Catacosmesis (kat-a-kos-mees’-is): Ordering words from greatest to least in dignity, or in correct order of time.
“One, and a two, and a three.” It was driving me crazy. We did the “count up” before every song. We were the “Flying Welks” a Lawrence Welk tribute band. I played the keystone instrument: the accordion. We did mostly polka music, playing a Lawrence Welk playlist. We play “Who Stole the Kishka?” at least 200 times per year. The “champagne” bubbles float across the stage, popping in my eyes and challenging me to keep pumping my accordion and sing.
Don’t get me wrong. I had some really fun times with the Flying Welks version of the Lennon Sisters and would “dance” to Box Car Willie with them, making train whistle sounds under the covers. Also, we would play “I am the magnet, you are the steel” in my dressing room, slithering across the floor. It was damn fun, but not enough fun to keep me from quitting the Flying Welks. The Lennon Sisters cried. Our boss, Crosswind Bob, wished me well, while he fingered his 12-inch stiletto. I ignored him and thought about my new life.
I had founded a four-person rock band I named “The Cashmere Underground.” I had written an edgy song about my addiction to “Funions.” Funions are fake salted onion rings that compete with potato chips in the snack food market. My addiction began when I couldn’t keep my hand out of the bag—once my hand was in, I’d clutch a handful of Funions, and then, stuff them in my mouth, sometimes nearly choking. Two years ago, I almost died—I went on a three day Funion binge and woke up in the hospital with Funions broken in half and stuck in my nose and ears. I had temporarily lost my hearing and could barely breathe. I was saved by emergency surgery.
But that’s all behind me now. I’ve been Funion-free for one-year. I’ve been on “Cheese Doodles” for about six weeks. They are safe because the orange stain on my fingertips is a beacon to my girlfriend. She immediately grabs the Cheetos bag and cuts me off when my fingertips turn too orange. With her timely intervention, Cheetos addiction will never strike me. Thank God for Folly—my girlfriend. Not only does she care for me, but she cares for my accordion. She stores it in temperature-controlled closet, wipes it down with a cashmere cloth, and sprays the keys with WD-40 once a week.
Currently, I am learning to play “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Hotel California” on my accordion. Also, I am composing a new song tentatively titled “Yellow Accordion.”
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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