Overheard at uni...

Between classes, boy to girl:



"You don't get a guy from high school as a boyfriend, you get one as a pet!"

---

Everyone's a critic...

As mentioned below, my friend and I followed her introduction to ballet by going to see the Queensland Ballet's "The Little Mermaid" -- a lovely, heartbreaking take on Andersen's fairy tale. It falls somewhere between a modern ballet and interpretive dance -- much miming and physical movement, gorgeous production, little actual technical dancing. It's immensely enjoyable, but of course it's difficult to watch it so soon after the Russian ballet without making comparisons, particularly when it comes to the classical steps.



After the initial "ohh!" about the gorgeous staging, my friend decided that she liked the dancing style better because it was more accessible -- easier to understand.



However, towards the middle of Act 2, came the inevitable: "The guys' lifts are not nearly as high"... then... "Her ankle shouldn't be wobbling, should it?"... then... "Ouch!" (about a 'thump' on landing). None of which stopped us gasping in all the right places, and crying shamelessly at the end.



All in all, we had a wonderful time, and loved every moment of it, criticism and all. But it is also interesting to note that it takes just one really "clean" performance for a complete novice to catch on to the idea of what ballet step ought to look like. Of course, as they say, "everyone's a critic" -- and nowhere is that more true than in ballet.



Having said that, if I ever get a chance to see "The Little Mermaid" for a third time, I will gladly go again.



Tango

---

Ballet, part 2 - Rant Alert

After my gushing over the technical brilliance of the Russian National Ballet, I was amazed and disgusted to find out that apparently the performance I saw was not (as I thought) the fourth in 6 days, but the 12th (!!) -- due to high demand, they added extra shows. That means they were doing two performances every single night (5pm, and 8pm, which for a 2.5 hour ballet means almost continuous dancing).



Consider: a member of the corps is on stage pretty much the entire time. The same girls who dance the swans also dance the nobles and the guests (Spanish dance, etc). That they can still function after this is beyond words. No wonder they were practically swaying during the final curtain call! And I'm sure that they are doing the same thing in every city they go to -- something like 50+ cities in 80 days.



Okay, I understand that their sponsors want to milk them for all they are worth. But how the hell are human beings expected to do this? No Western company would ever put its dancers through such a thing. It's inhuman.



What's almost equally disgusting is that some newspaper reviews (for instance, here) I've seen so far have said things like, "Technically perfect, but not spectacular enough" -- which translates to, "Give me pretty liiiiiights!". I'm so angry I could spit. Why is it that people who live in a city where a technical ballet has not been performed this well in the last 5 years at _least_ do not appreciate it when it's brought to them on a platter? No, Natalia Kurguntseva is not Margot Fonteyn, but when was the last time they saw Fonteyn? And did Fonteyn ever dance this many shows back-to-back?



On the plus side, I suppose, at least the audiences have been wildly appreciative, judging by the ticket sales and the enthusiasm of the crowd last night, which is great.

---

Russian National Ballet in Australia

Last night, I went to see a production of "Swan Lake" by the Russian National Ballet (a touring company), with a friend who had never been to the ballet before and was very interested in seeing one.



It was wonderful. Such a tremendous pleasure to watch something done right -- even allowing for the fact that the stage was much too small and there was no live orchestra. The dancing was beautiful and technically almost flawless, the acting was very good, and even the costumes were lovely. It was a "cheap" production in terms of effects, which you'd expect from a touring company, but really, it didn't matter. Unlike the British Royal Ballet (an extravagant disaster culminating in Odille falling in the middle of the famous 32 fouttes), and despite the financial/technical constraints, there was no sense of being ripped off, of seeing something that could be so brilliant and yet is not.



My God, how do they do this? How do they dance two shows a day, back-to-back(5pm, then 8pm) and still stand, let alone dance? What kind of inhuman stamina is required to do this, and to do it well?



