Editor's note: The Stumble Bum's been down to the State and Congress recently. Or was it
the Haymarket? Anyway it made a big impression on his childish mind and now he feels called
upon to unbosom himself. Well, we've printed some mighty foul truck in this column so far,
and there's some consolation in the fact that things can't be much worse. Here you are -- the
last mad ravings of a degenerated mind.
By the Stumble Bum
"Saint Louis womaaan ... with'er diamon' ring ...."
The rich, veined voice seems almost to make the dingy drapes glow with a richer, fuller color. Something very satisfying about the Saint Louis Blues. No matter what your mood may be, no matter what retrospective by-roads your heart may take, the blues, the Saint Louis Blues, are a part of it. Chopin, Strauss, Bach; none of them have ever produced such a heart wrenching melody of the masses, that caroling plaint "Ah hate to see ... that evenin' sun go down ..." Blues.
The fat lady in the next seat is having a terrible time trying to find where she dropped her glove. Of course, one should offer to dive down in the muck to aid, but after all, it isn't expected here and for pure, unalloyed pleasure nothing can compare with the sight of a slightly overstuffed lady trying to make each fold and billow and roll of porkina mass dissolve into nothing in order to bend over. The wheezes and grunts and bubbling sighs. Ah! She has found it. Well, what have we on the stage.
The chorus By Allah! The Lydies of the Ensemble. Much the same as usual. Haven't gotten a kick out of a chorus for many moons. (And that, you Saxon blighter, is NOT a pun!) One begins to pick out old friends. The three in the middle who know all the movements but just haven't got the ambition to go through them. A high kick for these three lifts about eight inches off the floor. The very enthusiastic lady on the right who may be a bit off time but is having a perfectly gorgeous celebration on her own. The middle aged woman whose daughter is probably in the line somewhere and who is being determinedly kittenish with the stout gentleman in the front row center. All old friends. All burlesque chorus from time immemorial has been graced with these. But in the name of Allah whose name is great! Wshat in th' Hell have we on the left end? A Dresden sheperdess imbued with the jolly old jazz mania! Young and vivacious, her rather indiscreet tights displaying exquisitely modeled thighs. Not a gold tooth, not a glint of peroxide, not a fault. Surely the pudgy little gods of burlesque have made a mistake. A wild search for a program and the bringing tolight of a vast number of Trixies, Billies, Doras and all the rest of the tribe but no indication of which one the beauty might be. They ought to number them in the program. Something on the idea of a football jersey. The best place to mark the girls I would judge would be on the rear of their abbreviated pants. In the first place it is the only item of clothing with sufficient area upon which to place a numeral and in the second place it's quite prominent, quite. Will have to take that up with somebody, almost anybody in fact.
Well! The gorgeous young lady is back again. In a single this time too. Quite a clever toe dancer. Horrible costume, but then, no one is looking at the costume. An intensive search and the bedraggled program is again brought to light. "Jackie Zeeter". It would be. Jackie, or Billie, or Bobbie, I suppose it's in the rules somewhere but it's very painful. She's good though. Rates a lot better than a burlesque chorus.
The comedians are back again -- I don't like cheap comedians. I suppose I'm the only person on earth who isn't violently amused by a putty nosed person in a pair of bloomers.
Copyright © 2001, Mary S. Van Deusen