Confessions of a Liberal Puritan

Three years ago, I posted this bit of doggerel in honor of the 20th anniversary of the airing of the first MacGyver episode.

The poem hasn't gotten any better with age, but here it is again, anyway, in case you missed it the first time:

( An Ode on St. MacGyver's Day )

ANYA AND TARA'S MYSTIC MAMAS DETECTIVE AGENCY AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING MEMORIES -- an early birthday poem for keswindhover, partly inspired by her musings over the possible fanfic futures for Donna Noble

[Note: In this bit of doggerel I’m shamelessly ripping off some of the characterization and plot developments in missmurchison’s Tara/Anya stories, Resistance is Useless and Sitting on the Dock of eBay, at the end of which Anya is intrigued at the money to be made in criminal investigations and bounty-hunting. In this alternate universe, Anya and Tara had become a couple shortly after the abortive wedding in season 6, and so this poem is set sometime in what would have been season 7, perhaps.]

( poem may contain slight spoilers for 'Dr. Who' season four finale, as well as numerous insults to rhyme scheme, meter, and anything remotely resembling literary taste )

Belated Birthday Present for missmurchison:

“A Poetic Tribute from Spike”

(Spike asked me to pass this along on your birthday, Miss M, but alas! I was distracted with much serving and did not attend to that one, needful thing in time! The culpa is all mea! The poetry, on the other hand, is definitely William's.)

Early one evening, just as the sun was sinking,
I spied a dark-haired matron in the public library.
She had her laptop open and was furiously thinking,
So she did not see me stalking her, till I sat upon her knee.
“O dear Miss M,” I purred,
“What is the latest word?
Who will I be shagging in your fanfic tonight?”

She paused her ruminations, and turned to look me in the eye,
And asked if I was quite at home, sitting there upon her lap?
I smirked, and told her not to fret, that she had a very comfy thigh,
And I would not dream of leaving her, to which she replied, “Ah, crap!
Oh, vampire Spike, my dear,
What are you doing here?
Why can’t you leave me be, and find someone to fight?”

Said I, “It’s you who’ve brought me here; it’s you I had to reach.
You’ve written me so very well and made me feel so blest.
You love both monster and the man you see beneath the bleach,
And you never tire of finding ways to put me to the test.
On this, your natal day,
How could I stay away?
How could I not thank you, O moon of my delight?”

For once, Miss M was speechless, and I took this as my exit cue,
To leave her once again in peace, with her laptop and caffeine.
But as I turned to go, I heard her say, “I give you but your due.
I love to see how much you’ll grow, though I try not to be mean.”
Then the sound of rapid clacking
Of her keypad sent me packing,
Assured that she would always try to do my trials right.

Presenting the conclusion to this poem in honor of missmurchison's birthday today:

( part 1 of 'Nancy Murchison and the Case of the Missing Scotch' )

By dint of much hard work and sharp elbow greasing,
the three lady sleuths found the distance decreasing
between them and their quarry, a leather-clad phantom,
his hair bleached white-blond and his fighting weight bantam.
“To the Murchison-Mobile!” cried Miss M, and “Away!”
as she drove like a madwoman after her prey.

While Kes and Rev. Dorothy held on for dear life,
Miss M sped ‘round curves that were sharp as a knife
(not unlike the thief’s cheekbones, as Dorothy noted,
and Kes quite concurred, asking not to be quoted).
When Miss M’s sporty roadster finally cornered the poacher
of potent potations, he had the nerve to approach her!

He said, “Not bad, luv! You followed my clues,
and here’s your reward: a film with your booze!”
Following his gesture, Miss M saw just beyond
a drive-in movie screen, and her smile became fond.
All the guests for her party, armed with every amenity,
had come to the drive-in, where they were showing “Serenity.”

“Surprise!” said Kes and Dorothy and Mr. M, who’d conspired
to turn Miss M’s birthday into an evening inspired.
“Thanks to our friend, here, and his knack for Scotch-snatching,
we were able to get you here, and without you catching
on to our game. Weren’t we smart?” “You’re not wrong,”
Miss M smiled as she said, so they’d never guess she’d known all along.