I'm so glad I decided to go. I was afraid it might turn out like the Royal Ballet performance, years ago. I remember coming out of that thinking that I want my money back -- not only was half the choreography replaced by a sort of artistic leaping around (Rothbart ran around with a cape, for instance), but what dancing there was was out of synch and awkward-looking. Later, I watched a documentary about the company, where someone said that their "style" was to focus on the leaps rather than the spins (I suppose it sounds better than saying "we can't spin, so we don't"). That's like a concert pianist claiming that his "style" is to focus on the white keys. That's not a style, it's incompetence. Ugh. No amount of pretty lights and silk backdrops is going to make up for an Odille who can't spin and swans who can't find their positions.



It's kind of unfair to say these things when I am no dancer and wouldn't be able to do the simplest thing they do on stage. But after several really disappointing ballets, it was just so enjoyable to see class: when movements are precise and not smudged, when positions are held without wobbling and when characters are acted well.



Under the 'high' of the performance, my friend and I have decided to see yet another ballet this week (last minute ticket offer )-- the Queensland Ballet's "Little Mermaid", based on the fairy tale (rather than the Disney sap). The fact that I have already seen this same production two months ago is beside the point. I want to see it again!



...Which leads me to the conclusion that I must under no circumstances be allowed to move to any city where I could spend half my income on watching people spin on stage.

---

No, you can't smoke the DNA

Over several years of teaching molecular biology labs, I've heard some great student remarks. A couple of recent examples:



* * *



Student: "Is that the DNA?"



Me: "No... That's a box of plastic pipette tips."



* * *



From a student's report: "The DNA was collected in the field." Where it grew all by itself, sprouting double-helical flowers...



* * *



Student: "I can't dissect a living thing!"



Me: "It's a fruit fly maggot."



Student: "I just can't!" -- as a grown fruit fly lands on his hand, and he kills it.



* * *



Student, pointing to a spray bottle for cleaning laboratory benches: "Is that ethanol?"



Me: "Mostly. There is also a bit of methanol in there."



Student, horrified: "But isn't that toxic?"



Me: "Not unless you drink it."



Student: "I only had one sip!!"



* * *



Tango

---

Fun with subtitles

On a whim, I decided to watch my DVD of "The Phantom of the Opera" with (English) subtitles. It should be noted that this is a copy bought somewhere in Asia, long before the release date, and hence the subtitles are ... shall we say, creative.



I haven't laughed this hard since I heard the Russian dubbing of "Xena".



Examples:



New managers to old manager: "Why exactly are you retiring?" - "My health." Subtitles: "Where are you entirely?" - "In Wales."



Managers about Raoul entering Christine's dressing-room: "It would appear they've met before..."

Subtitles: "Did he look like that before?"



Raoul, inviting Chrsitine out to supper: "I shan't keep you up late." Subtitles: "I shouldn't keep your plate."



Raoul, reminiscing: "... your father, playing the violin..." Subtitles: "You wanna play the violin?"



Madame Giry to Buquet: "Keep your hands at the level of your eyes!" Subtitles: "Keep your hand the hell off the lass!"



But the absolute classic has to be Madame Giry's story about how she found Erik as a child at a gypsy fair:



Original: "It was years ago. I was very young, studying to be a ballerina, one of many. Living in the dormitories of the Opera house...I hid him [the Phantom] from the world and its cruelties."

Subtitles: "Twenty years ago, I was very young. One young man(!), living in the dormitories. I'd hidden from the world and its cruelties."





A pity they didn't "translate" the songs...

---

A Solo For the Living - Chapter 23

Chapter 23 - Family

---

Chapter 22 - REPOST

Right. Let's see if this works...

Chapter 22 – As You Are

The first thing Erik knew was an extraordinary warmth permeating his entire body, and a dim, infinite sense of peace. He drifted down through the last few moments of near-sleep, drinking in this unexpected gift as greedily as a freakish child whose cage had been left out in the sun.

continue reading >>

It was always half-dark behind the burlap mask of the sack, but on an early morning like this one, the sun could slant past the bars of his cage and pierce through the slits in the sack. He would shut his eyes against it, and then the light would become gentler, spreading in a languid glow over his demon-face, stroking him with a lover’s tender hands. Yet it was not just his face that was turned to the sun now. Erik felt its warm caress on his chest, on his thighs...



His heart lurched, and his eyes flew open.



Christine.



