... meets The Crying of Lot 49

If you think it's a walk in the park writing one of these damn things every freaking day -- or, well, almost every freaking day -- guess again. Take today for instance. Please.

I woke up at 3am with this song going through my head. And right away, I knew I had to blog it. How did I know this? Search me. It's one of those things that comes with long practice. Tacit knowledge, it's sometimes called. Yeah... that's it... tacit knowledge...

But then I wondered whether it was, you know, maybe anti-semitic or something. I've been reading tons about anti-semitism, from the earliest centuries C.E. through the Holocaust to today's charming neo-Nazi white supremists (quite a few of whom are currently writing book reviews on Amazon, but that's a story for another time perhaps [click here for a clue, if you really want one]). All this is research for my mythical book about the deep historical roots of the not-so-new New Age. But this isn't about that.

It's just that I've been sort of sensitized by all this reading -- I would say that my "consciousness" had been raised, were that not so ludicrous on its face -- so I wondered whether the song going through my head in the middle of the night might not be some throwback racist thing, you know, like Aunt Jemima syrup on Uncle Ben's rice. Not that anyone would actually eat  that, but I hope you're catching my general drift here. Lordy, but I do digress!

So I thought I should do some background checking on this song, but my first problem was I always thought is was John Jacob Jickleheimer  Smith. Don't ask me why. One of those childhood mishearings of the "Lead us not into Penn Station" variety. And maybe my concern (though again don't ask me why) was that Jickleheimer sounded, well... Put it this way. The song is clearly about a guy with a so-called "split personality" -- what psychiatry refers to today as Dissociative Identity Disorder. Of course, I didn't know any of this when I learned the song in Kindergarten, which is probably why I didn't realize it was funny. Just another dumbass teacher, I figured, making me sing another dumbass song. But with the benefit of (oh-too-considerable) hindsight, I think today: so here we have the whitebread outer man, John Smith, discovering his "Inner Jew," Jacob Jickleheimer. After all, "Ring Around the Rosie" is about the Black Death or somesuch ("ashes, ashes, all fall down"), so is my theory really all that far-fetched?

Yes. Of course it is. But let us not be deterred by the obvious.

However, the real problem, as it transpired, was not so much the Jickleheimer misapprehension -- it's actually Jingleheimer, which sounds much more harmlessly (???) Disneyesque -- but rather, the guy's last  name. Google reports 7,170 hits for John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, but 11,400 for John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith. Now, whether Smith or Schmidt, that's a fair number of hits. Plus, no less an authority than E.D. Hirsh, Jr., author of the (once hugely controversial but now mind-numbingly mundane) Dictionary of Cultural Literacy reproduces the ditty in the so-called "Core Knowledge Series" title What Your Kindergartner Needs to Know: Preparing Your Child for a Lifetime of Learning.

With all this as backup, I figured I was on pretty safe ground. But of course, what investigation would be complete without a check of the far-famed HighBeam Research databases? So naturally, I checked.

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt: A traditional nonsense song popular especially in children's summer camps.

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,
That's my name too.
Whenever we go out, the people always shout,
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt!"

Copyright © 1994 by Tad Tuleja, The Stonesong Press, Inc.

from: "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" by Tad Tuleja
source: The New York Public Library Book of Popular Americana, 1 January 1994
via: HighBeam Research
Copyright © 1994 The New York Public Library

Aside from -- valuably -- learning that the author of the song I thought went back at least to the Middle Ages is actually a man named Tad Tuleja, I had one minor problem with this citation. We always sang "His name is my name too" rather than "That's my name too," as Mr. Tuleja and the NY Public Library seem to think. I would argue that the former scansion is far more metrical than the abbreviated form. But why quibble?

And then there was this weird contest in The Washington Post (of all places) in which readers were evidently asked to fracture well known ditties for the general merriment of other readers. The winner of this match of wits was one Joseph Romm, from Washington (whether D.C. or the one on the other coast is not specified)...

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt
His name is my name, too!
But he doesn't know
I'm making lots of dough
Stealing the identity of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.

from: The Style Invitational; Week 586: God's Will (and Won't)
source: The Washington Post, 28 November 2004
via: HighBeam Research

I've included the full citation, as I strongly encourage you to go read the entire article -- which, by our current terms of engagement, so to speak, you may access in toto (for zippo) for up to seven days from the date of this post -- because I didn't think Mr. Romm's rhyme was the best at all. Nothing against the man, you understand, but I did think there were better ones, not necessarily including the following by Brendan Beary of Great Mills (wherever in god's world or hell's half acre that may be):

Ding dong bell,
Someone's in the well.
But it's a family paper,
So her name I cannot tell.

Again, I want to emphasize -- with ill-concealed delight -- that this material comes from The Washington Post, which moreover, despite   the "family paper" disclaimer, above, prints this entry from Scott Campisi (whereabouts unknown)...

I'm a little G-spot, short and stout.
Where am I hiding? Come find out.
When I get all steamed up hear her shout:
Find me now or just get out!

It's now only 7:30am -- yes, these things do take that long to compose -- and already, as you can see, it's been that kind of day. But behind every dark cloud there's a silver lining. So I've heard tell, at any rate. And now I'm a believer too. Let me explain. Sort of. Every once in a blue moon, a google search will hit seriously  serendipitous pay-dirt. The moon must have been blue last night, because the following is what I found at the end of this rather twisted trail. You may think I've finally gone round the bend (which could be true; I wonder myself most days) and that I have here lit out on a tangent that could be called "freely associative" at best. But in that surmise you would be mistaken, gentle reader. So keep your shirt on. I will reveal just how I found this juicy tidbit in the final line of this post. If you've been paying even marginal attention, it should all come together for you then.

Ready? OK, buckle up...

Don't you believe Dora for one second. That isn't even 3/64ths! This is from a page titled Have You Been Financially Raped By Landover Baptist Church? Please understand: I am only acting as an intermediary here. I'm just the messenger, OK? So if you're a God-fearing individual, please put the gun away. Good. That's better.

It took me longer than usual (I argue the lateness of the hour, or its earliness) to realize this was parody. There were clues along the way to be sure -- pitchforks, Scientologists, the shoe department at Barneys -- but I guess it wasn't until I hit this bit that it fully sank in...

Please pray for my safety and that my condo turns out as nice as the renderings.

Trust me, if you're at all warped, you need to spend some quality time with Dora. Among the DO NOT MISS elements of the site are the postings by the dreadfully reviled "Mrs. Betty Bowers, America's Best Christian," Dora's reply to that ("Betty: Your words are like so much dog poopy under my sandals! You are such a showboating b-i-t-c-h"), and finally (thank you for your patience)...

Subject: Dora, hon, Landover Baptist cast me away without a second thought.

Signed: Formerly known as Brother John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

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