The Best Jazz Christmas Record You've Never Heard

One day, a little over 20 years ago, my wife and I were riding in a car with another couple, Mitch and Koekje Dutton. This was well into the Christmas season. Koekje, in her single days, was Koekje Schwekendiek, and on this particular day she had received a tape from her brother Donny Schwekendiek, who was living in San Francisco and eking out a living playing jazz piano.

The tape she had received was a recording of Donny and two other guys playing Christmas music. She asked if we'd like to hear the tape.

OK...what were we going to say? "No"? But we had that look on our face. Koekje looked at us with complete sympathy, scrunched up her face and said "Yeah, I know...I didn't know what to expect either. But it's actually really good."

20 years on, that seems like an even greater understatement now than it did at the time.

"Christmas With The Believers" turned out to be the best jazz Christmas music I had ever heard, and that's still the case today. I'll take the imaginative arrangements, chops, tight playing, and sense of swing on this recording over anything I've heard by the legends in this field.

We've had a Christmas party each year for more years than I care to admit. We always kick the party off with this recording before segueing into more traditional fare. Guests hearing it for the first time always ask two questions: 1) "Who is that?" and 2)"Where can I get a copy?"

It's that good.

But you don't have to take my word for it; there's a free download link at the bottom of this post.

Last year I tracked Donny Schwekendiek down to ask for permission to share the recording, and to get a little background on The Believers. This is what he had to say:

here're a few facts about the tape and what i'm up to these days:

the trio was rounded out with neal heidler on the bass and barry puhlovski on the drums. unfortunately, i've been out of touch with both of them for well over ten years - i'll have to get on that... i'm pretty sure we formed the group in '86 - i know the recording was in the fall of that year. at the time i thought it was a really original idea but i've since found christmas jazz coming out of the woodwork - and that's a GOOD thing. we played in the san francisco bay area with our main gigs being every fri @ Dizzy's (with all the old jazz buffs sitting around the piano - which served as their bar counter - urging us on with well-timed grunts and "yeahs" - tom, the proprietor of a used record shop, harry, who had been in NY in the fifties and seen all the jazz greats in person and john, a dj on a local jazz radio station who took a liking to us and played some of the songs on KCSM) and hosts of the after hours jam session at Pearl's every fri & sat (which afforded us the chance to sometimes play with the real greats: Jaco Pastorius, Lew Tabakin, Teddy Edwards, Ernie Andrews, John Hicks, Ray Drummond and Eddie Blackwell among others - and this gig was straight out of the tradition ... hours:1:30am - 5:30am place:basement of a chinese restaurant on a side street in china town sop:serving alcohol in paper cups after 2am and looking out for the cops). the group necessarily disbanded with my departure to japan in 3/87 and the rest is (that's right) history.

these days i live and work in nagoya, japan. i have a trio, Triangle (still no cd), playing a mixture of originals and standards. also i play in a jazz-rock quintet, drunken fish, featuring originals by myself and the guitarist, Norio Watanabe. of course i also do plenty of backing singers and the like. another big gig these days is teaching jazz piano at the nagoya univ. of the arts. as i think you know, i have a homepage (donny-jazz.com). unfortunately it's almost completely in japanese but there are plenty of photos.

well i guess that's long winded enough. again, please feel free to put some of the music on your blog.

happy holidays,
donny

I have transferred the original cassette (which I received from Koekje) to CD, and ripped the resulting CD to MP3 at 320Kps. Since the original is a cassette, there is some tape hiss...but not much. Enjoy! Share with friends by pointing them to this blog post or forwarding the download link. And if you like it as much as I think you will, drop a note of appreciation to Donny via his web site.

Download link: http://www.mediafire.com/?hxmmzuhz3dv

*note: this is a new url - the previous upload had errors affecting 2 of the songs.

Littlest Pet Shop Dating Game

OK, I'm not proud of it. I am responsible for posting this video on YouTube.

My daughter received a Flip video camera for Christmas, and she's been driving us nuts making us watch these, well... *unwatchable* videos that she makes with her Littlest Pet Shop set. Apparently there's an entire subculture of these videos being produced by the ankle-biter set.

Long story short...I promised to help her create one to upload to YouTube when she was out of school for Presidents' Day, and I was off work because, frankly, I'm not working at the moment.