Like a sleepwalker at a cliff-edge, Erik realised he woke up a moment from mortal peril. There was no sun; the room was still dark with the bluish shadows of pre-dawn.



The warmth he felt came from Christine.



Her tiny delicate body was curled against him, a cascade of dark curls tumbling forward over her face. Erik was suddenly, disturbingly conscious of each ridge of her spine where it met his chest through the fabric of his shirt, of the proximity of the sweat-damp little hairs on her neck, caught under the collar. His own shirt on Christine’s... He fought for a breath.



Memory came as an explosion of white, an unbelievable confusion of sensations he could not untangle one from another, did not want to. For one delirious moment he believed it, and wondered whether he could have possibly pleased her, and then whether she had been hurt by his clumsy demands; he felt newly made, a paradox: at once anxious and triumphant. Above all of that was the simple, incredible truth. Christine, his Christine had come back to him – she loved him!...



Then the moment was over, and he remembered.



A sick terror strangled the peace Erik had felt, turning his own skin into a cold shell. He could move again; he rolled back. Icy sweat doused him where Christine’s soft, warm body had been.



He had brought her here. Brought her to this.



He staggered to the floor, away from the bed. His lingering desire was a monstrous thing he could not control. God, he was naked... Christine – her hands – he had wanted her to touch – he had dragged up here, screaming, exactly as in his nightmares – she had told him she could not leave – she’d kissed his awful face, and then – oh God. The world swayed and Erik nearly fell, only catching himself at the last moment on the top of the chair. His heel slipped on a piece of clothing; he lifted his foot: Christine’s dress.



Erik stood and stared down at it, his chest heaving. There were black smudges of dust all over her skirts, from when she had scrambled away from him down in the store-room. A couple of buttons were missing; was that him, too? He was not sure, but it didn’t matter. He could not look down at himself, he was terrified that he would see a reflection of his face all over his body: maggot-eaten flesh, a demon’s skin.



He had done this to her.



He had called Christine back to him again with his music, his vengeance... The Moonlight Sonata. Erik remembered his decision to play it: a malicious choice, a snake’s venomous kiss. He had done it as payback for Christine’s abandonment: dark, unbearable music to haunt her mind and erode her calm, masquerading as a popular piece, seemingly innocuous. He’d had a vicious urge to prove to Christine that she was not free of him. It had seemed nothing more than a moment’s rage; he had believed it was over, had never imagined ... this.



I told you to leave, he remembered saying – and Christine’s terrible smile: But first, you locked the door.



This was worse, infinitely worse, than awakening in Sedan to piles of mutilated, destroyed sketches. Erik bent down painfully to pick up Christine’s clothes, his clothes. Every movement required the utmost concentration, and for the minutes it took to clear the floor, he felt almost sane, in control. He dragged himself over to the washstand and managed to clean up a little, then found a fresh shirt, undergarments. Fumbling with urgency, he pulled all these on, trousers, suspenders, the rest of it. The thought that Christine could wake up any instant and see him spurred him on; yet Erik could already feel new layers of perspiration dampening the clean fabric. His memory surged with the image of Christine on top of him, brighter than any light, of his own hands slamming her slender hips down...



Erik grabbed at the window-frame, holding on to the splintery wood, and stuck his head outside. Cold air swept his face, but the horror throbbed within him, unabated. He had finally done it; robbed Christine of her will and imprisoned her again. Locked the door. Mindlessly, Erik noted that dawn was starting; against the lightening sky, roofs and chimneys across the street zigzagged like rotting, pointed teeth.



The world had treated him as a monster, but Christine had never treated him as anything but a man... And he was a man. A man who could not be content with the miracles he had been given, who had to take everything, destroy the one beautiful thing that had breathed joy into his life. Christine had come to him last night because of the music; and savagely, he took the desperation she offered, with his entire body crying out her name, as though it was love.



Erik looked back to the bed. Christine lay still, curled up in his shirt with the blanket around her waist. Her pose was defensive somehow, hurt. She was so thin; his shirt seemed enormous compared with her small hands, and Erik felt shame rise inside him like tears. She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her, more than everything, everything he had ever wanted. And he had no right to this stolen joy. He had to let her go.



