Monthly Archives: December 2017

Welcome to the Boomtown

Welcome, welcome to the boomtown
All that money makes such a succulent sound
Welcome to the boomtown
            –  David and David, “Welcome to the Boomtown” (1986)

The Czar was exuberant.  He was in his favorite place, the Winter Palace on the Florida shore.  How he loved the giant, gilded ballroom, the gold-plated sinks, and the purloined coat of arms he modified by covering the Latin word for “integrity” with the word “Trump.”  The Winter Palace was warm, inviting, and gleaming with gold from every angle, in accordance with the Czar’s demand for an auriferous environment.   It was so unlike the official residence; that place is a real dump.  No wonder the exotic Czarina avoided it for months while Little Lord Barron finished school.  She’s about Madison Avenue, not Madison’s china.  Then there is the swamp surrounding the official residence, teaming with suspect life-forms like politicians, bureaucrats, hangers-on and leakers.  How he loathed them, even while he grinned and preened with them to celebrate a victory.  Let them bask in his sun-like presence.  Why not?   Reptiles need to bask in the sun.  The Czar had done as much as he could to buffer himself from the swamp creatures, even bringing family members into his new government.  His daughter, the Czarette, has an office just off the throne room.  He appointed her husband Minister of Miscellany.


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‘Twas the Drink before Christmas

(With Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
By Mike Tully

‘Twas the drink before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was sober, including the mouse;
When ballots were cast by the voters with care,
The poor folks elected a crass billionaire;
As Midwestern voters lay snug in their bed
American Democrats wished they were dead;
And Mama in her stupor and me in my cups,
The world has gone crazy and now downs are ups,
When out on the Twitter arose such a babble,
The Billionaire Blondie was rousing the rabble.

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Trumpelstiltskin

The Elephant was morose.  His followers did not love him.  True, they helped him control two of the Great Circus’ three rings, but the grandest ring of all eluded him.  “How I dream of living in the Gilded Palace in the Center Ring!” he said.  The Gilded Palace was the residence of the Circus Master.  The Elephant could live in the Gilded Palace if his followers would place him there, but his followers did not love him and their friends did not trust him.  “I could live in the Gilded Palace if only my followers and their friends loved me,” said the Elephant.

Suddenly, in a cloud of sulfur and expensive cologne, there appeared a strange, impish creature with hair like a haystack, a pricey suit that fit him like burlap stuffed with cotton, and a long, red tie that lapped against his shoes.  “You want your followers to love you, do you?” asked the straw-haired Imp.  “I can make them love you, as well as their friends.  So many will love you that you will live in the Gilded Palace forever!”

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The Whiffenpoof Song

(I first wrote this column on December 7, 2003 and have reprised it annually on Pearl Harbor Day to commemorate the Greatest Generation and the late Joe Tully, my Father.  – Mike Tully)

The choir assembled when Hell stormed the Lord’s Day on December 7th, 1941.  It reconvenes every annual remembrance of that first gathering.  Every year the choir grows.  Those who join these days are gray, bent, proud and too frequently forgotten.  But their voices, when mingled with those more ancient, reach the stars.  We raise our glasses to the ones who didn’t make it through on this day, and they silently return our toast.  Silently, that is, but for the echoes of an anthem of the Greatest Generation.

From the tables down at Mory’s, to the place where Louie dwells,
To the dear old Temple bar we love so well.

I hear it on this day…


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