ART FOR ART'S SAKE
FROM THE CITY
That Always Sweeps BY ART KUMBALEK
I
’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, as you bid adieu to the April edition of the Shepherd’s print monthly via this last page, I gosh darn hope you haven’t forgotten to become a member of the “Friends of the Shepherd Express.” I’m coming up on 35-years’ service to this outfit, and without this free and independent platform, cripes, I’ve got nowheres to go. So let’s get friendly, here: shepherdexpress.com/support and help maintain a roof over Art’s head, thank you kindly. Anyways, I hear the springtime is here to stay. We’ll see about that. I’ll tell you’s, mine own two personal signs that spring is truly here are when the first member of the Brewers’ mound crew blows out his soupbone and parks his butt on the DL for the rest of the season/career, and when I blow off writing my expected essay to appear right around Easter Sunday because more pressing for me than slapping a boatload of palaver together is hooking up with the guys and gals (socially distanced these days, ’natch) over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow, and yesterday may gosh darn well be today. So come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going. Julius: Any you’s guys know if any local radio stations play 24-hour continuous Easter music this time of year? Ernie: Good focking question ’cause I believe Easter ought to be a way bigger holiday than Christmas. What’s such the big deal with Christmas? For christ sakes, a lot of really important guys get born all the time, but how many guys actually rise from the dead? Now that’s something to write home about, ain’a?
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Little Jimmy Iodine: Jeez, off the top of my head, I can only think of two other guys who got up from the dead—Richard Nixon in 1968 and that John Travolta actor after he made the “Pulp whatcha-call-it.” Emil: Easter will never be bigger than the Christmas because every year they dick with the goddamn date it’s supposed to be on. Is that because Easter comes in spring and the Pope likes to check the weather forecast in the Farmers’ Almanac first before he chooses the exact date to make sure the people have a nice day for their Easter parade? Julius: You talk like a sausage, Emil. Emil: Baloney. Herbie: You focking bunch of nitwits. We go through this every year. How many times I got to tell you’s the exact date when Christ became resurrected has nothing to do when Easter comes. Easter comes the first Sunday after the full moon, also known as the paschal moon that comes after the vernal equinox. Now, if the paschal moon—deduced from a system of golden numbers and epacts and does not necessarily coincide with the astronomical full moon—occurs on a Sunday, Easter day is the succeeding Sunday. Thus, unless you’re a focking idiot, you know that Easter can fall anywheres between March 22 and April 25. Ray: Thank you, Mr. Bri-focking-tannica. What the fock, I never heard Sister talk meshuggah like that when she explained the Easter to us. But I tell you, when it comes to religion and they try to figure a date by using B.S. like full moons, equinoxes and golden numbers, it makes a guy feel like instead of going to the Pick ’N Pocket for the Easter ham, he ought
to go buy a whole pig somewheres and slaughter it right there on his front lawn for the sacrifice. And maybe a couple of goats to boot. Little Jimmy: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister. Art: Hey gents, what do you know, what do you hear. Emil: I hear Easter falls on a Sunday this year. (Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
