Well, dear readers, let me tell you of a heinous (heinous, do you hear me?) thing. For the last two months I have received 9:15am wake-up calls on Saturday and Sunday. That would be fine and dandy and also dandy and fine if I’d wanted wake-up calls at 9:15 every Saturday and Sunday. However, I didn’t arrange for these wake-up calls, I didn’t ask for these wake-up calls, I didn’t program in these wake-up calls. Hence, I do not want these wake-up calls and yet I’m getting these wake-up calls. Now, I know that many of my dear readers are technologolically literate rather than technologically challenged like myself. Oops, aren’t I supposed to be teasing here? Oh, dear, now I shall be bitch-slapped by Mr. Mark Bakalor (and doesn’t he like bitch-slapping just a little too much?). Very well, here we go. My feet are sans socks and gratuitiously naked, each toe exposed for all to see. They’re exquisite feet really, and look quite handsome in the morning light. Are you thinking about my feet right now? Are you? I am. My goodness, I hope all of you aren’t too hot and bothered so early in the morning, but if you are merely click the Unseemly Button Which Isn’t A Button below, because I’m through teasing.
Where was I? Oh, yes, the unwanted, unsolicited wake-up call. Can anyone give me any advice about how to stop this dastardly wake-up call and also find out who perpetrated such a foul deed? All perpetrators of such foul deeds must be found and flogged like Judge Turpin. Anyone who offers help which will lead to the perp (as we say in police lingo) will receive a special present from me.
Has anyone noticed that November has quietly tip-toed away, and that it is now a brand spanking new month, December. Yes, you heard it here, dear readers, it is now December, a time of good cheer and presents and Hanukkah and Christmas and birthdays, above all, birthdays. Someone we all know who writes a daily blog or log or journal or notes has a birthday coming up and it’s coming up soon. Isn’t that exciting? I shall be a year older and even more senile and decrepit. Perhaps with my brand new age my black fingernail will go away. Have I told you the sad tale of My Black Fingernail? I haven’t? Well, here it is.
Once upon a time, about three months ago, I was on one of my frequent trips to New York, where I was recording vocals for The Sherman Brothers Album, as well as the live shows of Klea Blackhurst and Donna McKechnie. I was staying at my usual hotel, the Doubletree, on Broadway and 47th. The dressers in this hotel are very difficult to negotiate – the little indented lip with which you’re supposed to open them is truly a little lip and is located far too close to the top of what’s above it. So, I was opening the drawer to get out some fresh socks with which to cover my exquisite feet, and when I closed the drawer I could not get my finger out of the way in time, and I smashed it really hard. So hard, in fact, that I almost passed out. What “out” was doing in my room, I have no idea, but I almost passed “out” on my way to the bathroom to run some cold water over my pained fingernail. It was the pinkie. The nail of the pinkie, even thirty seconds later, was turning into a purply. Not all purple either, there was some red in there, too. But it was confined to a small area, thank goodness. By the end of that day, the entire fingernail had turned black. And it has remained black ever since. Less black, to be sure, in the last couple of weeks. I didn’t lose the nail, which I’m grateful for, but what the hell is up with all this black taking so long to vamoose from the fingernail premises? The End. Wasn’t that a good story? The true mystery in this story is why the pinkie is called a pinkie. It’s the same damn color as all the other fingers. We won’t even mention “thumb”. Whoever named the thumb “thumb” is just dumb “dumb” in my book (Chapter Four – Whoever Named the Thumb a Thumb Was Just Dumb).
Yes, whoever that was was a dumb dummy, or, to be consistent, a dumb dumby. Why am I going on like this? Wasn’t this story finished sentences ago? And yet, on and on I prattle about nothing whatsoever. Of course, some (or should it be somb?) would say that that is what I do, prattle on and on about nothing whatsover. And who am I to disagree with them?
Well, I think it’s time for me to sock my feet, put on my shoes and make tracks for the great outdoors. After all, there are places to go, people to see, things to do. Don’t forget, the premiere date for our very own The Broadway Radio Show is coming up on Monday. Mark your calendars. Mark your calendars? That is an incomplete sentence. How unseemly. What does Mark have to do with your calendars anyway? That Mark, always trying to be a butinsky. But that is his tradeMark, being a butinsky. What the hell am I talking about? Shouldn’t I be in the great outdoors with my socked feet?
How shall we celebrate the upcoming birthday? Of course, we will have festive music and merry-making and we will eat cheese slices and ham chunks. But what else? Let us open the suggestion box.