off. All I know is I don’t know, but maybe this: They’re writing songs of love—but not for me; ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.