Lovely Norma Zimmer

Lawrence Welk supplied expected harmonies – not one
surprised. The lacquered raven, blonde and auburn
ringlets of his seamlessly made-up pink pretty ladies
and the sexless lunkiness of his cropped, suited,
belted, crooning, belting men – swaying, tapping,
nodding, peeking through bright cherry-crimson swags,
around petunia-blue upholstery, ersatz Greek fluted

columns, props and curtains in alarming shades of aqua,
lavender, chartreuse – all fought against all possibilities
of looseness to construct a case for obligated smiles,
charm devoid of wiles. Prim adornments of vibrato –
ticky-tock as clockwork – soft parades of eyelashes like
well-trained little pets: all drew a filigree and fiddle-dee-dee:
an amplitude of dancing, singing creatures synchronized

to wing through all our television sets – all flew with
an astonishing directness into human brains. While we
glazed over to the strictly sugared strains which never
faltered, we were altered: inoculated with, indoctrinated
by a far more subtle influence than we had thought could be.
Lovely Norma Zimmer shimmers through her glittery
imprisonment – enshrined in some strange archetypal

mine, whose ludicrously singing Disney ore now, Siren-like,
implores us to come back and dig and pig out on
her pastel priggishness, propriety, sobriety, demure
maturity: no chance of ever reaching a satiety: we’re stuck
forever in its careful creamy muck: our dreams are stained;
they’ll never be the same: and canny awkward Mr. Welk
deserves – perhaps the praise, perhaps the blame.

.