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Public Service Announcement

The Good Country People Music Project is underway.

Comments

  1. The who now?

  2. Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says:

    A good country person is hard to find.

  3. Another idea: dramatic recital of a Latin translation of Horse Latitudes.

    Cum mare placido coniurat arma…

    JOB

    • How does one horn in on this gig?

      Ooh – does it require busking? Could that be a splinter project?

      • My favorite thing is that I intended this comment to be related to the original post but it’s far more nuanced if it looks like I want to busk while reciting Doors lyrics in Latin.

      • Matthew Lickona says:

        Everything requires busking. JOB, I don’t know why we need to go Latin, but I like your idea. Sort of like The Doors’ “The End.” But it kinda needs to feel like “Country Feedback,” too. Start rifling through your archives.

        • I have to confess that I had to look up what Horse Latitudes was.

        • Well, I found this back when I was writing my Master’s thesis…

          The Howelliad

          -written in one of the stalls of the Stygian Muse

          O sing, muse of my muted conscience, the raging backside of Josephiades!
          Sing of the many trevails the fates have visited upon him and his stylus!

          “And so,” said Josephiades to his friend and fellow warrior of take-home-pay worthy word-mongering, Mateetotalus,
          Ever more sallow and paunchy in the zone of all good things eaten,
          “Have no fear, finally, dear Mateetolalus; I have my days well planned
          And solidly put together are my well-crafted designs of enduring battle!
          It’s a mad dash for composition, but I don’t care, crashing higgedly-piggedly,
          Anything to succour the gods of Mt. Thesis especially the Lord of Them All –
          Father god, Advisor of the Divine House of Alvis. But do pray, Mateetotalus
          Son of Lickonandon, that of course I realize the dangers of hecatombs not chosen
          From the best of the herds; at this point I can fudge enough to get by.
          Holy Advisor, divine father of correction, is a sleepy god, after all. If his wrath
          Is raised then will fate have come to me, as I find glory in shining armor
          Of textual battle, rattling from my rhetorical chariot, chased to Insignificon,
          Land of the scholastic dead, land from which no poor sentence is raised again.”

          “Alas, dear Josephiades,” undone son of Lickonandon raised his mighty voice
          Gurlging full with the frothy heat of wine-basted moment and cheese-filled day,
          “Alas, son of steel-stomached Patros, what whiskey or wine or wonderful
          Liquors can you have found to want to raise the ire of one greater than the gods of Mt. Thesis,
          She who must first be obeyed, like the thunder from on high, which courses through
          The whole wide sky, such that the hunter hears it coming before he can his game,
          She who is She Herself, maidenhead of all your worries, her name holy and to speak
          Would lead to manslaughter of many men, she, daughter of quick-eyed Suspicia,
          Goddess of the Bedroom and Bathroom regions, sere Cecilia of the searing voice and withering stare?”

          With that word, a fear for many a far-seeming man, many a worse would suffer,
          Josephiades, father of Seamus the Shamelessly Troublesome, quaked in his wingtip sandals,
          The darkness of the netherworld came mist-like upon his eyes and all his brow was
          All a-sweat like a stable’s roof dripping with the last of winter’s cooling snows,
          Now subjected to mercilessly wilting heat of summer suns. “Oh Mateetolus, Father of Finn the Funny-named,” Josephiades quivered, shaking spear and shield, “I need a drink.”

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