September 22, 2009 in City

Fair escape-ade merits ditty from your crooner in chief

By The Spokesman-Review
 

Phillip A. Paul is back in custody. Nobody got hurt.

There’s only one way to commemorate Sunday’s capture of the criminally insane killer who took a powder last week while on an Eastern State Hospital field trip to the Spokane County Interstate Fair.

Another parody song?

Absolutely.

Actually, while Paul was on the lam, a number of readers asked me to record a Paul-based song. Some even had the tunes picked out.

One reader, for example, wanted to meet me in a coffee shop so we could co-write a ditty based on the Doors classic, “Riders on the Storm.”

“Killer at the fairrrr …” he warbled in a voicemail message.

Not bad. A good friend asked for a remake of “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads. Another reader wanted “Low Rider” by War.

But with all the hype this month about the release of a video game and remastered CDs by The Beatles, I decided to take some light-hearted liberties with one of my favorite Fab Four road songs.

“The Ballad of John and Yoko.”

I spent Sunday scratching out the lyrics. Joe Brasch, my buddy and bandmate, tossed in some inspired lines and ideas. (Blame him for “now I share a mental ward with my doctors.”)

Then on Monday we converged on Cue11 studios in north Spokane. I crooned over a modified track while Brasch expertly handled the production. Dave Cebert, my amigo and Cue11 prez, added some spirited high harmonies.

I know. I have the best job in the world.

Feel free to sing along with the lyrics. Or drop by www.spokesman.com to hear the finished version of …

“The Ballad of Phil and the Fair”

Getting on a bus at the nuthouse.

Next stop the Interstate Fair.

While the guards are asleep,

Or maybe petting some sheep,

I up and wander right outta there.

Lord, they tell me I’m crazy.

Sometimes I almost agree.

But I know what they’re after.

They wanna medicate me.

Keepers quickly dial the asylum.

Afraid a killer like me could do harm.

But while I make my escape,

The boobs at Medical Lake,

Wait two hours to sound the alarm.

Lord, they tell me I’m crazy.

Sometimes I almost agree.

But I know what they’re after.

They wanna medicate me.

Getting outta Spokane is easy.

I con a stooge to gimme a ride.

With the clothes on my back,

And my bright red backpack,

I go to Klickitat County to hide.

Lord, they tell me I’m crazy.

Sometimes I almost agree.

But I know what they’re after.

They wanna medicate me.

Everybody’s freaking ’bout my getaway.

Worried ’bout the blood on my hands.

When I go off my meds,

I go outta my head

You don’t want Phillip Paul

To lose control – NO!

Give myself up on a Sunday.

The cops are polite and sincere.

Well, I think they might crack,

When I ask to go back,

To the fair for an elephant ear.

Lord, they tell me I’m crazy.

Sometimes I almost agree.

But I know what they’re after.

They wanna medicate me.

Now I share a mental ward with my doctors.

How’s that for weird irony?

But their lack of good sense,

And gross incompetence.

These #@#$%!! are more crazy than me!

Lord, they tell me I’m crazy.

Sometimes I almost agree.

But I know what they’re after.

They wanna medicate me.

Oh, I know what they’re after.

They wanna medicate me.

Doug Clark is a columnist with The Spokesman-Review. He can be reached at (509) 459-5432 or by e-mail at dougc@spokesman.com.

Get stories like this in a free daily email


Please keep it civil. Don't post comments that are obscene, defamatory, threatening, off-topic, an infringement of copyright or an invasion of privacy. Read our forum standards and community guidelines.

You must be logged in to post comments. Please log in here or click the comment box below for options.

comments powered by Disqus