"Christine..." he said softly, into the air. It was shameful, he knew, but he could not restrain himself from this last caress, from bringing her awake with his voice. She stirred a little and stretched, sleepy and heart-stoppingly beautiful. "Christine..." he said again.



She sat up, and Erik found himself mute. Her dark, luminous eyes found him in the dawn-light and held him there, helpless. He saw the exact moment when understanding returned: Christine’s eyelashes flicked and her pupils went wide; she grabbed the blanket to her chest, then remembered the rest and her grip loosened, as if she had to tell herself not to hide from his gaze anymore.



The silence fell between them.



"It is morning," said Erik finally.



Christine looked him over. "You’re dressed..."



Erik winced; of course she felt exposed opposite him, with nothing but his shirt and a blanket. "Forgive me," he said. "I did not mean to embarrass you."



He started to turn away to give her a chance to get dressed – and in that instant, discovered that had not put on the bandage. For the first time in his entire life, he had completely forgotten his mask.



Unable to reach for it while Christine was dressing, Erik looked around the bare wall, out the window, anywhere but at Christine, feeling cold and naked, as exposed as she. He heard her moving around uncertainly, trying to collect her clothes. Then water splashed; she had found the washstand. Using the moment, Erik seized the bunched linen off the table and arranged the padding around his eye, wrapping the rest over his head with quick, accustomed motions. Its touch on his skin seemed to calm him somehow, making him more rational. He slowed, taking care to fix the knot tightly in the way he had done for many months.



By the time he had finished, he could turn and meet Christine’s eyes. She had dusted off her dress as best she could, but there was no hiding the reddened skin where her mouth and cheek had been marred by his kisses. He saw her fingers tugging at a button that hung by a thread. Three more buttons were missing.



"It’s all right," she said in reply to his silent inspection. "It’s not important. Just a dress." Yet her fingers continued toying with the button, rolling it around. Erik wanted to stop her hands and move them away, but he was afraid that he would not be able to let go, that he would hold her hands and press kisses to her knuckles and then he would fall apart.



Christine lowered her eyes to the tabletop, where the previous night’s unfinished sketches were still spread. "Are these for your work?"



Erik hesitated. "Yes," he admitted. "An apartment building near the Gare Saint-Lazare."



"May I see?"



He moved his arm aside. "If it interests you."



She stepped up to the table, making him draw an involuntary breath. Erik tried to keep his self-control. "There is nothing of note here, I assure you. I am only redesigning part of the plan to allow for better lighting."



"All right. I won’t judge it harshly." Christine spoke lightly, but Erik could see what it cost her by the tension in her hands as she held them above the drawing, not daring to touch it. She looked up:



"Do you enjoy it?"



Her face was serious and achingly beautiful in the weak light from the window, and on it, the scarlet marks left by his stubble and his coarse fingers were vivid as blood. White skin, so easily bruised.



He had done this.



Erik felt himself recede behind the mask, into the deeper ugliness of his mind. Christine had told him, I want to see you, as you are. That was what he had to show her then. Himself, as he was.



"There is the occasional interesting project," he replied, "certainly. Did you know, for instance, that the de Chagny family were building a house in Saint-Cloud?"



Erik saw the shock strike Christine’s face, and then the spreading blush, merging with the red marks. He had reminded her of Raoul.



"Erik, why are you telling me this?"



"Because my firm has the commission to build that house. I found this out the day I began work. Can you imagine the effect this extraordinary discovery had on me?"



She was silent; clever girl. Erik felt stronger.



"I was furious, Christine. I do not mean that I was angry; I was quite beyond that. Call it madness. I assumed that the house was yours and that the situation was quite deliberately arranged by the one to whom I owed my presence in that office in the first place."



"Madame Giry?.."



Erik nodded slowly. He looked straight into Christine’s eyes, her beautiful, disbelieving eyes, and said, "You remember that night on the balcony? You saw the rope."



She did not move.



"The latch on the balcony door. Was it not broken that night?"



She believed him. He saw it in her whole aspect, in the way she unconsciously drew back, appalled. Yet her voice was steady: "That isn’t true. You said you were not there to harm us."



