Lady H. M. Ainsley-Billington--A Celebratory Retrospective

Lady Hortense MacFarquhar Ainsley-Billington, grande dame of the English stage, is celebrated as much for being as pale and sweet as a blancmange as for her operatic rendering of the timeless classic "When, In Momentary Slumb'r, My Love Doth Recline."

One can scarcely hope to catalog all of Lady Hortense's triumphs in this small space. However, no one will ever forget her command performance at Buckingham Palace when she gave a fist pump upon hitting every note of the impossible five octave "Bobby, Be The Bric-A-Brac On My Curio Shelf," prompting the attending Royals to initiate an instantaneous in-the-aisles hokey pokey break dance such has never been seen before or since.

A month later, once again lucid after an unfortunate episode involving character actor and sometime companion Fredo Pastalini and "just a smidgen" of Chinese opium, Lady H. wowed 'em at the Royal Albert Hall when she sang "My Boy Lollipop" accompanied by a revue of muscular and scandalously (un)clad male dancers. Pausing for a photo-op with Lord Hampstead, Lady H. confided that she was happy all the folderol regarding her tryst with "my little Hamster man" had died down, though of course her referencing it left Lord Hampstead seething and abashed while Lady H. appeared positively smug! 

Interviewed for this article, Lady Hortense opined that, in her view, today's "slipshod copycat noise" cannot hold a candle to the "passion and derring-do" of the electric folk emo metal which first launched her into the limelight. Pontificating quite charmingly on a range of subjects, she reminded this writer time and again of why Edmund Mumzet-Pagliatano bestowed, in Your Evening Calling Card that famous sobriquet "The Sublime Hortense" on our national darling, Lady Ainsley-Billington.  There is no other like her.
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for Get Listed.

It's All In A Name

My name is Agnes Millicent MacLaury-MacFaquhar,
but in the villages they call me

Popsiqued'ononono Kanalbabwa Sesquemamba, which means
"She who glides like the most graceful of butterflies across the sky at dawn",
although the house boy tells me it really means "Old Monkeyface."

My father, Aldous Pimberton MacNaughton MacLaury,
was a manufacturer of women's undergarments.
When whalebone corsets went out of style, he built a meat pie empire
before moving the entire family here, 
to Port Fakankanza on the Chibumanian coast.

At any rate, I do love this place.
Every morning the Juboopari birds gather in the Momchagoosian trees
right outside my window.
My late husband, Horace Charlemagne Genghis "Jack" MacFarquhar,
used to collect the feathers and spent hours sorting and preserving them,
over in the east gazebo where he and Bruce Pinkfellow used to spend so many hours.

When Jacky died, I didn't know how I would cope.
Thank goodness for Bruce and his knack for handling money,
not to mention his kindness toward me.
I know what you're thinking, but he was always a perfect gentleman,
and such glorious taste in clothes! Those ascots were real silk.  

Still, I think we may travel on to Zigfatten Island next summer,
where they say that Mount Visnakunu sends up clouds of ash every afternoon. 
Yes, "we." I'm so sorry, I never introduced you to my late husband's ward!
He found her wandering on Fumba Gizella Avenue, 
without a penny to her name.
When he offered her a sweet, 
the horrid little thing kicked him smartly in the shins,
and ran off, but the local constabulary rounded her up in short order.

She's plain and mousey, and will never amount to anything,
but here she is, such as she is.
Say hello now, child. 
Well, it seems the cat's got her tongue.

Her name is Jane.

Ow! My shin!

Shay. Her name is Shay, my mistake, though lately she fancies herself "Fireblossom",
and is always scribbling on the plaster with a marker. 
I'll be giving her to the Gypsies presently.
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for Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads. He wants us to write about our name, which for me is extra cool because, unlike most people, I chose mine myself. 

         

           

Wandering Eye

How could I have a wandering eye,
when mine are always demure,
downcast,
almost falling into my tea like sugar cubes?

I claim nothing;
no opinion, no item, no gesture
as my own--
I borrowed this hat,
these gloves,
this face with its serenely docile expression.

However, underneath 
like a forgotten marker,
is my skull, twinned with socket-blanks
and the moths that emerge and expand by wing and instinct.

Relax, dear Master.
Everyone admires your wool suits,
your silk cravats,
and your cashmere sense of entitlement.

On the other hand,
no one sees or suspects the devouring flutter I unleash from concealment
without a word,
without fanfare,
without blinking.
_______

for Magpie #255 

A Spiny Demon

A spiny demon fell out of the chandelier and into my decolletage,
just as the aperitifs were being served.
There is only one thing for a lady to do when this happens,
and so I went to the kitchen and boiled him in a pot
like an artichoke.

The chef in his toque
and his staff in their amazement
gaped at me for crossing an unspoken boundary line,
but I was raised by wolves
and educated at Smith--
I can snarl with accent or without.

By this time I could see the spiny demon's breath,
though it may have been steam,
or just hot air.
Concerned for my manicure,
I plucked him from his impromptu bath with tongs,
and demanded to know if he had come
to try to collect my soul.