My intention was to demonstrate that you could make a more *watchable* video by writing a script in advance, actually focusing the lens on characters and backdrops, and have them doing something other than yelling at each other and beating each other up.

So, here it is for your amusement. Or not.

Haunting the Mailbox

I have a yellowed clipping from the New York Times, easily more that 10 years old by now, describing celebrity ghost tours available in Manhattan. Many of those alleged to be dwelling ethereally in the Big Apple are phantasms of famous figures for whom New York was merely a stopping point on the way to bigger and better things elsewhere.

What made the article “clip-worthy” was how oddly it struck me. Why would ghosts of those who found their greatest fame or fortune elsewhere choose to haunt sites where they lived only briefly – sites where they neither died nor experienced profound life events?

Setting aside arguments about whether ghosts are even real, the idea of being psychically tethered to unexpected places has a reality of its own. For example, if I were to pass away today, those seeking to commune with my disembodied spirit might improve their chances by looking to a mailbox in front of a house where I haven’t lived for thirty years.

Even now, when I dream of being in a house it is nearly always this house. Never mind that I have had some 11 other addresses and two marriages in the ensuing years (not counting a P.O. box when I was in college, living in a dorm room.) It matters not. When I dream that I am in a house, I am once again at this simple single-storey wood and brick home on a rural two-acre lot.

But more often when I dream, I find myself not in the house at all, but at the mailbox.

In real life, there was nothing special about the mailbox that I recall. Like most mailboxes, it sat at the end of the driveway, just beyond a shallow ditch, a few feet from where my siblings and I caught the school bus each morning. Our mailing address on this rural route was Rt. 1, Box 13-B, Albany, Georgia. The “13-B” was clearly advertised on the box itself with characters printed black-on-gold on one side of metallic stick-on squares.

In my conscious memory, I am at a loss to recall any event which might explain why this mailbox would be the setting for my most commonly recurring dream.

I’m certain that I received mail in this mailbox on occasion, but nothing out of the ordinary. In the days before email and inexpensive long-distance calling, the US Mail was my only means of communicating with friends who lived out of town. But frankly, I didn’t write or receive many letters. The only deliveries that I remember eagerly anticipating were record catalogs, and the records that I ordered from them. My severely limited grass-cutting income only allowed me to place these orders on occasion, so this was hardly the stuff of dreams. And yet… so often, in my dreams, there I am.

The dream is always the same.

I am in front of the mailbox, standing. I open the lid, lean down to peer inside and find that the box is stuffed with items addressed to me, many of them packages in cardboard boxes or padded envelopes. There are letters, too, hand-addressed to illustrate that they are personal missives, not junk mail. Typically, there is more mail than I can comfortably carry without restacking the items as I pull them out.

I, or my dream-self, always find the experience both exciting and gratifying.

What does it all mean?

I’m not one who thinks that all dreams have meanings. But I believe that some of them do. Because I have this dream so often I believe it’s one that is meant to deliver a message, though exactly what the message is has escaped me to this point.

Maybe I haunt the mailbox because I’m still expecting a particular item that hasn’t arrived, in spite of all the good things that have come my way. In which case, you and your Ouija Board may find me patiently waiting there when I’ve passed on.

Or it may be that the meaning is something I won’t fully grasp until I’ve left this mortal coil.

Or perhaps the letters and packages represent the gift of days to come, to be opened and enjoyed one at a time. If that’s the case, one day I’ll probably find the dream mailbox empty, and I won’t awake.

What then? Hopefully, I won’t hang around for eternity like the ghosts of New York, checking and rechecking the mailbox, waiting for a postman that will never come. Instead, I hope that I’ll be smart enough to step over to the end of the driveway, where I’ll wait for the bus to take me back to school.

RE: Opportunity for Partnership

On 2/6/06, Mr. Bruce K. MISAMORE wrote:
Hello,

Hello to you, too, sir!

Compliment of the season!

Thank you! What season would that be? In the US it is February. What month is it in London? Perhaps you are referring to our "Valentine's Day" season? "President's Day" season? Ah, but of course...you are referring to sweeps month for our broadcast networks. Hallmark is missing out on a greeting card opportunity!

I was reading through your profile on the internet and found it interesting. Be so kind to contact me at your earliest convenient for a possible business deal.