"You, Christine. I would not have harmed you."



A sickly pallor replaced the heat in her face, as if he had stolen her breath and she was turning into wax, into the statue in his lair. Erik leaned forward and sealed his numb, unmoving lips to her cold forehead.



"You want me to go," Christine whispered, barely audible.



Erik moved his lips to her hair. He could not kiss her. "Go."



She turned for the door, wrenching it open with a strength Erik could not have imagined, and flew down the stairs. The door swung on its hinges, a long squeeeeeeeak, and thudded shut.



Erik sat down slowly at his table and picked up a pencil. He looked it dumbly. A foreign object. What was he doing here? In this room, in this life? Morning had dawned grey and empty, the night was long gone...



Christine’s muffled footsteps flitted over the stairs – then there was a sudden confusion of noise.



A split second later Erik’s door flew open, crashing violently into the wall, so that the whole house gave a shudder. Louise Gandon barged into the room, heading straight for him, dragging Christine in by the wrist.



"What the hell do you mean by this?!" She shoved Christine at Erik.



Erik’s heart dropped as Christine made a sharp cry of pain.



"Salaud! Will you sit there like a turd in a chamber-pot or will you explain what this chit is doing here?" Louise stabbed a finger at Christine’s dress: "This is how you like them, is it?! Young and pretty in fine clothes?"



Her face had gone a terrible shade of purple. "Sale cochon!" she hissed. "You filthy swine, any lackwit can see she’s not even a whore! No whore would stand for this, turned out half-dressed into the street! No, only a brainless little bourgeois twit—"



Erik threw himself at the woman, grasping her shoulders. He bared his teeth at her, all animal in this one moment, conscious of nothing but Christine’s whimper in Louise’s vice-like grip.



"Release her," he managed between his teeth. "Release her, or I swear, they will not find enough of you to bury."



Louise struggled against his hold, but Erik gripped her brutally; digging into the flesh of her shoulders until moisture beaded on her broad forehead. She had not expected such strength from him, he could smell her fear. He wanted her dead, he would kill her, kill the meddling hag.



"Erik, stop."



Christine’s quiet voice startled him, a single note of sanity. Erik realised Louise was no longer holding Christine; Christine had stepped away. He sucked in a breath, and threw Louise backwards, away from him.



She lurched, but did not lose her balance. Tears of pain stood out in her eyes, but she only turned to Christine and jerked her chin in the direction of the bed. "What does your maman say of this, mam’zelle?"



"My mother is dead, madame."



Louise blinked, then gave a mournful toss of her kerchiefed head. "How old are you, girl? Sixteen?"



"Seventeen," Christine said in a stronger voice than Erik had expected. "I thank you for your concern," she went on, "but I am all right."



"Middle-class respectability, my arse... Ruddy Empire." Striding over to the bed, Louise ripped the blanket away.



Erik saw the specks of blood at the same time as she did.



Christine made a pitiful little sound, and Erik could not look at her. He wished she had not stopped him killing Louise.



"Merde..." the woman swore wearily.



Erik reached for the door. "Leave us," he demanded.



Louise glanced at him in profound disgust, and Erik abruptly identified the burning in his chest as shame. For the first time, he wondered exactly how he had expected Christine to get back home, or – his gut squeezed uncomfortably – whether she had been missed this night, or... There were too many ‘or’s, and none of them were pleasant.



"I’ll get a cab," he told Christine, quietly. She nodded, and he reached for his hat, moving slowly, as through water.



"Come along, Mademoiselle Skin-and-Bones," Louise directed eventually. "We’ll get that dress fixed up. I’m Louise Gandon, your so-called gentleman’s landlady."



Christine managed a curtsey. "Christine Daaй, madame."



Erik snapped the hat on his head and fled the room. A cab, he had to find a cab. He was a shaking, rattling mess of nerves but he knew he had to do this thing now, for Christine. He could not think of anything else, not yet.



Near rue Lepic he finally found a hansom and had to restrain himself from hauling the driver back physically, or knocking the old fool off his box and driving the damn thing himself. He had left Christine alone in the company of a woman who had dragged her by the wrist and humiliated her after all his abuses, who thought nothing of violence, who knew him for a murderer and didn’t care – a woman who, Erik recalled with a start, had spoken of a revolution only the previous morning. What if she hurt Christine?



