Night of the Living Dead Boys
Convenient memory lapses aside, I know who tossed the monkey, and I salute you for it, brother. You're right up there with Jacques Tourneur, the French director who provided me with another favorite mental melodrama (see Post-Cinematic Stress Syndrome). I do have a question regarding one of the details in your version, though. I had always thought that the woman who lived next door saw me hanging out the window and called Mom on the phone. Hmmm. I suppose we could ask Aunt Dorothy.
Now let's see if you can verify this one:
One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys began to fight.
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise
and came to save the two dead boys.
If you don't believe this story is true,
ask the blind man, he saw it too.
I don't actually remember this happening, but I tend to believe it, because it sounds like something we might do. Whaddaya think?
posted by Mick Brady | 11:13 AM
1 Comments:
The Monkey Caper reminds us that youthful maladjustment often reappears. The younger Brady Bro’s primordial proclivity for bonking surfaced some years later. It may have been a pop song that triggered this latent tendency. Though he tried to disguise it as a jazz riff, he constantly hummed the strains of Alley Oop.
Finally overwhelmed by this suppressed urge, Airman Brady, F.J. (quantity one), wielded a US government–issued laundry bag on an unsuspecting colleague. All the poor fellow saw was an olive drab blob filled with semi–rotting underwear crashing down on his skull and a guttural “oog, oog” reverberating in his ears (though still suffering from night terrors, the victim has been unable to convince the VA of this service–related trauma).
A year later, in the land reeking of Bafra and Yeni Harman, Airman Brady was on the receiving end of the pummeling as two semper fi Neanderthals launched a Pearl Harbor on a countryman (without his cudgel, they didn’t recognize him as one of their own).
Apparently, though this briefly subdued his fits of bonkitis, recurrences of this primeval behavior pop out periodically like the hand of the German advisor in Dr. Stangelove. Harsh critics have been heard to ask, “What did he paint this with? A club?”
Citizen Kane was heard to utter “Rosebud”. Will we hear on some dark future day of a wizened curmudgeon clinging tenaciously to the side of the Golden Gate Bridge with one hand and furiously waving the other down towards the water while the screech of “Monkey, Monkey” issues from his shriveled lips?
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