Harry Belafonte: Colin Powell a "Tallyman, Tally Me Bananas"

he radio waves have become a hotbed of political gaffs and slander lately, demeaning the nature of civil discussion and making it impossible to hear "Safety Dance" like you could before. The latest was discovered by this reporter when he woke up at the house of a friend, possibly of the other sex, and heard famed singer Harry Belafonte continuing his attack on Secretary of State Colin Powell.

Powell, who had been referred to by Belafonte only Wednesday on a San Diego radio show as a "house slave" for the Bush administration, was attacked again in a musical tirade in which the Desert Storm veteran was likened to a "tallyman," always come to tally Belafonte's bananas.

Despite the racially-infused charges and slander involved, Powell apparently didn't feel the accusations were personal attacks. State Department spokesperson Richard Boucher, when told of Belafonte's remarks by this reporter, responded, "I think you misunderstand entirely."

Again, this reporter repeated the statements, providing claps and trying to hit the same notes as Belafonte in his radio assault. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and straw hat apparently did not capture the mood for the spokesperson either.

"It's possible that those remarks have been completely taken out of context," Boucher said. "Who do you work for again?"

Upon being escorted out of the building by burly dark-suited men, this reporter could not get his sunglasses and straw hat back, and is considering lodging a complaint.

Despite the relaxed reception at the State Department, who are undoubtedly hoping the inflammatory remarks will go away quietly, Belafonte's charges are serious. Possibly the most cutting remark was Belafonte's comparison of Powell to a black tarantula hiding in the banana bunches as he lifted six-foot, seven-foot, eight-foot bunch into the boat.

Local DJ and the coolest guy this reporter knows Vic Sandwich had insightful comments on the nature of the political discussion.

"Obviously, if Belafonte feels that Powell is being unfair in his tallying of the bananas, he's going to be pretty upset with him and lobby some unfair charges," Sandwich said, sitting in a big chair. "Was it fair to call Powell a black spider in the Bush administration? Maybe not. But when you're talking banana-pricing politics, people pull no punches."

When given the suggestion that Belafonte might be speaking figuratively, Sandwich made a raspberry.

"Don't be so naĂŻve, Boner. Calling Powell a house slave might be a metaphor, but we're talking real banana boats and 8-foot bunches here. My question is, if Powell is such a good guy and a man of the people, why won't he let Belafonte go home? Daylight come already, and I'm sure he's got shit to do."

In a related note of slander, this reporter was severely maligned when showing the first draft of this story around the commune offices.

"It's the worst thing I've ever seen and you're going to get us sued," slandered bookwormish reporter Ramrod Hurley. "And if you leave my name in the story like that, you're going to regret it. I know where you park your car and your desk is unguarded most of the day."

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When Ned was a boy he liked few things more than throwin' rocks at boats down on the shores of the ol' Pomak river. Them boats would steam on by, their big paddlewheels a splooshin' along like so many scum filters in the aquariums. The ladies in their hoopty skirts and the gentlemanly types in their bowties and ice cream suits would wave to Ned from the boats, holdin' them Martinis and smilin' like it was time to get a picture taken to send to some poor kids in Somnabiqua so they'd know who was the folks sent them all that pocket change and lil' bits of crackers and rice kernels. Them folks would smile and wave at little Neddy, and Ned would sure as April rains throw rocks at them peoples and try to knock them right out of their four-dollar shoes. When Ned was especially small, his flung rocks only made it about half-way and them ladies and gentlemen would laugh at Ned, pointing their fingers and breaking sweet wind in his direction. But each year that went by them peoples laughed a little less and looked a little more concerned, and some of them even took to carryin' umbrellas out on the deck in case Ned should hit a growins spurt and gain some extra yardage.

Finally, when Ned was eight he was able to fling them rocks right up onto the decks of them boats, and them peoples who formerly had been laughin' would yell and duck and sometimes throw rocks, and deck chairs, and Cuban waiters back at Ned. These were high times, and Ned would often find himself on the banks of the Pomak, doubled over with laughter or sometimes with a gushin' head wound from a particularly well-returned stone. One time this was the case, and Ned done fell over, with laughin or with takin a head shot, it's not Ned's time to recall which it was, but when Ned was on the ground some Gypsies come along and scooped Nedder right up into a sack and onto them horses.

Them Gypsies done built a little wooden cage for Ned, just big enough for him to crouch inside, with designs and little dancin' bears painted all up it and down it. They would carry Nedro from town to town, where they'd set up a little stage in the woods and charge the townfolk a nickel to watch Ned dance and sing little songs, and play poker with a little miniature monkey named Migglio.