He clammed up, so I went next door,
holding him gingerly by the tail,
into the neighbor's house,
the Land That Time Forgot,
and played stoopball with him against the inside stairs.
I used a Babolat racket
and a wicked serve to make him talk.

Borrowing the jack from someone's Audi,
I opened his gob and got the truth out of him.
He had been spitting night into my stellar disposition,
while I slept,
innocent as a kitten.
I stashed his loathsome spiny self in the dishwasher
and, departing the neighbor's house,
I kicked off my Jimmy Choos, letting my bare feet sink into the wet grass.

The sun was coming up,
as yellow as a taxi cab,
so I started all over, despite my age, and despite convention.
What the hell, Bo Peep, I said to myself,
live a little, bring down a moose,
win a Pulitzer,
get a girlfriend.
Why not?
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for mag 228

Leap / Revival Season

LEAP

A salmon sees the bear and leaps,
whether to safety or surcease.
Please don't pretend you know its mind--
You can't know fruit from watching rind.

While fish-brained babies softly sleep,
a salmon sees the bear and leaps.
Say "baby mine and baby sweet"
and kiss its tiny foreign feet.

O world of ease and world of woe
reclining in a gob of roe;
a salmon sees the bear and leaps,
the gateman waves, the gateman greets.

Little bubble on the surface,
rise or sink and think you've cured this
fever's damaged dreamy heat--
a salmon sees the bear and leaps.
_____

REVIVAL SEASON

A singing skull knows just one song
and sings it, flays it, grinding on;
agreeable to itself it is,
screeching musical sentences.

Nerves nestle hot in fireplace tongs--
a singing skull knows just one song;
the ear can bleed a fine red rose
and trickle crimson from the nose.

Come dressed for evening, gown and hat,
and take the arm that's white and fat;
a singing skull knows just one song
and sings it, brings, it, on and on.

Pose and smile, promenade and grin,
and be damned glad you're not like him;
bat space of eyes where eyes are gone--
a singing skull knows just one song.
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2 quaterns for the Real Toads Sunday form challenge. I'm really pleased with the first one, and I include the second one because, hey, today is BOGO day at Shay's.

  

Facts About the Presidents

Do you feel different, out of step, 
last to be picked for badminton?
Take heart,
Oddness is a thoroughly American thing.

Consider the presidents!
Millard Fillmore once suffered a minor fall down some back steps at the White House while secreting one of the domestics away from Abigail's jealous eyes.

The injury healed, but at the wound site, a large, prehensile tail began to grow. 
Fillmore could sometimes be found hanging upside down from an Oval Office chandelier while his hands remained free to sort and sign important documents.
Once, while playing cards with Secretary of State Daniel Webster, he set down a straight flush with his tail, enraging Webster and resulting in some unfortunate gun-play with small caliber arms.
All of this was quickly hushed up, but it is fact.

James K. Polk had a small pair of antlers protruding from his forehead. Contemporary portraitists left the antlers out, but Polk, far from feeling abashed, was actually quite vain about his antlers, standing at the mirror in the presidential bedroom for hours, polishing them.
With the opening of the Smithsonian Institution, Polk arranged for his antlers to be placed on permanent display after his death, but when Polk eventually passed away from cholera, postmaster Cave Johnson made a disheartening discovery.

When Mr. Johnson tried to affix his newly created postage stamps to the antlers, in order to ship them the slightly more than a mile to the Smithsonian, he was aghast to find that the stamps refused to adhere to the presidential rack. 
Hurriedly slinging them under his arm to carry them by foot, he accidentally stabbed himself, and the antlers were tried and convicted of assault upon a government official. They were sent under military and police guard to federal prison, where they were immediately misplaced and never found again. 
This explains the lack of information generally available about James K. Polk's celebrated horns.

Finally, Chester A. Arthur showed great loyalty and courage when, even though his health was compromised by the presence of a not fully formed Siamese twin growing out of his right side, he sent a parade of cut-happy surgeons away, and named the twin Roscoe Conkling, eventually forming the "Stalwart" faction of the Republican Party with the blighted parasite. 
In time, Arthur offered his twin a place on the bench of the United States Supreme Court, a position which the twin accepted and was approved for by Congress. However, Conkling's physical inability to be any place where Chester Arthur wasn't, prevented him from ever serving.
It is said that, at dinner parties, Chester Arthur would unbutton his vest and allow Conkling to come out and amuse the guests with the one about the whore and the Legal Tender Act. 
Because of his prominence and position, this was tolerated, but when Arthur tried to dance with Governor Hamilton Fish's wife Julia, and the twin tried to take her hand, even the Chief Executive realized he had gone too far, and withdrew.
The twin later distinguished itself by winning a boxing match against Rutherford B. Hayes. Hayes is said to have acquitted himself well, but a punch from Conkling drove Hayes's cigar down his throat and set his stomach on fire, ending the fight. Conkling, a non-smoker, declared this a victory for "clean living".
Chester Arthur was tremendously proud of his parasitic twin, and wanted to see him remembered as a great statesman. Whether this can be said today is debatable, but the silent comedian Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle did derive his Christian name from Chester A. Arthur's little stowaway Roscoe Conkling.