*The inclusion of non-alcoholic soda pop was due to the presence of Miss Murchison’s under-age daughters, of course.

"An Ode on St. MacGyver's Day" (Sept. 29, 2005 being the 20th anniversary of the airing of the MacGyver pilot episode on U.S. television.)

Hail to thee, Saint MacGyver,
for seven years a constant striver
after peace and eco-justice.
Your legacy lives on—just trust us!

This hallowed day (your pseudo-natal)
we dedicate to stunts non-fatal
and creative use of science lore
that ushered out an old, Cold War.( Read more... )

Building on my earlier comments about deborahmm's Spike-and-Giles spin-off daydream, and on some of missmurchison's comments on that spin-off, I'm suddenly seeing Giles as Henry Higgins and Spike as Eliza in a new musical incarnation. And this is the music that plays in my head:

All I want is a lot of votes
For Giles and Spike wearing swirly coats.
As Alan Jay Lerner notes,
"Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?"

Sexy older guys who snipe and snark,
But are always up for another lark,
And so handy in the dark,
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?

Oh, so loverly watching Giles and Spikey on a tear.
Add Diana Rigg to the mix, and you know that I'll be there!

Someone's tweed hanging by the door,
Reminding you what a partner's for.
Two blokes whom we adore,
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?
Loverly. Loverly! Loverly.

In honor of the start of the Advent season today (and the end of my Thanksgiving break from teaching), I offer my version of "The First Twelve Days of Advent as an Adjunct Professor":

[11/28/04]
On the first day of Advent, my students came to me --
With a pile of papers, killing a tree. ( Read more... )

Unfortunately, I don't think I can come up with a better birthday present than the Edward Gorey cat earrings your kids gave you, but here's my humble offering, attempting to appeal to your love for both Cary Grant and Spike.

Thanks to the kind folks at http://www.carygrant.net/songs.html#LYRICS:, I was able to get the lyrics for "Pass Me By" (Carolyn Leigh/Cy Coleman), which was used as the theme song for the Cary Grant comedy "Father Goose" (http://www.ajmackintosh.ukgateway.net/film/PassMeBy.txt), which naturally gave rise to the following scenario in my mind:

Pater Goose

(a Spike/Buffy version of the Cary Grant/Leslie Caron film -- though the working title could also be Father Gruesome, I suppose): ( Read more... )

The movie’s theme song goes something like this (this one's for you, missmurchison!):

“I’ve got me ten fine toes to kick a little ass,
And no Great Pouf to tell me I’m too crass.
A lively pair of fists to deal with any sass.
Contemplatin’ mayhem can be fascinatin’.
Add to this some fangs that I can bare,
And nary a care have I,
So tell the whole darn world, ‘Next time you need savin',
Deal me out, thank you kindly, pass me by.’”

Chorus: “Pass me by-y, pass me by-y-y.
If you’re lookin’ for a champion, pass me by.”

“I’ve got me nice dark cave to keep out of the sun,
And no pesky Slayer spoiling all the fun.
Blood enough to drink from critters on the run.
When fur is flyin’, I’m no bloomin’ dandy-lion!
Add to these a soul to call my own,
And no more cause to moan have I.
So tell the whole darn world, ‘If you don’t like my deportment,
Deal me out, thank you kindly, pass me by.’”

Chorus: “Pass me by-y, pass me by-y-y.
If you don’t happen to like it, pass me by.”


Once again, belated happy birthday, Miss M!

Because thinking about the death of Christopher Reeve makes me feel just too old and sentimental (not to mention that whole "life-is-far-more-fragile-than-we-like-to-think-and-there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-goes-anyone-of-us" train of thought), I put my free minutes today to other uses.

