Well, as I fall mainly into the first two categories here, I thought it was time submit some of my writing.

As most people who know me well know, I am a big fan of Frank Zappa. Zappa is definitely not for everyone's tastes. He is known for dirty, sexist, and downright bizarre lyrics. What many people may not know is that he is a fantastic musician, a talented composer and songwriter, and before his death a passionate advocate of freedom of speech in song lyrics (he was a central figure in the 80's Senate hearings, along with Tipper Gore).

Some of Zappa's song titles are amazing. As I sat thinking one day for ideas on what to write, I began to picture a story about s dinner party, using some of Zappa's most unusual song titles (of people and people-like names) as guests. To me, the story also has a child-like feel.

So, I hope you enjoy "Mr Zappa's Dinner Party".

Mr. Zappa sat at the table. His grey moustache twitched as he scribbled on a scrap of paper. In fact he was surrounded by scraps of paper. Yellowed bits of paper. The back of a matchbook from the Fillmore East. A napkin from Denny’s. I was sure I saw the original lyric sheet for “Excentrifugal Forz” there, with scribbles all over it.
What’s the matter Mr. Zappa? I asked. He was rocking back and forth in the high-backed black chair. Every now and then he would put the nub of a pencil he was writing with in his mouth. It would almost disappear whenever his moustache twitched.

Oh nothing, he said. Nothing at all. He wrote furiously for a moment. Well, everything is wrong. Everything. The little yellow pencil disappeared.

Can I do anything to help you? I asked.

Mr. Zappa’s moustache twitched. He rocked back and forth. The pencil appeared again. Yes, yes you can. No. No. There’s nothing you can do.

I looked at Mr. Zappa with concern. He got like this once a year. Whenever he threw a dinner party he got like this.

Big Leg Emma. She’s coming. So is Bobby Brown. Bobby Brown. I still haven’t heard from Billy the Mountain. Gregory Peccary. Is Gregory coming? Mr. Zappa shuffled through his endless pile of papers trying to find Gregory Peccary’s RSVP. I was amazed he was ever able to find anything.

What about Andy? And Disco Boy? I asked. He didn’t look up from his search, but I could see his moustache twitch slightly as he pushed aside a stack of fan mail.

They’re both coming, he said. They are in Orange County with The Grand Wazoo. But they said they would be here.

I could hear the scratching of the record as “I’m Not Satisfied” played softly in the background. This always happened to Mr. Zappa. The most appropriate songs at the most appropriate times. It was uncanny.

He was mere inches from knocking over a huge stack of papers from his testimony from the Senate hearings on rock music. Mr. Zappa was had played a very important role in those hearings.

Mr. Zappa, did you get any Black Napkins? I asked. I didn’t want to do anything to upset him. But I needed to know.

No. No. No. Yes. Yes I did. Mr. Zappa was scribbling furiously on the paper in front of him. They are in the closet with the Watermelon In Easter Hay. No. No. That’s not right. He turned the pencil over and erased what he had just written, more vigorously than he had written it.

The phone rang. I jumped. Mr. Zappa kept on writing and scribbling. The pencil was getting shorter and shorter as he wrote.

Mr. Zappa, its Mr. Beefheart. He wants to know if you spoke to the Muffin Man. And Willie The Pimp.

Oh dear. Oh dear. Yes I did. Mr. Zappa had dropped the pencil and was wringing his hands. The Muffin Man is coming. He was most happy about being invited. Tell Don that The Muffin Man is coming.

Mr. Zappa sat perfectly still. The little yellow pencil was poised over the paper. Mr. Zappa’s moustache twitched. And twitched again. “I’m Not Satisfied” had ended. The room was filled with the scratching of the needle off of the inner edge of the record.

Mr. Zappa? I asked. His breath was even. His eyes were wider than usual. Mr. Zappa? I asked again.

Tell Don that Willie The Pimp is coming.

Mr. Zappa’s moustache started to twitch. He rocked back and forth in the high backed chair. Both the rocking and the twitching seemed to last forever. Finally Mr. Zappa started writing furiously.

I relayed the message to Mr. Beefheart and hung up the phone.

Mr. Zappa was nervous for the rest of the week. Uncle Meat and I tried our best to stay out of Mr. Zappa’s way. He spent hours in the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen preparing appetizers and side dishes. He knew that even though he told his guests not to bring anything, they would anyways.

Especially The Muffin Man.

Saturday arrived. Mr. Zappa was twitching and rocking in his high-backed chair for most of the morning. Uncle Meat almost called off the dinner party. But I told him Mr. Zappa got like this every year when it came time to throw the dinner party.

As it turns out, Mr. Zappa’s fears were unfounded. Everyone had a lovely time at the dinner party. Big Leg Emma brought a delicious garden salad. Bobby Brown’s candied yams were a huge hit. Billy The Mountain and Gregory Peccary both came. They each brought dinner rolls. Andy was there. He came with some White Port and Lemon Juice. Disco Boy. The Grand Wazoo. All of Mr. Zappa’s friends.

And they all had a lovely time.

Mr. Zappa sat in his high backed chair. Usually after the dinner party Mr. Zappa had a final glass of White Port and Lemon Juice and went immediately to bed. Tonight he was writing furiously on a scrap of paper. The little yellow pencil would disappear as his moustache twitched.

What are you doing Mr. Zappa? I asked.

Preparing the guest list for next year. He replied.