Well, boys and girls, I'm sure you've noticed that the economy has gone to hell in a handbasket.  So it is that I feel it behoovin' on me to illustrate how one can make a few extra pazoozas - using your strong and supple relationship and a little marketing know-how.  I give you...

EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY

EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
'CAUSE SHE MAKES 'EM FEEL SO GOOD
EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
'CAUSE SHE'S THE CUTEST BABY IN THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD

     OH - FELLAS SEE HER COMIN' DOWN THE STREET
     WHOA - AND NOW THEY'RE TRIPPIN' ALL OVER EACH OTHERS' FEET

ISN'T IT NICE THE WAY THEY LOVE MY BABY
HOW THEY LOVE HER THROUGH AND THROUGH
BEIN' AS EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO LOVE MY BABY TOO

EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
SO THEY ALL GIVE HER THE EYE
EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
BUT I DON'T MIND IT WHEN I FIND HER WITH SOME OTHER GUY

     OH NO - 'CAUSE I KNOW SHE'S ALWAYS TRUE TO ME
     SO -  I'M PHILOSOPHICAL AS A MAN CAN BE

EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
AND THOSE CRAZY THINGS SHE'LL DO
I'M TELLIN' YA EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY
SO WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO LOVE MY BABY TOO

          SHE'S SWEET - DELICIOUS
          SHE'LL CATER TO YOUR WISHES
          SHE'S EVERYTHING YOU'D WANT A GAL TO BE
          SHE'LL HUG YA - SHE'LL KISS YA
          SHE'LL NEVER NEVER DISS YA
          AND ANYONE CAN LOVE HER FOR A NOMINAL FEE

WHEN ANY FELLA SAYS HE LOVES MY BABY
I SUGGEST HE GET IN LINE
I TELL HIM IT'S FINE FOR YOU TO LOVE MY BABY
YEAH SHE'S SO MUCH FUN
SHE'LL LOVE YA EACH AND EVERY ONE
BUT JUST REMEMBER THAT SHE'S MINE ALL MINE


Copyright 2009 Little Isidore Productions.  All rights reserved.

My dear Dollfaces,

As it is Christmas, I give you...

CHRISTMAS OF LOVE

BABY PICTURE YOU AND ME
HANGIN' ROUND A CHRISTMAS TREE
COLORED LIGHTS AND AN ANGEL UP ABOVE
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE

BABY EVERYWHERE WE GO
BRING A LITTLE MISTLETOE
WE'LL BE HUGGIN' WE'LL BE KISSIN' LIKE TWO TURTLEDOVES
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE

TELLIN' EVERYONE
SANTA GONNA COME
HAVE A LOTTA FUN AT CHRISTMASTIME
NOW HE'S ON HIS WAY
EVERYBODY SAY
HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS OF LOVE

BABY MAKE A LITTLE WISH
THEN YOU PUT IT ON YOUR LIST
SANTA SEND YOU EVERYTHING YOU BEEN DREAMIN' OF
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE
TEE-HEE

(INSTRUMENTAL)

TELLIN' EVERYONE
SANTA GONNA COME
HAVE A LOTTA FUN AT CHRISTMASTIME
NOW HE'S ON HIS WAY
EVERYBODY SAY
HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS OF LOVE

BABY LET IT SNOW TONIGHT
THAT'D BE JUST RIGHT
JUST IMAGINE MAKIN' OUT BY THE FIRELIGHT
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE
CHRISTMAS OF LOVE

JOHNNY WON'T LET ME

WHEN I GET THE BLUES I WANNA SING THIS SONG BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
I JUST WANNA LOVE MY JOHNNY ALL NIGHT LONG BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
TAKE HIM TO A MOVIE ON A SAT'DAY AFTERNOON
FEATURIN' A CREATURE FROM A BLACK LAGOON
BUT EVER SINCE WE MET - MY JOHNNY WON'T LET
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME

TURN MY TELEVISION TO THE LATE LATE SHOW BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
CUDDLE UP AND WHISPER THAT I LOVE HIM SO BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
SIP A PINOT VINO, SMOKE A BUD A BOO
THERE AIN'T NOTHIN' IN THE WORLD THAT HE WILL LET ME DO
THAT'S WHY I'M SO UPSET - 'CAUSE JOHNNY WON'T LET
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME

CHOP A LOTTA SUEY WHEN I GO TO CHINATOWN BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
POUR IT ON HIS BODY AND RUB IT ALL AROUND BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
MAKE A PEPPY PEPPER STEAK - A MEAN BEAN CAKE
THINK OF THE DELICIOUS ASIAN DISHES I COULD MAKE
FOR CELEBRATIN' TET - BUT JOHNNY WON'T LET
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME

JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY
JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY
JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY
WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY

          WHEN I USED TO GO
          WITH CRAZY KILLER JOE
          THE MAGAZINES HE BOUGHT ME TAUGHT ME
          EVERYTHING I KNOW
          WHEN I USED TO RUN
          WITH MISTER PETER GUNN
          WE SHOT A LOT OF FELLAS
          AND WE HAD A LOT OF FUN

I'D GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY AND PRAISE THE LORD ABOVE BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
DUCK IN THE CONFESSIONAL AND GIVE HIM ALL MY LOVE BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME
I COULD HANDLE SERPENTS - I COULD TALK IN TONGUES
ROLL ABOUT AND SHOUT OUT AT THE TIP TOP OF MY LUNGS
HOW HOLY I COULD GET IF ONLY JOHNNY'D LET BUT
JOHNNY WON'T LET ME

JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY
JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY
JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY
WOOPS JOHNNY WOOPS JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY JOHNNY

COPYRIGHT 2009 LITTLE ISIDORE PRODUCTIONS

DOOT DOOTSIE WAH
 

GO ON DOWN THE RIVER - DOWN A LITTLE MORE

BABY THAT'S WHERE IT IS

COME UP TO THE BOTTOM - COME UP TO A DOOR

BABY THAT'S WHERE I LIVE

YOU SHOW UP – AND THERE YOU ARE

DOOT DOOTSIE WAH

AIN'T MUCH MORE THAN A TARPAPER SHACK

BABY THAT'S ALL YOU NEED

RED DIRT FLOOR AND A SPIT OUT BACK

BABY GOO-ARANTEED

YOU SHOW UP - AND THERE YOU ARE

DOOT DOOTSIE WAH

DONE THE HULLY GULLY – DONE THE EARLY BIRD

BABY - AND THE KANGAROO

DONE THE WOOLY BULLY – DONE THE HOLLYWORD

BABY – AND THE COCKATOO

I'M TIRED OF EVERY DANCE I EVER DONE

I ONLY WANNA DO THE NUMBER ONE

          THAT'S WHY I DO THE DOOTSIE WAH

          THAT'S WHY I DO THE DOOTSIE WAH

          SO COME-A-COME-A-COME AS YOU ARE

          DOOT DOOTSIE WAH

SO DOOT WITH ME BABY – DOOT WITH ME CHILD

BABY – DOOT DOOTSIE WAH

DOOT DRIVE YOU CRAZY – DOOT DRIVE YOU WILD

BABY – DOOT DOOTSIE WAH

SO COME-A COME-A COME AS YOU ARE

DOOT DOOTSIE WAH

© 2008 Little Isidore Productions. All rights reserved.

Gee willikers, has it been three weeks already?  My sincerest apologies to all you panting miscreants of rhyme and reason.  I've got so much to upblog, but this entry is purely of the lyric of the month ilk.  In poring over the compendium of material, I came across this one, one of my favorites.  I like it because it celebrates my hometown that I miss so much.  Over the years, its name has changed back and forth, but I'll always know it as The Congo.  Ladies and germs, I give you...

