Ungebludgeon Blues (Blue Yodel)

Frankly, I’m a little ungebludgeon.

Which word, if memory serves, my mother would use when she was way out of sorts. It may be Yiddish. Then again, maybe not. It may be misspelled. It may mean something else entirely. Or nothing at all.

But ungebludgeon it shall be, if only because it has a ring to it that seems appropriate.

Why am I feeling like this?

Thanks for bringing it up. I thought you’d never ask.

First there’s this matter of unfinished business I’ve got with a fellow named Ken Brown. Mr. Brown is London Agent No. 05 of an organization called Alpha World Wide Lottery International.

Truth be told, I believe Mr. Brown is more than just an agent. If his correspondence is to be believed — and I used to have little reason to doubt Mr. Brown’s veracity — he is actually Vice President of the Promotions/Prize Award Department of A.W.W.L.I.

On May 18, at 7:47 p.m. to be exact, Mr. Brown informed me that, despite a mix-up of correct numbers that caused the winners of May 13’s lottery to be withheld until May 17, I had won the lottery in the first category. My name, he advised, was attached to ticket number 6793023, serial number 90113759.

Who knew?

Deposited in a Finance Company in my “favour as beneficiary” and covered with a “HIGH INSURANCE POLICY” is a lump sum payment of £1,500,000:00 (ONE MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS ONLY) in cash.

Which amount, thanks to an online Googleized currency exchange calculator, I know to be $2,706,750.00, give or take a ha’penny. And which money would be most helpful in paying the required contribution to keep my U of L season tickets.

Mr. Brown went on to advise that I should keep the above information confidential as part of “security protocol” to avoid “double claiming and unwarranted abuse of the program.” I went so far as to not inform close and personal friends of my good fortune. I figured I’d surprise them one night by taking them to dinner. In Paris, flying over on a chartered private jet.

Mr. Brown further advised I’d be hearing from one Andrew Goodman (Alpha Payment Officer No. 01) by the end of June.

As you know, that deadline has long since passed, and, as you probably have guessed by now, Mr. Goodman hasn’t seen fit to call or write. It’s not like my number and snail mail address aren’t in the phone book. My e-mail address is at the bottom of this column. I’m hard not to find.

Truth be told, I’m skeptical that I won any lottery at all.

Which is why I’m ungebludgeon.

But it’s not the only reason.

There’s the matter of my new affinity for yodeling.

It started with the always boffo “Music Issue” of Oxford American magazine. Appearing on the accompanying CD is a cut called “The Arizona Yodeler” by the DeZurik Sisters. In their mid 20th-century heyday, they were also known as The Cackle Sisters. Justifiably so, these gals warbled like songbirds.

Anyway, there’s no way to listen to that masterpiece of yodelfication without breaking into a smile that cuts through any malaise that the idiocy of Pat Robertson could cause.

So I’m into this yodeling thing, seeking out harmonies on the Web and generally singing the praises of this underappreciated art.

The lament is this: I missed what must be referred to as nothing less than this summer’s Woodstock of Yodeling. Which was Swiss Talent Showcase Night on July 14 at Turner Hall in Monroe, Wis. It starred The New Glarus Yodel Club. (From nearby New Glarus, Wis., the home of “the Midwest’s best restaurant,” Glarner Stube, which eatery claims to house “The Biggest Urinal In The Midwest.” True.)

Also on that bill were Ernie Jaggi and Tony Zgraggen yodel duet. Toni Blum Seitz & Christopher, Shannon & Miriam yodel songs.

You can imagine my dismay.

£1,500,000:00 has apparently slipped through my hands, no thanks to those blokes, Ken Brown and Andrew Goodman. Plus, I missed the yodeling event of the season.

Honestly, “ungebludgeon” isn’t strong enough a word to describe the malaise.

All I can say is thank heavens for little things. Martha Stewart is back on the street. Angelina and Brad have gone public. Jen is feeling OK with the d-i-v-o-r-c-e. Michael Jackson is a free man, even though the jury thought him a pedophile. Karl Rove is still the third-most powerful person in the country.

So, ungebludgeon as I may be, I still trill “Ho-lah-doo-oh-dee-heh-ee-dee-hoo-oh-dee-oh.”

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