Wow! Where is my profile on the internet? I hope it shows my good side. Please send me the url so that I may Photoshop my profile to make it as pleasing as possible to swell "possible business deal offerers" such as yourself. Wouldn't it be just my luck if the day they made internet profiles I had a big pimple on my forehead!

I am still in London and do not intend to return to Russia soon for security reasons. Hence I am not ready to sacrifice my life for Russia's Political purposes.

Well, gosh! I am in complete solidarity with you on this, my brother! I, too, am not ready to sacrifice my life for Russia's Political purposes, especially when "Political" is capitalized. I thought they didn't like capitalism in Russia. Now I am a little Confused with a capital "c." It is lucky for you that you are in London if you have security concerns about Russia, though. There is a man there who can help you. His name is James Bond, and he has been to Russia before, and knows how to be secure. He is probably in the phone book. If not, I'm pretty sure his number is 007.

If you are not familiar with my profile, please take a moment of your very busy schedules to read about me on the internet and send your response to bruce_misamore@bk.ru or better still end at fax at: +44 (0) 7005 804 486.

My "very busy schedules"? How busy I must be, indeed, if I have more than one schedule!

Also, I have noted that your email is @bk.ru. Is that a Burger King? Is that a good place to hide when people in your home country want to discuss tax evasion with you? Did you ever hear the joke about how Burger King got Dairy Queen pregnant? (Hint: it has something to do with not wrapping a whopper.) I'm not sure how your skill set, coming from the oil and gas industry, qualifies you for a job at Burger King. Did you lie on your resume? Come to think of it, I guess if you have a pulse you are qualified to work at Burger King. Or perhaps you also have experience drilling for vegetable oil?

But seriously...My, my! You are one famous dude! I was not familiar with your business oeuvre until I "googled" you (without even kissing you first!) Ha-ha! I made a joke. "Google" is a search engine, which is a type of engine that can run without oil and gas, so you might not be interested. Seems the Russian government would like to talk to you about taxes, and that's "Putin" it mildly. Ha-ha! I made another joke. All of this joking is making my side hurt. But it's probably nothing to be concerned about. If you saw my profile on the internet, you probably already know that I try to be funny sometimes. Ditto if my profile was just a picture.

So...you are with YUKOS? Didn't you guys used to make cars? If so, you might not want to come to the US for security purposes, either. There are some people here who bought your cars who would also like to talk to you, if they are not already dead from embarrassment. Which reminds me: I once saw a YUKO stranded on the road because it had gotten stuck on a discarded piece of chewing gum. How sad is that? Do they have lots of YUKOS cars in Singapore? I know that they have a law against chewing gum in that country, so it kind of makes sense. Okay, I have one more YUKOS joke: Why did they engineer the rear defrost so well on all of the YUKOS? So owners could keep their hands warm when they pushed it in the wintertime! Ouch! My side, again...

I'm still not sure what kind of "partnership opportunity" you have to offer which would be appropriate based on my profile (which you saw on the internet.) Is this a business opportunity? Or are you looking for a personal "partnership"?

If it is the latter, I should tell you up front that I am currently involved with someone, which could be a stumbling block. And I'm not gay, which could be an even greater stumbling block. But, you know...never say never, right? Do you still have the money that you "allegedly" took? You can tell me - how can we have a personal partnership if you won't trust me with this kind of information? Is it many millions of dollars? Is Russia a community property state? How about London? If you still have lots of money and are interested in starting a new life with me in, say, California, then we may be able to work something out. But I will not sign a pre-nup. Relationships should be about true love and trust! Which reminds me - I hope you did not also send this email to Anna Nicole Smith. She cannot be trusted. Also, she has herpes.

If you have a business partnership in mind, then forget what I said about a personal partnership. I was kidding! I would never be gay, not even for my half of your money. (NOTE: If this IS about a personal partnership, but you continued reading and saw the sentence above, please ignore it. I only put that in there to keep from being emotionally hurt if you are NOT interested in a personal partnership.)