I decided to try and come up with a post-"Chosen" Vampire Slayers' Union Jingle, instead (very much like the old ILGWU jingle I learned off of the TV ads in my youth -- for a rather touching history of the ILGWU song and its relationship to the notorious Triangle shirtwaist factory fire, check out this link: http://www.nydailynews.com/city_life/big_town/v-bigtown_archive/story/176868p-153941c.html).

"Why a Slayers' Union song?" you may ask?

Well, when I was catching up on the latest installments in TalesofSpike's "Angels and Demons" last Friday (the latest installment in the AU series started with "Spike's Will Be Done" -- see the fiction index at http://www.hesnoangel.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/003FT.htm), I got a major kick out of a scene in which ( Read more... )

I entertained myself for hours afterward spinning fanciful visions of Rupert Giles as Union negotiator for the unpaid and under-appreciated young women whom the Watchers' Council has been using as virtual slave labor for years. Not since the early days of young immigrant women toiling as seamstresses and dying in sweatshop fires has an injustice so cried out for union redress. (Not counting all the sweatshops still operating in the U.S. as in every other country today, of course!)

Especially in a post-"Chosen" world in which young women all over the world have become Slayers, it seems to me more important than ever that the Slayers stand together and refuse to allow any new version of the Watchers' Council to abuse them through isolating and dividing them from one another (perhaps some Watcher-Wannabes might try to develop a pool of 'scab' Slayer labor by brainwashing some newly awakened Slayers before Buffy and her organization can reach them -- and that just wouldn't be good).

So, here is my modest proposal for raising public consciousness of the need to support Unionized and fairly compensated Slaying practices:

Look for the union label
When you need slaying for some stray hell-spawn.
Remember somewhere our union’s training,
Our muscles straining
To win the fight, from dawn to dawn.

We work hard,
But who’s complaining?
For we have Chosen to answer the Call.
So always look for the union label.
It says we’re able
To work together -- Slayers all!

Don't ask me what the label should look like, or where on earth they should put it or wear it -- I haven't gotten that far, yet!

The first four stanzas of "HarleyMan" can be found here.

And stanzas 5-7 are here.

Stanza 8 is here: ( Read more... )

Stanzas 9-12:

With a wicked little chuckle, Undead-Preacher-Man turned 'round
And asked his bluish bouncer, "What's the row?"
"Eat a sandwich made of knuckle, then your entrails I will pound,"
Said Blue to me, "Unless you answer now!"

With no choice but to humor this most unholy pair,
I decided it was time to spill some beans.
"We're here about a rumor of sedition in the air --
Me and this 'super spy' in leather jeans."

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, for trouble you've a knack!

Though Blue seemed quite offended that we were such small fish,
Her undead bleached blonde colleague was sanguine:
"The game is far from ended," he told her, "so don't squish
These worker ants, whose gore you'd have to clean!"

I said a silent "Amen" to his non-blood-letting swagger,
And (trembling) asked him, "What game is this?
Even though I'm just a 'layman' in the field of cloak-and-dagger,
I've seen things here my mind cannot dismiss."

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, time to get up off your back!

With a groan that won my pity, HarleyMan began to wake
From his brief, relaxing coma in the dirt.
"She looked so itty-bitty," said he, "But my mistake."
Said I, "Glad to see you feeling more alert!"

With a sound of pure disgust, Blue turned and stalked away,
Saying only, "I have offerings to receive!"
"She's learning to adjust," observed the Preacher, "but I'd say
That the offerings do a lot to help her grieve!"

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, can't you get us back on track?

Said I, "Forget I asked for any explanation.
Somehow I think I'm happier not knowing.
But this HarleyMan's been tasked, by some power of this nation,
With finding out which way your wind is blowing."

Said the Preacher, "I can guess who gave your guy his mission,
And that's the demon we've set out to catch.
Our free-thinking cult puts stress on the demon's disposition,
While lies and terror he attempts to hatch."

HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, in leather cool and black.
HarleyMan, O HarleyMan, is Turd Blossom at your back?

[conclusion to follow soon]