Bad habit: I relate to the the Muzak! Mostly in Trader Joe's or the market. I hear it, I even comment on it, offer my analysis to any(no)one... not that I like it, how can you LIKE that vanilla calmifying crapola? In fact, you probably don't even hear it at all. Might not even be aware of its existence. And yet, here I am, hummin along! Oh, I admit it: sometimes I even (aarrgghh) harmonize to it! Imagine singing along to the Muzak? Quite embarrassing. How do I stop????
the french speaking people have already made the exact same corrections I'd have made. I personally prefer it to remain a bit foreign sounding, with JoeRud's adorable brit accent, and I even prefer including the small mistakes, rather than making it "perfectly french." Would you have someone else sing it??? Mais Non! Just as there were a couple of mistakes in the Petit Soldat that Metaphorest wrote and Joe, Anne H and the then-named Metafictionist sang at the Fall Formal.If you listen back, just prior to the performance, Joe told any...
Perrault published “Le Petit Chaperon Rouge” back in 1697.
OH? Chaperon? Interesting how we use that now.Defender of the young woman, from the thing all men know all men want from her. But Chaperon in French means hood. OH? She wore a hoodie? Interesting how we use that now. Dangerous. Might get you killed.
It was a cautionary tale to insure a beautiful daughter’s value to marry and increase the familial property value, only IF the beautiful daughter has remained pure and chaste, so as not...
Perrault wrote it down from an oral tradition, told from generation to generation: it was from a time when a beautiful daughter’s value was simply the coin by which the man of property could buy/sell/trade up/add to his wealth. She...
"Mommy, who's stronger, daddies or mommies?"
"Well, I guess men's outside muscles are stronger, and women's inside muscles are stronger."
(them: satisfied nod)
So then, who is this one, this husky healthy little Noonday who, having long listened to her...
(Ode to "owls & vines" by elayne)
Oh owl with scowl
fine fowl of mine
sits on a vine
so soft of jowl
neath feathered cowl
each line of thine
ne'er whine nor howl
but hoot and scowl
so like an owl