Where was I? Oh yes. A business opportunity. Would this involve me putting up some of my own money? Currently I only have what's in the change tray, but I get paid on the 15th. I don't know much about oil and gas other than what I put in my car. Still, I could probably be useful in some way. Since I'm a writer, I could probably proof-read your emails to avoid sending out typo-ridden disasters like the one to which I am currently responding. Also, could I pick my own title? I kind of like "Lord of the Dance," but since that's already taken, maybe I could be the "Chief Financial Officer of the Dance." Or "Chairman, Industrial Choreography." As long as I'm not expected to do any actual dancing at corporate functions. Trust me, you'd rather see your parents making out.

Thank you for your time and attention.

No prob, bro! Mi time su time! But you grossly overestimate my attention span.

Warmest regards,

I never thought about it previously, but when it's winter, it's nice to say "warmest regards." Because, you know, it's cold outside, and you are wishing the person "warmth." But what about when it's July? Man, it would just be plain unthoughtful to wish someone "warmth" in July! If you were sending an email to someone in Libya or Dubai or Hell, that would be rude.

But I can see how, if I was Satan, then it would be clever to say "Warmest regards," because that would make people laugh, and they would say "Oh, that wacky Lucifer. What will the Great Deceiver say next?" Then, of course, when some of these same people got to hell, they could tell Satan in person that they thought it was funny when he wrote "warmest regards" at the end of his emails. And maybe he would say "I'm glad you liked it" before chucking them into the fiery furnace, where they would burn for all of eternity.

Which reminds me... I hope that if I go to hell, that they allow me to burn in the "no hair" section. Because, as bad as I'm sure burning flesh smells, have you ever smelled burning hair? It's the worst. But I may not be eligible, since I have hair. Unless someone shaves it all off quickly right after I die. I should put that in my will. Or, I could just always carry a razor with me, so if I started feeling really sick, I could start shaving off all of my hair just in case.

Man! I just thought of something. I'd really be screwed if I was killed in a plane crash, because you can't take razors in carry-on luggage. The best I could hope for would be to have all of my hair burned off in the ensuing fire as it engulfed the wreckage. Oops - better hope I don't crash at sea, because there goes that idea!!! Anyway, I'd rather go to heaven. They have a better benefit package, and hair is not an issue there. Unless it gets tangled in your harp.

I seem to have gotten off topic.

In summer months, I think the new standard should be "Coolest Regards." In fact, because "cool" can also mean "neat," I think we should use it all of the time, even in winter. In summer, it could have a dual meaning. But in winter, it would just mean "neatest regards, Daddio!" What do you think? Let's start a new fad that will one day work its way into popular vocabulary!

Mr. Bruce K. MISAMORE,
Chief Financial Officer,
YUKOS Oil & Gas Co., Russia.
London Contact:
Tel #: +44 (0) 7040 106 187
Fax #: +44 (0) 7005 804 486.

Coolest Regards,
Bill "The Man Who Came Up With Coolest Regards" Davis
address and phone withheld by request

The Truth is Complicated, Virginia

Dear Graham Negative –

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus, because if he was real, rich kids wouldn’t get better presents from him than poor kids. It seems like they have a point – my family is poor, but I have been very virtuous my entire life. The kids on the other side of town who come from rich families always get better gifts, even though they are not at all kind. Since the toys are made by elves rather than purchased with money, this inequity doesn’t make sense at all.

Papa says “If you see it in Segues and Non Sequiturs, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon
115 West Ninety-fifth Street

Yes, Virgina, there is a Santa Claus. Your little friends are naïve. However, the truth about the apparent economic inequities associated with toy distribution to wealthy vs. poor households is complicated.

For many years Santa Claus refused to respond to inquiries about this issue, offering instead a terse “Ho, ho, ho!” or “Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Goodnight!” However, according to a spokesman for Santa Claus, the chorus of critics hammering away on the subject called for a more detailed response, which I received via fax, and which I am happy to share with you here.

It seems that the villain in this situation is The IRS.

For many years, gifts were distributed according to merit, rather than household income. Unfortunately, some unscrupulous individuals eventually hit upon the idea of using Santa Claus’s magnanimous and economically just gift-giving as a subterfuge to launder illicit (and untaxed) income.

For example, an individual reporting meager income and paying little or no tax would not normally own a summer home on Malibu Beach, unless they also had income they were not disclosing. Income tax evasion cases were frequently initiated to uncover the financial truth in these suspicious circumstances. However, attempts by IRS investigators to determine the source of funds used to purchase valuable real estate, private jets and luxury cars for these crooks often came to a dead end when investigating agents were confounded by a simple explanation offered up by the accused: “Santa gave it to me for Christmas.”