CONGO JAMBOREE

IT'S A CONGO JAMBOREE (OOGA BOOGA)
SO MAKE THAT CONGO LINE
THOSE RUMBA DAYS - LUMUMBA DAYS
ARE COMING BACK IN TIME
TONIGHT WE'LL FIND THAT DIAMOND MINE YOU'LL SEE
IT'S CALLING YOU AND ME
TO THE CONGO JAMBOREE

SO PIN THAT TAIL ON ME (OOGA BOOGA)
'CAUSE I WAS SUCH A FOOL
FOR DIGGIN' THAT - MOBUTU CAT
BECAUSE HIS HAT WAS COOL
HE 'N' I'D GET STONED AND ROLL DEM BONE AMIS
VIVA LA COMPAGNIE
CONGO JAMBOREE

I USED TO THINK THE PAST WAS GONE
I DON'T THINK SO NO MORE
'CAUSE NOW I SEE THE PATH WE'RE ON
GO RIGHT BACK WHERE IT WAS BEFORE

CONGO JAMBOREE (OOGA BOOGA)
SO LET'S JUST FALL IN LOVE
THE NIGHT IS WARM - THE JUNGLES SWARM
BENEATH THE STARS ABOVE
L'AMOUR TOJOURS - JE T'AIME MON COEUR JOLIE
I SAY C'EST LA VIE
CONGO JAMBOREE

(INSTRUMENTAL: 16 SWINGIN' BARS)

CONGO JAMBOREE (OOGA BOOGA)
LET'S CON-GO FOR THE GOLD
JUST SWISH THAT PAN - AND GIVE A HAND
TO LI'L KING LEOPOLD
YEAH JUMP AND JIVE AND HUMP THAT IVORY
SWING YER MA-CHE-TE
IT'S A CONGO JAMBOREE

THAT'S CONGO - NOT UGANDO - NOT SUDANGO - NOT ROOWANDO
JUST A CONGO JAMBOREE!

copyright 2008 Little Isidore Productions.  All rights reserved

The first thing that struck me about the chief e.r. doctor at Northern Westchester Hospital Emergency Room in Mount Kisco was that she wore what seemed like kiddie scrubs, not the morbid green scrubs of Ben Casey and Doctor Zorba.  These had little figures on them, like cowboys with lassos and bucking broncos and such.  She was a fortyish woman with a very unflirtatious demeanor.  She looked at me like she was looking at a Cornell Wilde in "Nightmare Alley."  The preposterousness of my situation didn't escape me, either - a  middle aged man, white pinstripe suit, shirtless, gold chains, Celtic cross, more makeup than Little Richard (and dark brown, at that), a ponytail in a gold scrunchie, little white dancing shoes.  There was a beautiful Asian doctor, also female, who stood at my left side.  I assume she was doing her residency.  Of course, I batted my eyes at her best I could.  I reached for her hand at one point, and she took it, whereupon the boss lady bit her head off.  I guess I understand why, but her hand offered me real comfort.  As I got hooked up to the e.k.g. and had lines run into my arms, I asked her if what I was having was, in fact, a heart attack.  I knew better, but hope springs eternal, even when there's a whitefish inside your chest, y'know?  Anyhow, as the boss lady approached me with her jellied paddles, rubbing them together and placing a black rubber pad over my left ribs, she replied, "you're about to have a very significant one!"  Gulp!

Lights out.  Lights.  Out.  Nothing.

When I woke up, I was still on the table in the e.r..  I felt like a million bucks.  I'm sure I smiled and said "Wow!"  The entire e.r. staff hovered over me, sweating and looking grim and green.  I said, "You guys don't look so hot.   Something wrong?"  There was one guy poring over the e.k.g. printout ten feet away at two o'clock, but everyone else was kinda in my face.

"Welcome back.  You've been gone quite a while.  Over four minutes.  We didn't know if you were gonna make it.  Lay still and don't talk.  You flatlined, but we got you back.  Your friends are outside.  We sent one of them to get your wife.  You're still touch and go."

"Wow."

