Recently, a sign was put up between the alley of the Town Hall and the Real Estate office next door. The Sign read: "Spooner’s Lane". Many residents were confused as to the significance of this sign as: 1) The Town Hall could do better things with its money and 2) nobody seems to know what the heck it means... or say they don’t. Long-time inhabitants of Clinton contend that "Spooner" is another word for lover, thus "Spooner’s Lane" is the equivalent to Lover’s Lane, (though no one has been seen playing sucky-face in the dark, damp expanse...I hope.)
This, of course is not the real explanation: everyone in Clinton knows that. They just won’t admit it. Long ago, young musicians, myself included, would perform in the alley to earn extra bucks. All the wonderful subjects of The Radar would come and listen to our glorious playing. We had acquired a fair bit of money and decided to have a night concert, so we approached the Town Council. The entire Council told us that was not a good idea, in fact it was a bad idea, no it was a terribly bad idea, no as I recall the correct words were: "You stupid pansies! What kind of crap are you trying to pull here? You can take your *#@ *&$ @#& and don’t forget to *!@$ %$#& *@# @!#........................!!!!!"
After cleaning out their mouths with soap and harassing them with words like potty-mouth, we left and decided to find out what goes on in that alley after dark.
That was the worst mistake we ever made, no it was the most incredibly stupid thing that our simple human minds could come up with.
The Horror of it all!
The Torture!
The Ear-Shattering Noise!
The Howling!
The Horror!
The Horror!
As we approached the alley that fateful night, looking both ways before crossing the street, (our good buddy was run down man), we could hear screams, louder and louder. We stood in front of the Real Estate office for a long time... listening, listening, afraid to move around the corner to see the mother of those hideous sounds. What were they doing? Burning small children and eating their brains like poached egg? Preparing precious pets for sacrifice? Barbecuing big brown bears, blue bulls and beautiful baboons blowing bubbles biking backwards? (Good alliteration eh?-I didn’t make it up) Conducting genetic experiments in order to breed a carrot and a platypus? Scraping fingernails down a blackboard? Scraping the tarter off some guy’s teeth making thousands of Muskockas starve from unemployment? We had to do something. We couldn’t bear it anymore. With one, two, three, we turned the corner to observe the activities and.....................................
SHOCK! With that sight, we fell to the ground in agony; our tender ears ringing with sounds of discords. The snapping and snapping and snapping and clickity clickity and clacking and the singing Ohhhhhh the SINGING! It couldn’t be endured by anyone with an ounce of musical recognition. There...in the alley.. was... was.. was....
The Wesley-Willis Choir and the Town Council singing old campfire tunes and snapping...
S P O O N S !!!
NO recognisable song could be heard. All were singing, but not together. A large blue creature was also seen there shouting "Spoon! Spoon!" We... had... to ... resist, but the attraction of the spoons was too great: they were so round and shiny and the clicking is very musical, we only listen to the beat anyways, who cares about the melody? NO! We had to get out... had to reach the street... had to. I crawled on my belly, like a wounded mouse fleeing from the talons of an eagle and just when I thought it was hopeless, I was out.
A hand reached for me - I made it! It was my buddy Elaine Tin-ear. She played the drums in our group, (the name’s no lie). She was able to withstand the gaudy noise. She soon pulled out Gino Trumpetto and Tony Tubano, but ALAS! (no not a lass, but as in tragedy), Freda Flutist was swallowed. Those flute players have no shame. We could see her tappin’ away to "I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts, (di dilly di)", or maybe it was the "Hallelujah Chorus".
We marched home two-by-two, (the buddy system works,) and played our instruments for two days to drown the terrible ruckus from our minds forever and ever. We never went back but one good thing that rose from the darkness of the experience was the answer to the age-old question: "Fork or Spoon?"
We all use forks for our soup and the Spooners are immortalised.
Clara Net
