About Me

Your Friendly Neighborly 800-Year-Old Lute Plucker from France

Hey, I’ve been around a long time.  Ever since 1150 Anno Domini, to the best of my recollection.  (Hey, over eight hundred years and no Alzheimer’s!)  I sometimes go by another name, supposedly on record in Cook County, Illinois, but I wouldn’t trust it if I were you.  You should identify me by my other non-recorded nicknames, among which are:  The Troubadour, Mick Jogger, Barkley scRitch, and lately (since my 860th birthday) Dr. Troubyseuss.

Of course, “The Troubadour” has no basis in reality.  The concept is clearly a fragment of your imagination.  Even the lute plucking is a myth.  The only instrument I personally ever played was the Shoe Horn.  (Hence, the nickname concerned with lateral bipedal locomotion—on foot.  Both of them.  I.e., jogger.)

Elsewhere on this website are other depictions of troubadours.  These particular ancient song-and-dance men of my own particular ilk got started in medieval France, predating “rap” cacophony by eight or nine centuries.  They didn’t always pluck lutes either, just like Steve Martin didn’t always play banjo; but the effect’s the same.  It’s called “entertainment” and, well, if you’re among the humor-challenged of our present-day population, I’d suggest plucking out of the cyber-void a whole different site and clicking on that.

This one is bound to get you in trouble.  It might even be NSFW (Not Safe For Work) and could suddenly cause you to spew your Cheerios all over your keyboard.  At least we can hope so.  If you upchuck anything else, you’re surfing the wrong internet.

Here, by the way, is yet another explanation for my raison d’ etet:

http://www.statemaster.com/encyclopedia/Troubadour

You can surf that site and your micro-mental software will be updated; the essence of which revision is this:

Once upon a time, some unemployed Middle Age minstrel got it in his head to market his storytelling services to some fogey olde knight in rusty armor, whose former glorious shining deeds weren’t being remembered very well by the peasantry.  So, the minstrel talked the rusting hunk into letting him sing for his supper—along with, of course, other perks, like pay!  Like, coin of the realm.  Like jingly-jangly round gold and silver wafers to fill up his little dangly bag.  In return for the payola, the song-and-dance man would conjure up elaborate LIES about all the shining olde glories that ought not be debunked ’bout his hunk.

Hence, your arrival here—right <smack> here—where this Grande Troubadouric Tradition (of telling lies) lives on!

Consider me as yours troubly, The Troubadour, a mid-evil journeyman jokester still in his Middle Ages and representing the good olde Laugh Grinders Guild.  And if nothing on this entire website can wrest a guffaw out of ya, then you are perfectly free to ignore my indenture and cast back my shtick to languish among the humor-challenged and non-cyber-savvy unwashed masses.  Then, ya know what?  Simply load your freshly waxed keyboard onto the roof of your woody and go surfing in some other internet.

I’ll keep the candlelight on for ya… for when you come back.