Although this explanation seemed unlikely, especially given that many of these individuals were known to be more naughty than nice, it was impossible to disprove. Santa’s gift-giving list and naughty/nice register were (at that time) afforded the same legal protections as attorney/client privilege and doctor/patient confidentiality. Further complicating matters was the fact that the United States had no extradition treaty with The North Pole, and Santa could not be compelled to testify in these cases, even as a hostile witness.

As a result cases were dropped, and tax cheats continued to live beyond their verifiable means.

What changed? This is where it gets murky. Meetings were held over a period of years, and a cooperative agreement was reached between Santa and the IRS.

According to Santa’s office, a non-disclosure agreement prevents them from providing details beyond these simple facts:

1) Santa now has access to the 1040 form filled out by every US taxpayer
2) Selection and distribution of toys is now based upon the reported income of adults living at each home
3) Each year, the IRS provides gift-giving guidelines to account for new toys and changes to the tax code.
4) Santa’s cooperation with the IRS is strictly voluntary.

As to why Santa would enter into voluntary cooperation with the IRS, the spokesperson had no comment. However, one employee told me off the record that Santa’s decision to cooperate coincided with the development of increasingly accurate surface to air missiles and an “accidentally leaked” Star Wars Missile Defense System memo which identified Santa’s Sleigh as a potentially hostile projectile. “He had a couple of near misses, which he interpreted as a warning. ‘There’s a missle out there with my name on it’ he told me once, after a few too many spiked egg-nogs.”

So, Virginia, take heart: Santa would love to give you gifts that are every bit as cool as the ones rich kids get; he just doesn’t want your parents to suffer through an audit.

Merry Christmas.

Origin of the Word "Photography" (Etymological Lie #1)

The word "photography" is derived from the French word "faux," the latin word "toga" and the greek word "graph."

Faux means "false" or "fake," because a photograph is a 2-dimensional representation of a person or thing, rather than an actual person or thing.

In the early days of photography, persons being photographed wore their best clothes, or "togs (from the latin "toga".)

Finally, the creation of a photograph involved "writing" (from the greek "graph") the image to a plate or to paper. So, literally, photograph comes from faux + tog + graph; to write a false image of a person in their best clothes.

Some etymologists who believe the word's origins lie elsewhere have used the argument that many early photos are actually of nudes, primarily women. Therefore, no "togs" were involved. However, this is easily explained by the fact that a "sexy" woman is often referred to as a "fox" or described as "foxy." This was originally a pun from the word "faux" to designate that the woman had posed (or would most likely be willing to pose) nude for a photograph. Thus, a code word used between gentlemen photographers to designate a nude model has passed into the popular vernacular as a term for any attractive woman.

Unused Police Novel Opener Ruined By One Bad Line

What the cops had in front of them was a nightmare – a baker’s dozen of a nightmare. Thirteen small-time thugs were piled in the alley, limbs bent at impossible angles. All of them were dead. All except one. And from the looks of him, he should’ve been dead, too. It was Eddie “Motormouth” Higgins, a minor hood from the Bronx whose street name came from his constant nervous chatter. Of course, Eddie was also a snitch, so it wouldn’t have been too surprising to find him in this condition if word got back to the wrong people.

But clearly this was something else. The other twelve weren’t rats, and they’d put in plenty of time in the big house rather than inform on their sorry associates. Whatever caused this carnage was either extremely personal or viciously evil – maybe both. No gunshots, no knife wounds. Just 12 guys beaten to death in an alley, and another one hanging on by a strand of spit.

Crime scene tape blocked the dead-end alley and, for now, anyway, the reporters were held at bay. A semi-circle of flat-foots surrounded Higgins, blocking him from their cameras.

He was breathing fast and shallow. Every now and then the breathing stopped for a second, he’d draw a deep breath, go wide-eyed and scream. Lungs punctured by the shards of broken ribs can have that effect on a man.

Earlier, when he was capable of forming a word, Higgins pleaded for help. He must have said it a dozen times, jut that single desperate word. The cops called for an ambulance, knowing all the while that Eddie would be seeing the coroner instead. Meanwhile, they waited for Shaughnessy.

