?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

If I’d written this on time, I’d probably be talking more about creative things; at that point I was between 13,000 and 14,000 words into nanowrimo. (And I’m still at that same point; the sometimes-functioning laptop I had with me at Windycon wouldn’t start up while I was there. Of course, it would be easier to do nanowrimo sometime like January or March, when I’d mostly stuck inside for winter anyway, with no holiday and no holiday shopping and no need to mulch roses and no convention to go to…)

I took a few vacation days between getting my flu shot (Tuesday) and Windycon; I didn’t feel lousy, as I often do after a flu shot (though not nearly as badly as when I get the flu), but I was awfully tired, and had a whole list of things to accomplish, only some of which happened.

But Windycon was good. I got stuff in the art show, and though nobody bought any of it, people weren’t buying much. All the dealers I talked to said sales were down—way down if they sell expensive things—and the art auction was very, very short. The con was smaller than usual, and a friend reported that the parties closed earlier than usual, which fact he attributed to a limited budget for party supplies, especially of the alcoholic sort. I also saw some people who showed up for just one day (or one evening). I was on a couple of panels, which were interesting.

For me, probably the highlight was getting to sing my parody of Stray Dog Man to[info]bedlamhouse, acapella (one of the things on my to-do list that didn’t get done was figuring all the chords).

21st Century Stray Mutt Man

This mutt appeared one evening, out of some UFO
It dumped its trash out on my field, and now my soybeans glow
And smack dab in the middle, a big green glowing rock
That howled and growled protest like a dog who’d got a shock
My dogs all howled back; their leader, Spot, thought he was bad
The mutt et him, then sniffed my hand, his tail waggin’ like mad—
So I’ll drink a toast now to Ursa, my new space mutt.

I locked him in the shed, afeared he’d eat my other dogs
I left him with a ticking clock, so he’d sleep like a log
But Spot gave him indigestion so he spit up on my tools
Left me a pile of rusty stuff that smelled like ‘thulu’s jewels,
And then he ate that ‘lectric clock, his innards must be hot
‘Cause three months later it still ticks— and rings out when it’s not--


Now at 2:43 a.m. “cling-clang-clink-clack”
My ghod, there goes Urs’ again, “howl-bash-growl-ack!”
At odd times, he’s waking the whole damn pack
And they all howl back!

The other dogs looked up to him—his shoulder was tree-height
‘sides, he would kill a vulture that he swatted in mid-flight
I kinda got to likin’ him, when that thing showed up again,
And tossed another mutt out ‘afore I could count to 10
That mutt sized old Ursa up, and opened his jaw wide,
Now all I’ve left of Ursa is that ticking clock inside—

[spoken] But that mutt stood up on his hind legs, and brushed himself off,

[spoken] And then the neo said

Clocks are all right if you eat them at night,
And hound dogs are keen if they’re just a bit mean,
Postmen are OK, I could chase them all day,
But I’m really here for the deer!

[spoken] and off he went! You’d think this was the end of it…

When I was a youth, some odd space truck
Gifted me with a mutt, dern my luck
‘cause those space-dogs are hot, And they turn every spot
Where they land into hazardous muck

So I don’t wanna nukie-puppy from a widdle space ship
From a widdle space ship in da sky
For the feds think I’m a bomber like them Al-quaeda folk
‘cause of Ursa’s “nucular” dog-pie.

So I sit here in Guantanamo, my buds think I am gone
Just because some alien abandoned Urs’ upon my lawn
I want to see a lawyer, but that Bush says no, no, no,
We know you’re guilty, ‘cause your whole farm’s got a greenish glow--
That dude can’t e’en say nuclear, but he says he’s got the right
To keep me here until I’m dead, and I can’t even fight
So I’ll drink a toast now to Ursa, my dead space mutt.

Next time I see a spaceship, I’m sticking out my thumb
I’d rather hitch a ride out there than sit here on my bum.
Though I don’t have a towel or a fishy for my ear—
My story’s so improbable, they’ve got to know I’m here
So, come on down and pick me up, I’d like to leave tonight
I haven’t got a penny, but that should be all right

[Spoken] I figure ya owe me fer dog-sittin’  What's this?  Pan Gala--Oh.  Yessss. 

I'll drink a toast now to Ursa, my dead spae mutt!

Copyright ©2008 Deirdre M. Murphy


He enjoyed it, and I gave him my only paper copy (complete with all the typos I noticed while singing it) though I’ve tried to fix them for this post.

 

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
tigertoy
Nov. 18th, 2008 11:47 pm (UTC)
Watching Bill's expression as you sang that was a high point of the con.
wyld_dandelyon
Nov. 18th, 2008 11:51 pm (UTC)
I only got glimpses, since I not only didn't have it memorized, but the typos were distracting me too. But yes, even so, it was!
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

Profile

Creative Joyous Cat
wyld_dandelyon
wyld_dandelyon

Latest Month

November 2017
S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
2627282930  

Tags

Page Summary

Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Jared MacPherson