I hope that this painstakingly researched article has made you feel better, Weirdo. And remember, nobody likes badminton anyway.

Sincerely,

Constance W. Scripps, historian
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Dinner At Eight

The awful cook makes feetloaf;
And for dessert, a layer snake.

The terrible servants serve it;
Each course out of order and late.

We all sit down
And choke it down,
Then summon the incompetent doctor.

He pronounces us well
Though we itch and swell,
Then departs via helicopter.

The horrible host says goodnight by post
Three weeks later by standard form...

We're invited to dinner again next winter,
Alfresco in the howling storm.

_______

for One Shot Wednesday

Just Shoot Me

There is a mishap with Jennifer's botox.

One minute she is saying, "Well if you ask me" and the technician's hand begins to shake...

One minute she is saying, "I tried to tell her that dress was all wrong" and suddenly, with an unfortunate jerk of the arm holding the needle,

"Don't say you heard it from me" becomes

"Eeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuughhhh."



Jennifer goes home.



"Foooooouuuuuuuhhhh," she says to her husband.

"Of course, dear," he replies mildly.

"Guuuhhhhhh! Fuhhhhh buuuuhhhhh!" she tries to explain, pointing to her mouth.

"I'd like to eat out, too. How about Chinese?"

That night, they are intimate. After all, it is Saturday.

"Fluuuhhhhh!" she shouts, drooling. What she means is,

"Are you done yet? Get off me."

Her husband cannot remember when he last saw her so excited.



Monday brings Garden Club. Jennifer is to address the other ladies on the subject of rose aphids.

"Bluh. Bluuhhha ayyyublubla..." she says, reading from notes.

The ladies eat cakes and whisper unkindly to each other about her new hairstyle. Afterward, they clap and tell her she was marvelous and that they've simply got to rush home and try all the remedies she suggested.

"Bluh boo," says Jennifer. She is trying to pronounce a common vulgar expression.

"Love you, too!" cry the ladies and kiss her cheek before getting into their Volvos.



Desperate, Jennifer turns to her children. She has their names written down in her date book for just such an emergency.

She babbles something incoherent to them, her eyes aglow with tenderness.

Her son goes on talking on the phone, messaging on his computer, and eating pizza.  Yes, all at the same time. 

Her daughter shrieks, "I knew you'd say no! I hate you!" then runs upstairs and slams the door to her room.

Jennifer is left standing in the hallway, alone.

"Bluh?" she asks no one in particular.



In time, the injection wears off.

"Bluhhh duhhh" becomes "goo bornee" becomes "good morning."

"I'll have toast" says her husband.

"I hate you!" says her daughter.

"Love you!" say all her friends, but they say that to everyone from the pool boy to their wretched poodles. It is completely meaningless chatter, like "how are you?". 



It's been an ordeal.

Jennifer switches botox clinics. 

Her worry lines vanish. 

__________

Eunice

Eunice MacNaughton-Hippelwhite,

Wife of Sir Basil Coddington Hippelwhite,

And daughter of steel magnate F. Pomeroy MacNaughton III

Of the upstate MacNaughtons,



Flung out her arm and tried to skip a stone on lake Michigan,

That cloudy September day in 1949,

But it sank like the Bismarck.



The sky above her was a particularly pleasing shade of blue,

The trees beyond the dunes stately,

And her clothing tasteful and expensive as she waded into the surf.



"Blaaaaahhhhhhh!" she said, startling some seagulls.

"Blahhhh gah fuckety fuck fuck fuck!" she went on.

Her tiny hands made splashing noises as she beat them against the surface of the water.



Eunice MacNaughton-Hippelwhite,

Wife of Basil Coddington Hippelwhite,

And daughter of steel magnate F. Pomeroy MacNaughton III,

Sat down on the bottom sand,

Shoulder deep in seaweed and the chilly waves,

As if she were attending a remarkably soggy polo match.



The big house behind her stood peaceful and distant.

Her hat floated away.

She wiggled her toes underwater.



Once, she had been kissed by Whitey Balachinsky,

Who now owned a service station on Route 28.


Once, she had danced to Benny Goodman with her friend Cookie,

Who wore Japanese harpoons in her hair, and told good jokes.



F. Pomeroy MacNaughton III, the steel magnate, had quietly put a stop to all that.

Sundays, Basil would call on her at the house.

They would sit on the couch like ornamental urns.



Eunice MacNaughton-Hippelwhite leant forward

Face down in the shallows, and blew bubbles until her chest hurt,

Just as those German sailors must have done.



Coming in the front door later, sodden,

Eunice explained to the astonished downstairs maid that she had perished at sea,

Then telephoned her friend Cookie,

And was not seen again until Spring.

___________

for One Shot Wednesday

Miss Dinwiddie's Guide To Black Tie

If you experience, at a swank luncheon,

Spontaneous human combustion,



Don't play the ass

As you're turning to ash--



Lest your demeanor detract from the function.

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