Detective Shaughnessy was a third generation cop’s cop. Big, boxy, and loud. Everyone found him obnoxious, but he had earned respect (and no small level of fear) from everyone in his orbit. The Chief, crooks, the mob…even the suits in Internal Affairs, though they had reason to believe he took small payoffs from time to time, which he then donated to an orphanage.

Shaughnessy made his way past the throng of reporters, ignoring their shouted questions as he strutted into the alley. He stopped and bummed a light off of the first patrolman he came to, then headed straight for Higgins, rancid cigar smoke trailing behind him.

The other cops closed in behind him, absorbing his every word and action in the hope that some of his power might rub off on them.

Shaughnessy half smiled, his cigar cocked in one corner of his mouth. He pointed a finger down at Higgins and said “Did you do all of this?” The other cops laughed nervously. Shaughnessy continued. “I mean, usually snitches are the timid type. Did I say snitches? I mean ‘informers’. I never figured you were tough enough to take on 12 bad-asses.” There was more nervous laughter. Shaughnessy surveyed the mass of broken bodies in the alley. “OK, I see Bobby Rudolph over there. Maybe you could’ve taken him out, since he’s only got one arm.” The laughter was greater now, and the nervousness was gone. It was one of Shaughnessy’s gifts. He could walk into the bleakest situation and have everyone at ease within minutes.

He addressed Higgins again. “Hey, Buddy. I’m just messing with you. I gotta be honest with you. We got an ambulance on the way, but I don’t think you’re gonna make it.” Higgins continued to breathe hard, and he seemed to shake his head in acceptance of this fate. “You wanna tell me who did this?” Higgins shook his head again and began a frustrating attempt to communicate the perpetrator’s name. “J…Je….Jeh….J….” he stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, and tried again to no better end.

Shaughnessy spoke again, mocking the sound. “Jeh…Jeh…Jeh…? What are you trying to say, Eddie? Did Jehovah do this? Jean Harlow? Jesus? I’m a Christian man, Eddie…don’t tell me Jesus did this.”

The other cops roared with laughter. Higgins redoubled his efforts, nearly succeeding in raising his head off the pavement as he spat out the sounds again. “Je..Jeh…Jeh..Jeh….” Shaughnessy couldn’t resist a little more jocularity, given how the troops were responding. “Jack the Ripper? Judd Hirsch? Jemima from the syrup bottle?” The cops laughed harder as Shaughnessy reeled off each name. “Jack Sprat? Jar-Jar Binks?” He gave his best Cary Grant impersonation. “Was it Judy Judy Judy?"

The laughter was so loud now that the reporters were craning their necks, peering into the alley to see what could possibly be funny in this dreadful scenario . Shaughnessy had even cracked himself up. He pulled out a kerchief to dab a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. When the laughter petered out, he queried Higgins again, with a straight face, and no hint of mirth in his voice. “Who did this, Eddie?”

Higgins motioned feebly to Shaughnessy with his broken hand. It was obvious that Eddie was about to give up the ghost, and he wanted the big cop to come closer so he could attempt to whisper what he had been unable to say aloud.

“Aw, Eddie! Don’t make me get on my knees in this nasty alley! This is my best suit.” There was more laughter, but Shaughnessy complied and made his way down next to the dying man. “Who did this, Eddie?” he asked.

The cops were all silent as they watched, hoping to make out a name. With his lips only an inch or so away from Shaughnessy’s ear, Eddie whispered a name with his dying breath.

Shaughnessy leapt away like he’d been poked with a cattle prod. He stood up quickly, and the other cops watched as all semblance of color drained from his face.

Clearly this was bad. Very bad. Worse than bad. No one present had ever seen the big guy look so stunned. Stunned and terrified.

Then he puked.

“Sweet Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus” Shaughnessy said. “Sweet Mother of God.”

Finally, one of the cops got up the nerve to ask the obvious.

“What did he say? Who did this?”

For a brief moment, it seemed Shaughnessy might have the same problem spitting out the name that Higgins had faced earlier. But finally, leaning against the alley wall, he looked into the sea of blue uniforms and frightened faces, and with an expression that could have easily have collapsed into unrestrained bawling, he uttered the name that all dread, but none expect.

“Jubilation T. Cornpone.”