They wheeled me up to i.c.u. and I slept.  I woke up when Bunny got there.  We looked at each other for a second then she kissed me.  She didn't say anything.  Then she left.  She had four small kids at home to see to, and she's nothing if not tough.  After a few hours, I guess they figured it was safe to bundle me up and ship me to Valhalla, to Westchester Medical Center, where they would perform my first angioplasty.  I guess I got there by seven in the morning.  By eleven, I was in a new i.c.u., with strict instructions not to move a muscle.  They went into my aorta at my right inside thigh.  I had to lay perfectly still until a clot could form - no mean feat when you're swimming in clot busters.  Anyhow, I was King Tut for the next twelve hours.  Stone still.  I don't know how, but Mike Sinatra got in to see me and I was glad for the company.

Next morning I was resting happily in a semi-private room (that's a funny phrase.)  People started calling and visiting.  I felt fantastic, better than I had in years.  The nurses warned me repeatedly that my next cigarette would be my last.  They also enjoined me from other more notorious recreational pastimes, none of which really applied to me any more, but I was grateful for their finger wagging anyway.

The flatline thing is intriguing, isn't it?  I don't actually feel that I died there on the table in Mount Kisco.  Just that my heart stopped beating.  I think there's a big difference there.  When asked by myriad friends and aquaintances what the near-death thing was like, I could only shake my head and reply, "No white light, no angels' choir...Oh, but Larry Williams says hello."

Watching the opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics with my son was a beautiful thing.  The Chinese have certainly given perfection a run for its money.  I don't see how any future Olympics could even think of trying to cop this.  At the end of the proceedings, I was scraping pieces of my mind off the rug, and so was my kid.  But that's not why I'm writing this.  My purpose is to respond to a couple of questions that have come my way from friends and fans regarding the fateful night of July 21, 1999 that began on stage in Chappaqua, NY. First, some background.

In the week or two prior to that fateful night, I had been occupied with two caregiving issues - one long distance and the other hands-on.  The first was getting my buddy and partner (I'll call him Bernard) into a hospital in Los Angeles.  To say his breathing had become shallow is an understatement by any standards.  His poor little lungs had morphed (over the span of ten years of self-medication) into a couple of warm custard-filled pastries, bubbling with pneumonia juice and half the gross national product of Mexico.  He'd been calling me complaining, so I took it upon myself to spearhead a campaign to have him admitted to Cedars-Sinai for a little look-see.  Let's just say he didn't make it easy.  What's the metaphor?  It was like herding cats.  We finally got him admitted, just in time.  His doctors told him that he had about 4cc of lung capacity left.  One more pneumonia and that was gonna be it!  Sadly, that turned out to be true.  Thirteen months later, he died of pulmonary failure.

The second scenario was my daughter's tonsil/adenoi..omy, a procedure deceptively sold as simple and everyday.  In fact, it is routinely done as outpatient surgery.  Permit me to say that the pain and suffering this girl endured for a solid week following that barbarism I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy (except for one - you know who you are).  Even the legend milkshake diet couldn't assuage her agonies, and as I watched her suffer, my own heart began to break.  The one and only bright spot in that particular ordeal was that the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary, where the various ectomies took place, is located just four blocks from the old Second Avenue Deli, where I treated myself to a delightful corned beef on rye with a sour pickle and a Doctor Brown.  I dare say, on reflection, that the corned beef probably has more than a little to do with this tale's harsh playing out.

Back to July 21, 1999.  We were booked at a large outdoor concert in Chappaqua -  a prosperous Westchester town now famous as the hometown of Bill and Hillary Clinton - at the time just a prosperous Westchester town.  It was a warm night, and of course I was wearing a wool suit - summerweight, but wool nonetheless.  Our show was its usual big fun, this night in particular, because the front of the stage was lined with about a hundred 11 year old girls, squealing, bopping and generally having a ball, shouting, "Yeah, bay-bee," ala Austin Powers, who was apparently someone I reminded them of.  I remember turning several times during the performance to my erstwhile guitarist (I'll call him Neil Posner), to ask how much longer we were scheduled to play.  This is not my usual bit, but it was a hot night, and after all the hospitals and corned beef, not to mention thousands of unsatisfying cigarettes, I was tired and cranky and eager to go home.  When we hit "Woo Woo Train" I was more than ready.  But, lo and behold!  Offstage, I was in a crush of pre-adolescent girls, giggling and autograph hunting. Some were even in the market for a CD, or a poster or a tee shirt.  This was actually fun!
 
