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 My son Mike Blakely, the western novelist, is also a singer-songwriter and performs with a couple of other cowboy types, playing and singing Old West ballads and foot-stompin' tunes from the last century. They are now touring performers, of all places, in Italy, where there is a new-found appreciation for this type of American music. Maybe it's not so strange. Music has always been big in Italy. That's why so many operas are sung in that tongue. It's also easy to understand once you catch a few basic phrases. Refrigerator, for instance, is "Ice-a-boxa;" to beg one's pardon is "Skooze-a-me;" and the initials A.M.B. on the bow of Italian warships stands for "Atsa-My-Boata." I've seen fighters, baseball players, merchants, singers, race car drivers, just about every profession under the stars represented by Italians but one — I've never seen or heard of an Italian bull rider. Have you ever heard of a rodeo announcer say, "Outta chute number seven on a bull named 'You Betcha You Lifa' is Angelo Scarponi." No sir, those sons of Italy select a more suitable trade like opera. The only horns you see there are usually on the head of some female who is singing and sobbing at the top of her voice at an overweight guy in a tuxedo. I told Mike he should adopt an Italian name for the tour, maybe a single name like Miguelito. Valentino wasa great lover because of a great-sounding name; Caruso was a great opera singer because it sounded right. Who would consider a name like Clem Cadiddlehopper as a lover or Englebert Whatshisdink as a singer? Possibly Roseanne, but then she probably thinks the leaning tower of Pisa is straight and the rest of the world is cockeyed. The saddest Italian story I've heard was the case, about 20 years ago, of the Italian-American cardinal, Giovanni Scicola, who was told to forget his ambitions to head the Catholic Church in Rome. Surveys indicated that he could not command respect with a name like Pope Scicola. Anyway, I hope the tour goes well and Miguelito has better luck than the wealthy Italian immigrant who lost his wife in Neiman-Marcus. Knowing that she could reduce his fortune to that of an economy pizza if left to the care of American Express, he asked a busy clerk where to find the women's department. The clerk jerked his head and eyes upwards and replied, "Escalator." He replied, "Mista, I'm a no can escalator. I'm a gotta know now!" |
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