My daughter Maria is a clever young lady. She's also taken up the family style of making up songs. Oddly enough, she has made up a song about Dan Kasten, even though she has never met the former valedictorian of the Class of 1984. But here you go. To the tune of "Spider-Man"
Spider Dan, Spider Dan
Does what ever Dan Kasten does
Drinks his coffee
Reads the paper
In his robe, yes he does
Why does he do it? I don't know
Spider Dan, Spider Dan
Dad couldn't be more proud.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Songs about Buildings and Food (and Zemel)
One of the great mysteries of the original Comedy Acres era was this - why was so much of the music devoted to the desultory exploits of a fella named Zemel? In thinking back, I recall that over half the drunken songs recorded in Kastenland Studios were directly related to the deeply problematic and ultimately uninteresting matter of Zemel's love life. There was also an amazing variety of genres involved, including reggae (The "Rob Zemel Reggae"), a Johnny Rivers pastiche ("Secret Asian Man"), free jazz (Smalley's classic WBCR chantings over the stylings of Appleton's very own Fire and Ice) and that classic straight-ahead rocker with nascent hip-hop overtones ("Wanna Juana"). Our Man Zemel, the man, Rob, the man, Mr. Zemel, wasn't especially musical himself, although he did bear a passing resemblance to Roger Daltrey (and coincidentally to Roger Murdock, the perverted pilot character in the movie "Airplane").
In some respects, this somewhat shy son of the wealthy doctor by the lake was the Everyman of Comedy Acres; earnest, amusing and well-respected on campus, but with more strikeouts than the Coon Rapids Little League team. More than 20 years on, it seems strange. But I can still hear the stinging acoustic guitar, dub syncopation and drunken voices, screaming as one:
Robbie's father was a rich man
Wealthy doctor by the lake
Gouging patients to support him
It was his ultimate mistake (a big mistake)
Ah, poetry.
In some respects, this somewhat shy son of the wealthy doctor by the lake was the Everyman of Comedy Acres; earnest, amusing and well-respected on campus, but with more strikeouts than the Coon Rapids Little League team. More than 20 years on, it seems strange. But I can still hear the stinging acoustic guitar, dub syncopation and drunken voices, screaming as one:
Robbie's father was a rich man
Wealthy doctor by the lake
Gouging patients to support him
It was his ultimate mistake (a big mistake)
Ah, poetry.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Welcome to Comedy Acres
What could be more appealing than a blog written for the benefit of a group of mildly cynical, 40-something liberal arts grads of varying pedigrees, but mostly cheeseheads? Surely this must be the best place on the World Wide Web.
The History
First a little history. About a quarter century ago, when the Internet was something only known to a handful of computer geeks and Al Gore, a number of undersexed young men gathered on the campus of Beloit College, a renowned safety school famous in certain semi-prestigious circles. At the time Beloit College was slowly returning from the brink of financial disaster. That did not discourage these young men from seeking the fount of wisdom perched high above the Rock River, hard by the Illinois state line. They arrived randomly from locations that were straight out of Johnny Cash's auctioneer ditty "I've Been Everywhere, Man." They came from Appleton, Schofield, Princeton, Fond du Lac, Winneconne, and, oddly, New Canaan, Connecticut, among other places. Eventually other lads and occasional lasses would also move to this new amalgamation, this subdivision of mirth. The group came to be known as Comedy Acres.
Twenty-five years on, they are scattered about the country, some in Chicago, others in California, others in Minnesota. They have sought fortune and, generally, have found a reasonably comfortable middle-class lifestyle. They are fine individuals that most people wouldn't give a rat's ass about. But they will gather here, in a virtual reality, called Comedy Acres.
The History
First a little history. About a quarter century ago, when the Internet was something only known to a handful of computer geeks and Al Gore, a number of undersexed young men gathered on the campus of Beloit College, a renowned safety school famous in certain semi-prestigious circles. At the time Beloit College was slowly returning from the brink of financial disaster. That did not discourage these young men from seeking the fount of wisdom perched high above the Rock River, hard by the Illinois state line. They arrived randomly from locations that were straight out of Johnny Cash's auctioneer ditty "I've Been Everywhere, Man." They came from Appleton, Schofield, Princeton, Fond du Lac, Winneconne, and, oddly, New Canaan, Connecticut, among other places. Eventually other lads and occasional lasses would also move to this new amalgamation, this subdivision of mirth. The group came to be known as Comedy Acres.
Twenty-five years on, they are scattered about the country, some in Chicago, others in California, others in Minnesota. They have sought fortune and, generally, have found a reasonably comfortable middle-class lifestyle. They are fine individuals that most people wouldn't give a rat's ass about. But they will gather here, in a virtual reality, called Comedy Acres.
The Players
You will meet various people here. One is a bearded, balding corporate lawyer playing a proud guitar. Another is a dashing young man with a porno star mustache and the moniker "Chairman of the Board." Another is an itinerant actor/tenor/photographer living in a dazzling Mies van der Rohe apartment on Lake Shore Drive. Another is a mysterious merchant banker/CEO of an Iowa equipment company, possessing equal amounts of business acumen, audacity and a remarkable ability to simultaneously charm and offend everyone he meets by way of caustic bon mots. And you will meet the author of this piece, a genial, somewhat obese smart-ass with an ample supply of wit and without a current portfolio.
Ah, it's a glorious place, this Comedy Acres.
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