Hunting for scavengers, 2 pts. Something at night with a trumpet, a pump, and a dog

    In the corner of a dark deserted cornfield, a shattered Cornell cornet player sits, drinks another Corona and cries his corneas out.
  “Why do bad things happen to good people?” he finally sobs into his beer.
  “Oy, a tough question,” Nell moved a bit closer and tried to comfort him, “…and sure, the nice folks at the Coronation didn’t deserve to have you blow the last line of Pump and Circumstance. Kinda ruined the show it did, but still, God moves in..”

“Moves in a fucking moving van.” Cornielius shot out, angrily. “Them are some really high notes, Nell.”

“So let’s sue Elgar.” Nellie suggested with mock innocence. “My Dad can write the brief an’…”

“No, it’s gotta be a long letter; like ‘Je Accuse!’ but pronounced ‘Gee, Ay Queue Zee!’ Seriously, if Eddie’d written the damn thing in Ab, the Queen’s butt woulda fallen off?”

“Don’t talk like that about Her Majesty, Corney. She didn’t have to come all the way to Montreal for the Royal Hoo-Haw. That’s why they have that-there big b*cking Ham Palace, you heard of it?”
 Nell looked up at the night sky, stars stretching off to the horizon in the east, where the British Empire was waiting, as they spoke, for the Sun also to rise . In the distance a dog barked, F#, but flat. Cornielius grimaced.
“Is it all pre-ordained, Nell?” he asked her, this time wanting a real answer. “I mean, look at the first sentence here, will you(!) Enough ‘corn-‘ there to rebuild the Second Corn Palace. And what’s the deal with “C’-OR-NELL”? What, that’s my life’s work? Either hit the high ‘C’ or have to sit here with you in the dark, all alone, an’ talk it out till daylight’?” 
Nell moved yet closer. It was God’s plan, and her answer, all in one.In the distance a cow mooed. Probably an Angus.


12 thoughts on “Hunting for scavengers, 2 pts. Something at night with a trumpet, a pump, and a dog

  1. Roadkill_Spatula

    I think I forgot my 3D glasses. Other than observing that Rosie the Queen of Corona is missing her coronet, I have no clue why the mooing cow is an Angus, and little to offer this discussion.I didn’t know Pomp and Circumstance even had an ending. I thought it was another version of The Song that Never Ends.


    Me too, what R_S said about Angus, so I did a word study on cattle (because my dumb Ox(ha!)ford dictionary doesn’t have Angus in it). What it told me? I never put 2 and 2 together until now! How now brown cow! Rumi-nant. Do we really rue the day? Do we really ruminate? All because of cows? I want to believe this for just a little while longer before I root index anything.Also, I wish I could contribute more on the music. I’ll have wait to learn from your fine friends here when they comment. Your tone is hushed, of course. It gives pause like “to be or not to be” (also in light of the gorges at Cornell and the suicide stuff).

  3. jsolberg

    @Roadkill_Spatula – Sure not trying to be cryptic here; I kinda forgot not everybody knows ‘talk it out till daylight’ from Steely Dan’s “Black Cow” On the Aja album.Luckily this is just a fake scavenger-hunt. I deliberately confuse pump with pomp and a trumpet with a cornet just for fun, to chide the strictures element./ The Song does end though, with an octave-up on the last five notes. Coincides with the Mau Mau Rebellion and Indian independence.

  4. jsolberg

    @POETIC_ISIS –  My, right you are, although I didn’t know it out loud, on the Cornell mood and terrain. I explained the Angus (above) as I understand her. An old(?) song. Before flaming lips. Lucky I didn’t reference Al Jolson or Hopalong Cassidy. See, very little of this stuff is really intentional; it just becomes clear in comments from the alert, Thanks

  5. chromepoet

    Angus, black as, so do we really need “at night”? I mean really.Not to mention Angus Mac Og and Angus Dei; Angus God flipping too conveniently to an Angry Angus Dog but now we are two-thirds to da prize …… white trumpets waft sweet wisps, aromatic ribbons highlighting desert hair … Carlos, surprisingly pale in the pale moonlight, digs, mumbling secret chants received by e(ther)-mail while watching Orson’s “F is for Fake” … from thorn imbued dirt he steals Lady Trumpet’s boots … mortar and pestle, then spread eagle on the runway … flight imminent; good thing we finished the scavenge.And you say it’s just an old hippie song? I remain amazed by your consistent, you say innocent, ability to initialize associative concepts; send wild thoughts cascading faster than fingers can type, pleasant thunder reverberating between silver synaptic traces like a Ducati, modified to breath nitrous, bending mountain by-ways straight as an Interstate, bright as a shuttle launch.

  6. jsolberg

    @chromepoet –  Your admiration and inspired additions are addictively appreciated.Ok, here’s the deal; I’ll admit it; I wrote this one purposefully with your mind in mind. And it just struck me how different the writing process ‘feels’ when a specific reader is the target. Not that the madding crowd isn’t its own type of reward. Thanks again, Chromie. I owed you one… or more.

  7. gnostic1

    1) A suggested title for a book of your clever collected writings:                “Fart From the Maddening Crow” and Other Missile Anus Articles2) ” Hello saler”, delivered with a wink to a pretty girl, is considred clever word play by a small number of cow people in these parts.3) Congrats again!

  8. jsolberg

    @gnostic1 – Oy, what with trip-planning I’m so far behind in replies. Your precious referential title might be ‘missed’ by the Shop ‘n go crowd. F-stop Fitzgerald and T. Hardly are, like, yesterday’s heifers’, so I hear. Still, we sail onward, against the current…


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