One of my dear, childhood friends is Curtis Stone and the heavens haven’t molded a kinder guy. You know? Me, too. I’m a kinder guy. We’re both kind guys. Even-tempered. But? You know what? Curtis’ baby brother did a dirty on both of us. I wouldn’t advocate the death penalty for Jonathan Stone. Genital cuffs? Perhaps. Marooned on a desert isle? Appropriate. Fitted for an iron mask and locked in a damp, freezing dungeon with nothing but a wet Kleenex as a blankie? Well-deserved.
This happened years ago. Jon Stone kept calling us. Home. Work. Paged in restaurants. Several times daily. Con gusto, Jonathan would hum the theme to the TV Western, “Bonanza,” then hang up. Somehow, pre-internet, he got ahold of the actual lyrics and rapidly sang:
“We chased lady luck, ’til we finally struck ——— Bonanza!! — With a gun and a rope and a hat full of hope, planted a family tree! — We got hold of a pot full of gold, Bonanza!!! — With a horse and a saddle, and a range full of cattle, how rich can a fellow be …?”
Click. Line goes dead. Curtis is a famous Western music star. I’m semi-respected journalist. After the hang-up, miles apart, Curtis and I indulge in a put-upon, heavy sigh, hold the phone up in the air for a little too long, then return to our creative labors like the competent, award-winning professionals we were in our gifted artist labors.
Like some merry serial killer except they’re a serial practical joker, Jonathan would call back, passionately belting out just the notes to the Cartwright merry male ranchers: “Dump-dudda-dump-dudda-dump-duh-duh-duh ——— BUHHHH-NAAAN-ZAAAH!!!!” Effeminate, immature giggling. Click. Line goes dead. As Signal sports editor, I was terribly unpaid to create Greek mythology about local goofball teens as if they were Romulus and Remus building Rome. If I’m so distracted by the theme to the overpowering Siren’s intro of the galloping TV Nevadan cowpokes who somehow stretch a work day into trying to insert one (1) steer into a chute, who, in Newhall, population 37, is going to notice? As long as I wrote about the Hart High Indians and rhymed “ug” with “mug” or waxed poetic about Canyon and blended “rope” with “dope,” who cares?
But Curtis? He weaved romantic country ballads, most of which didn’t end in, “BUHHHH-NAAAN-ZAAAH!!!!” That can get into a composer’s head. And stay there.
As you might notice from the broad shoulders, steely-eyed gaze and expensive cowboy hat, I have to be careful at the old songs I sing, busted key in the R-ruptured flat or not. I was rinsing out a coffee mug at the kitchen sink. I don’t know how long I was standing there, but I caught myself singing, “My Boyfriend’s Back.”
You know. The yangy, teen prison girl gang group, The Angels? Written by songwriters, Bob Feldman, Jerry Goldstein and Richard Gottehrer? 1963? No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart?
“My boyfriend’s back he’s gonna save my, reputation, Hay-lah, Hay-lah, my boyfrien’s back …” How did that get lodged in my brain? I glanced furtively around, cupped my mouth and shut my yap. You want worse? Same sink, the other morning, I’m singing from the Mel Brooks classic comedy musical, “The Producers.” I’m belting out, “Springtime for Hitler.” Here’s a sampling: (Verse 1) “Springtime, for Hitler and Germany; Deutschland, is happy and gay. We’re marching, to a faster, pace … Look out, here comes, the master race!!!” (Verse 2)
“Springtime, for Hitler and Germany, Winter, for Poland, and France! Springtime, for Hitler, and Germany … Come on, Germans, go into your — dance …!!!”
I’m Polish. I can’t be singing this. Worse, if a Democrat heard me, I’d get accused of being a Nazi.
What strange devilment makes me sing the old rock/pop hit, “Then He Kissed Me,” by the Crystals? I’m straight as Interstate 5 past Bakersfield, yet, I caught myself absent-mindedly singing: “When he danced he held me tight, And when he walked me home that night, All the stars were shining bright, And then he kissed me …” Involuntary shiver/wiggle fit.
In a less gender-identifying ballad, there’s the Disney torture chamber, “It’s A Small World, After All.” Same lyric, sung 10.6 million times over and over and over again. “It’s, a small world, after, all. It’s, a small world, after, all. It’s, a small world, after, all …” It was written in 1964 for the UNICEP pavilion by Robert and Richard Sherman. Even though the song has been played a gazillion times, Walt Disney owns the rights and the brothers were only paid once, although, the boys get royalties instead of a firing squad if “Small World” is played outside the company.
Sneaking up on Christmas. Know what I’m not just singing, all but my lonesome, but dancing to? Bobby Boris Picket’s “The Monster Mash.” “I was working in the lab, late one night — When my eyes beheld an eerie sight — For my monster from his slab, began to rise — And suddenly to my surprise.” You know, I’ll bet you some of you might wonder what that monster ended up doing. May I tell you? He did the Mash. The Monster Mash.
Couldn’t recall prayers I’ve recited thousand of times, my bank password or wives’ birthdays (which explains why whatzerznames and I are no longer together). But, I’ll start singing that wretched hippie ode, “… if, you’re goin,’ to, San, Fran, Cis, Co — be sure to wear, a flower in your hair …”
Well. Thought I’d just share. You know what they always say, about Christmas holidays here in the riparian Santa Clarita, don’t you?
“Here in the west we’re livin’ in the best, Bonanza!! — With the friendliest, fightingist, loving band, that ever set foot in the promised land and we’re happier than them all … (dramatic pause, all of you at the December table sing) That’s why we call it Bonanza … Bonanza … Bonanza … BUHHHH-NAAAN-ZAAAH …!!!!!”
“Naked Came the Novelist,” Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch is on sale at JohnBoston-Books.com. John Boston, with 119 major writing awards, is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.