It was then that I cadged what would turn out to be my ultimate cigarette.  A guy from the acapella group that opened for us was passing by, and I asked him could he stake me to a smoke, which he graciously produced and lit.  I took a long, cheeksucking drag, and, like most of the cigarettes I've smoked in my life, it didn't taste all that good.  Now another guy materialized two inches in front of my face, a guy I'd seen once or twice before at shows, and started regaling me with the story of how his girlfriend had just left him for another guy, yada yada, when - all of a sudden, I'm drenched, nauseated, hot, cold, dizzy, I really don't want to be there and, oh yeah, there's this cable between my shoulder blades and it's twisting tighter and tighter.  I'm sure that under my plentiful makeup I'm green, and it's not with envy.
Whether it was one corned beef sangwich too many, or a thousand Camel Lights in my courtyard, or the sundry stresses of being long distance nurse to a junkie, or father to a suffering daughter, or being overdressed for the weather, or having a dickweed in my face singing me his sad song, I knew in very short order that, whatever the reason, I was having a bonafide heart attack.  There was a very feisty flounder flapping around inside my chest, kinda "Topsy - Part 2" minus the groove.

I must have radiated it, because in an instant, my friends were scrambling in all directions: to the EMTs who were on duty just outside the fence, to the phone, for a chair, to my car, or just running around in circles like my mother/girlfriend, Little Filomena, rubbing my back and shouting, "Ay Papi, ay Papi!" In two minutes time, I was on a stretcher in an ambulance on my way to Northern Westchester Hospital in Mount Kisco.  (TO BE CONTINUED)

"Hey, you!  (Bobbita bobbita bobbita bomp!) Come on out here on the floor!  (Wah-yoo-day) Let's rock some more!  (Wah-yoo-day) Come on out here on the floor!  (Wah-yoo-day) Let's rock some more! (Wah-yoo-day) Cause if you're rockin' all night long, (Whup whup whoa-oh) You may be Little Isidore!" (with apologies to Jackie Wilson and The Moonglows.)
I thought it might be fun to organize a CONTEST - not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for the lexiconically challenged.  Back on my Band Description Page on MySpace is an exercise in verbosity and self-indulgence nonpariel, entitled "A PLETHORA OF ADJECTIVES."  The rules of the contest are deceptively simple: Count the adjectives in the piece and e-mail your entry, with name, address, phone , shirt size and return email address to littleisidore@gmail.com.  Remember, adverbs do not count!
Winners will receive a spanking-new tee shirt, designed by the little guy himself - jet black with a bright yellow silhouette of dancing Little Isidore with the message LITTLE ISIDORE LOVES YOU SO chasing around the border - perfect for those casual get-togethers, knocked out sock hops or mellow house parties. 
And remember - the decision of the judges is final - so enter as often as you like!  After all, how many adjectives could there possibly be?  I'll tell you how many.  A plethora.  How many is that?  Well, safe to say it's more than a dirth.

Kids - Just a brief note to say you've simply got to see the new smash film, "Man on Wire," the story of the highwire artist Phillipe Petit and his mind-boggling 1974 caper which culminated in his stringing a cable between the towers of The World Trade Center and subsequently putting on a forty-five minute show for all eternity.  My somewhat less Catholic avatar, singer-songwriter David Forman, appears as his sapid self, blithely nudging the story along, and even croaking out a little snippet of his own 1974 classic, "Dream of a Child."  Even if he weren't in it, it's an experience you've got to have.  Congratulations to director James Marsh on a delightful, suspenseful and hilarious film.  I hope it wins an Oscar!  Wow!