Beholde A Micro-Epic Tale of Olde — Updated for Those Who Have Ears.
In a dream it began— not in the mind of one, but many held the vision taking shape as it had in ancient times. The Kingdom once Grande, now simply Grand, because when one was high as a kite, it resembled a grand piano from above. Not unfittingly either, what with Davenport Road and Bloor subtending the environs so elegantly.
But the land called out to be renewed, and those keen enough to hear it sallied forth in its good name. The Kingdom of Yorkville, haunt to Sir Gordon of Lightfoot, Paupers rich and poor and hark — Ladies Joni and Judy, was the stuff of legend. These words themselves slip through loose lips like ships, song echoing in the Great Halls, and all down the byways and fly-by-nightways.
Hearing the Royal Trumpets blow again, from far-flung and wide they hitchhiked, albeit some arriving also in school buses, Volkswagen minivans, and even riding on magic carpets.
The Riverboat, The Purple Onion, ye ancient Night Owl and The Penny Farthing, threw open their gates and the streets were lined with Acapulco Gold and all manner of edibles, with the Keys given to the deserving, the undeserving and the simply underserved.
In those days, the abodes were populated by Giants: Neil the Younger, Simon & his squire Garfunkel, Buddy Guy, and Tim Buckley to drop a few names in this illustrious company. Heralds of the like of Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan told their tales, the wailing guitars and whining nasal passages of minstrels awandering while awondering.
Earls, Marquises, Barons also joined the Host in support of the enterprise. Notables such as Wilson Pickett, fencer, not-too-tiny Tina Turner, Johnny Lee Hookah, Spam-cooked Canned Heat, LedByTheNose Zeppelin, Who Muddyed the Waters?, Frank Zapp’dYa, Chuck Berry Pie, The Who???, Ye Now-UnGrateful Dead, and the Animals of all sorts made their presence known, taking their rightful places in the parade.
And the King himself? If it was B.B. the Elder, he made off to a distant country blues festival with what maids he could muster. Until his highly-unlikely return to the Top 40, Good Order was kept by the Sherriff of Yorkville, Sir Mitchell of Gold, who also served as Regent, Royal Pharmacist and the local Constabulary.
Just down the Royal Road to Perdition was Rochdale, a Mecca for those in Search of the Chord that was Lost, a dwelling place always subject to night-time raids by Narcs and other marauding miscreants.
We often had occasion to drop in for a little sampling there ourselves, forgoing the floors that were in thrall to the Angels of Hell with their belching snorting carpet-soiling Harley Pigs and their overweening, overpricing ways.
Meanwhile, amid much muttering and swearing of oaths, each valiant Knight, Maid and crossdresser crossed his or her mail-shrouded bodice however said raiment be arrayed, vowing to ‘seek out, locate and find all good Countrymen and Countrywomen of this Goode Realm and not desist until they have thus been sought out, located and found!’
The Kingdom gathered unto itself including those who had inhabited and cohabitated in the locale, many from faraway, farm-away and thereabouts lands who should have so done had they been given a snared rabbit’s chance to do so, and those wayward souls who had simply got into the wrong minivan at the right time, possibly to evade the Narcs.
But after a time of celebration — yea, and true innocence — the skies drew dark, signaling the coming of Militarists, Ultra Conservatives, Actuarial Accountants, and fledgling Trumpers, even, in the gloomiest of ignoble, ignominious futures prognosticated by Optimists and Weathermen alike.
Now, the Knights of Battles Olde were convened, mincing words, wringing their mailed fists flamboyantly yet ineffectually and bandying about Great Slogans of how the Kingdom was to be renewed after the approaching Dark Age.
And they held forth that a Voice was lacking, one through which to spread the Goode News for posterity until its Good Vibes might alight again on the ears of those who have them, ones without those sporting ugly pointed heads.
They beseeched the Sherriff to put forth such a one and he therewith put his treasury where his mouth was as Royal Publisher, and began to search for that which could be conveyed through the hands of Lord Ulysses, Lady Virginia and other luminaries well versed in the secrets of Yorkville lore and the written word, rendering the sanctity of the unutterable for all eyes to see.
And when the time was just right, The Village of Yorkville Voice spilled forth like gleaming white unicorn stallions racing to Valhalla, calling forth The Kingdom once more in Crystal Clear Dolby Sound.
Together, the Armies of Stout Heart marched resolutely over Rosehill and Rosedale to the Sacred Place by the waters known to the informed and the very odd Postal Worker as M4R 1G4.
The Jesters, the Troubadours, the Players and Naysayers alike began rejoicing and vouchsafing their joy at the Return from Diaspora to the Great Grand Piano of the Kingdom of Yorkville. The noise was overwhelming, and even the Cops joined in the Outpouring of Song, for according to available CCTV there was no chicanery to be had, recoded or otherwise investigated anywhere within a Stoner’s Throw.
For once this Great Voice has resounded around the World (which is therefore probably not flat, despite indications in some backwater quarters), it can never be silenced again.
Let us then bow our heads together, heroes and rascals, slings at our sides, helmets in hand, shields beaten into silver platters with similar accompanying spoons for those both unwashed and others already scrubbed by the stars within an inch of their somewhat valuable yet feeble, previously-soiled lives.
And give thanks.