Getting back to the store seemed to take forever; and Erik was convinced that Christine was surely dead and it was his fault, when at last she came outside. Louise shepherded her out, telling her something and shaking a fat finger in her face, and then went back inside. Christine looked unharmed. In fact, she was a great deal calmer, and her clothes seemed in better shape.



Erik opened the door of the cab for her, forgetting all about Louise and everything that had happened when Christine put her gloved hand in his. She was so strong, he thought, this strange morning. How could she bring herself to touch him?



"Erik," Christine muttered, and he realised he was still holding her hand when she was inside and seated. He looked up at her, not knowing how to let go.



Her hand slipped out of his. "I saw the ring. It was there on your shelf, when you were showing me the sketches..."



"I’ll get rid of it," Erik promised, but Christine shook her head:



"Keep it. Please keep it."



Then the snap of a whip got the horse moving and the cab rolled away, taking Christine with it. Long after it was gone, Erik could still hear the carriage-springs squeaking. He waited until that, too, was gone.



Then he went back inside the store, found Louise, and told her very calmly: "I am leaving Paris."

---

More humour (Russian)

Continuing the parody theme, this time in Russian. These have been doing the email rounds for years, but I want to keep them. So here they are. (Thanks, mum! )



* * *

Как много девушек хороших! как много ласковых имен! а мне досталась

с гнусной рожей и с гадким именем - Антон!



* * *

Приятней его не встречал я мужчины: остёр, обаятелен, очень умён и

каждое утро без всякой причины из зеркала мне улыбается он!



* * *

Я спросил у ясеня - "где моя любимая?"

Ясень не ответил мне, голову склонил.

Я спросил у тополя, "где моя любимая?"

- "Ты б еще у тумбочки, идиот, спросил..."



* * *

Еcть жeнщины в pуccкиx ceлeньяx -

иx бaбaми нeжнo зoвут:

cлoнa нa бeгу ocтaновят,

и xoбoт eму oтopвут...



* * *

Я знаю точно наперёд - сегодня кто-нибудь умрёт.

Я знаю где, я знаю как, я не гадалка - я маньяк...



* * *

В страшной и темной чаще лесной

грязный, оборванный, злой, утомленный

бродит, обросший густой бородой,

мальчик, забытый экскурсией школьной.

* * *



From a collection of email jokes.

---

A Solo For the Living - Chapter 22

Chapter 22 - As You Are

---

"Old King Cole" -- literary parodies

It seems I'm stuck in parody-land at the moment... (With thanks to Carly for these).







"Variations of an Air" G. K.Chesterton





Original:



Old King Cole

Was a merry old soul

And a merry old soul was he

He called for his pipe

and he called for his bowl

and he called for his fiddlers three





after Lord Tennyson:



Cole, that unwearied prince of Colchester,

Growing more gay with age and with long days

Deeper in laughter and desire of life

As that Virginian climber on our walls

Flames scarlet with the fading of the year;

Called for his wassail and that other weed

Virginian also, from the western woods

Where English Raleigh checked the boast of Spain,

And lighting joy with joy, and piling up

Pleasure as crown for pleasure, bade me bring

Those three, the minstrels whose emblazoned coats

Shone with the oyster-shells of Colchester;

And these three played, and playing grew more fain

Of mirth and music; till the heathen came

And the King slept beside the northern sea.





after W.B. Yeats:



Of an old King in a story

From the grey sea-folk I have heard

Whose heart was no more broken

Than the wings of a bird.



As soon as the moon was silver

And the thin stars began,

He took his pipe and his tankard,

Like an old peasant man.



And three tall shadows were with him

And came at his command;

And played before him for ever

The fiddles of fairyland.



And he died in the young summer

Of the world's desire;

Before our hearts were broken

Like sticks in a fire.





after Walt Whitman:



Me clairvoyant,

Me conscious of you, old camarado,

Needing no telescope, lorgnette, field-glass, opera-glass, myopic pince-nez,

Me piercing two thousand years with eye naked and not ashamed;

The crown cannot hide you from me,

Musty old feudal-heraldic trappings cannot hide you from me,

I perceive that you drink.