Neddle and Migglio was fast friends, as they bonded over knowin' that Migglio was scooped up by them Gypsies in much the same fashion, one day when he was flingin' fig newtons at the King of Morocco. Ned an' Migglio was inseperatistable in them days, sittin' in their wooden cages and singin' Al Jolsen songs in them two-part harmonies.

One day Ned and Migglio come up with a plan to escape from them Gypsies. Them caravan of Gypsies was comin' back through the town where Nedder was from, and that night after Ned and Migglio done finished their show, Migglio went and hid in a big cast-iron pot while Ned went back to his cage like nothin' was the wiser. Them plan was for that Migglio to wait until everyone was sleepin', then go an' grab the keys to Ned's cage, and they'd be off like two jackals in a bobsled.

Ned sat up an waited for them Gypsies to fall asleep, but at the same time he done gone an' fell asleep hisself. Them Gypsies woke Ned up for dinner and they all ate some monkey soup and then them Gypsies went asleep. Ned waited and waited, but Migglio never come. Late into the night, when the moon were high as an opera star in a coca farm, it donned on Nedder. That little monkey bastard! Migglio done left without Ned!

Ned decided enoughs was enoughs so he stuck he legs out through the bars of his little wooden cage, tipped it on over and scrambled out of Dodge like a turtle made of wood. When Ned got home his parents was mad at him for stayin' out for eight months without permission, on a school night no less, and for not being there to tuck in the hedgehogs at night. They busted Ned out of his wooden cage and he went to tuck them hedgehogs in, cursing that little bastard monkey Migglio all the while.

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To all those who have ever made fun of me, I have one thing to say: Eat a rotten cow out. For everyone who said or insinuated or made some kind of rude hand gesture suggesting my sister was more talented or smarter or cooler than I was in any case, I have one thing left to say: My sister is a gigantic sci-fi nerd.

That's right, my sister, Cassandra Coleman, the big-time successful lawyer and Harvard grad, the big-time book author, she's just a big old Trekkie underneath it all. Nobody was shocked more than me, I'll tell you that. The last thing you expect when you show up to a major metropolitan sci-fi convention is to find your sister at the head of the Terry Pratchett book-signing line dressed as Xena, Warrior Princess. In fact I'll make the bold declaration that any time you find your sister dressed as Xena, Warrior Princess, outside of a traditional costume party, is bad news.

She noticed me right away, and the mortification set in her face right away. She knew her cover was blown. Anyone who doesn't know, my sister sees herself as the downright respectable member of the Coleman family, although the rest of us like to put her in her place with a random insult or well-placed firecracker once in a while. But once word got back to our family, she knew all the jokes that had come before would pale in comparison.

Finally! That's all I have to say. Every time I show up to her office or palatial apartment she rolls her eyes like a bigshot or whatever and asks real condescending-like, "I suppose you need to borrow some money?" She's such a pretentious dildo all the time, thinking she's better than everybody and just chomping at the bit to put people in her place, and I would tell her so whenever I go there, but then she wouldn't lend me the money. One of these days I'm going to show up and pay her back, then really let her have it. And now I got all the material I need. It's my turn to roll my eyes and "tsk tsk" her, back to the stone age.

Since I was getting paid to show up to the convention, wearing my Queen Tongue outfit and signing autographs and such, I couldn't wait to blast her for it. That book-signing line was too long and ornery to wait around, but I knew I'd see her again since most of the convention spazzes show up for the filk prom. I was supposed to be on hand as a celebrity square dance conductor, so I would corner her there and give her the business.

To cut this story down to column length, let's just say the rest of the convention went splendidly and I was treated with supreme dignity and respect by all the pasty nimrods in attendance. A few of the guys asked me to dance, and some of them weren't all that bad looking, by sci-fi convention standards, and I would have danced with them, too, if I hadn't been wearing my Metallichick costume to the prom, since those bullet bra points can pierce the skin pretty easily with little force. I was the belle of the ball, like… well, like one of the handful of girls at a sci-fi convention. But my sister was off in the corner, sulking like the ugly duckling and staring at me guiltily.

When I caught up with her she was all but begging. "Please don't tell the folks, Clarissa," she asked me. "You know they get on me for every stupid little thing. You mention one thing about my Voyager fan fiction and the Spock jokes won't stop over the Thanksgiving dinner table."

Well, she was right about that. Give her credit for knowing the mom and pop, she's at least smart about one thing. And school subjects, so that's two things. So I told her I would keep her secret safe from the family, as long as I was allowed to tell anyone else I wanted to. She agreed, and then proceeded to tell me about the fantastic lesbian undertones of Xena and Gabrielle, and I pretended to care, a real sisterly moment.

It was a half decent time, for a sci-fi convention. And as soon as I figured out a way to tell everybody what a nerd she was, except my parents, I had some fun myself. I know they won't ever find out if I just put it in my column, reading something I wrote would be too much like showing support.

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