(I am drinking with you. I am as drunk as you are.)

I see you are inhaling tobacco, puffing, smoking, spitting

(I do not object to your spitting),

You prophetic of American largeness,

You anticipating the broad masculine manners of these States;

I see in you also there are movements, tremors, tears, desire for the melodious,

I salute your three violinists, endlessly making vibrations,

Rigid, relentless, capable of going on for ever;

They play my accompaniment; but I shall take no notice of any accompaniment;

I myself am a complete orchestra.

So long.

---

A Solo For the Living - Chapter 21

Chapter 21 - Ghosts Dissolve By Daylight



*Sigh* Watch half my readership disappear in the face of so-called adult content. Oh, Xenaverse, wherefore art thou...



Tango

@настроение: tired and cynical

---

Tom Lehrer

Speaking of sadism, I was inspired by all the evil parodies to look up one of the most amusing parodies of sadism itself: the fabulous "Masochism Tango" (no relation ) by the even more fabulous Tom Lehrer.



The full effect of the song can only be achieved with the music, so you can listen to the midi file here.



* * *

The Masochism Tango



Another familiar type of love song is the passionate or fiery variety, usually in tango tempo, in which the singer exhorts his partner to haunt him and taunt him and, if at all possible, to consume him with a kiss of fire. This particular illustration of this genre is called The Masochism Tango.



I ache for the touch of your lips, dear,

But much more for the touch of your whips, dear.

You can raise welts

Like nobody else,

As we dance to the Masochism Tango.

continue >>

Let our love be a flame, not an ember,

Say it's me that you want to dismember.

Blacken my eye,

Set fire to my tie,

As we dance to the Masochism Tango.



At your command

Before you here I stand,

My heart is in my hand...

Yeech!

It's here that I must be.



My heart entreats,

Just hear those savage beats,

And go put on your cleats

And come and trample me.



Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany,

That's why I'm in such exquisite agony.

My soul is on fire,

It's aflame with desire,

Which is why I perspire when we tango.



You caught my nose

In your left castanet, love,

I can feel the pain yet, love,

Ev'ry time I hear drums.



And I envy the rose

That you held in your teeth, love,

With the thorns underneath, love,

Sticking into your gums.



Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches.

The last time I needed twenty stitches

To sew up the gash

That you made with your lash,

As we danced to the Masochism Tango.



Bash in my brain,

And make me scream with pain,

Then kick me once again,

And say we'll never part.



I know too well

I'm underneath your spell,

So, darling, if you smell

Something burning, it's my heart... [hiccup]

'Scuse me!



Take your cigarette from its holder,

And burn your initials in my shoulder.

Fracture my spine,

And swear that you're mine,

As we dance to the Masochism Tango.

Tom Lehrer stuff can be found

here.

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Mary Had a Little Lamb -- for the sadists

Ages ago, I used to have a book with all kinds of nasty little parodies on children's nursery rhymes, which were not quite up there with the Russian "kiddie sadist" poems, but were still pretty good. "Mary Had a Little Lamb", in particular, seemed a popular subject.



I've finally found a couple of them online.





Mary had a little lamb

She ate it with mint sauce

And everywhere that Mary went

The lamb went too, of course.





... Or, if you prefer:



Mary had a little lamb

The doctor was surprised,

But when Old McDonald had a farm

He couldn't believe his eyes!







Tango

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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 20

Chapter 20 - Invasion

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The locked post below is nothing exciting; a photo for Dolly.

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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1 1 was a racehorse...

Having noticed one of my favourite pieces of graffiti, which I last saw years ago scratched into a classroom desk, I feel the sudden urge to reproduce it here.



For some reason I find it adorable.



1 1 was a racehorse

2 2 was 1 2

1 1 1 1 race

2 2 1 1 2



The trick is to read it aloud.

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A Solo For the Living - Chapter 19

Chapter 19 - All the Little Lies

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A Solo For The Living - Chapter 18

Chapter 18 - The Moonlight Sonata