Hip To Be Square

My fourth grade teacher, prompted by some juvenile witticism of mine, once said to me, "If you ever write a book, I want the first copy." I think it had occurred to me even before that time that I would probably write a book some day, but that incident gelled the notion in my mind.*

I never considered the possibility that someone else in my class might beat me to the punch. My friend Glacial Spain (not his real name) recently gave me a copy of a book titled Perfect From Now On by one John Sellers.

The book, subtitled "How indie rock saved my life" is a breezy memoir of the author's belated discovery and eventual headlong plunge into the world of independent rock music. It's an enjoyable read, made more so for me because I recognize Sellers' Midwestern hometown, repressive middle school and dorky classmates -- because, well, I was one of those dorky classmates.

If you pick up Perfect From Now On expecting -- as I suspect many of you will -- some hidden insights into my own origins, however, you will be disappointed. Although he mentions several of his schoolmates by name, I am not one of them. My exposure in the book is limited to two tangential references: On page 60, the author compares listening to New Order's Substance to getting drunk for the first time, elaborating in a footnote:

Natural Light, with two geeky friends, in early 1987. In involved drunkenly making snow angels.

I was one of the geeky friends. This happened at my house while my parents were out of town.

The other reference is more telling: On page 19 Sellers notes, "Examining my current preferences, I can scarcely believe that my second concert was Huey Lewis and the News." Then, in another footnote (Sellers loves footnotes):

My two friends and I sat in the sixth row, mere feet away from a drunk pip-squeak in a jean jacket who hurled halfway through "Hip to Be Square." A reaction to the music?

I was one of the two geeky friends again (Sellers mercifully left out the adjective this time). What he neglected to mention is that we had wheedled our way into the sixth row because our assigned seats sucked. Thanks to people like us, the sixth row was so crammed with unwelcome immigrants that security came through checking tickets. Sellers was so convincing in his indignity at the people who had illegitimately snuck into the sixth row ("We're supposed to be here!") that the security guard didn't even bother to check our tickets.

The interesting thing to me is that Sellers' jumping off point in his musical odyssey is something that still defines me as a person today. For Sellers, Huey Lewis was part of a corporate pop culture to be rebelled against, but for me, Huey was -- and remains -- the quintessential rebel and a personal hero.

Sellers and I (I'm not being formal; even as kids we just called him "Sellers") were similar in a lot of ways. Quirky and bright, we were bored with school and spent a lot of our time reading comic books and writing bizarre stories.

The difference between Sellers and me was that Sellers was what I call a "crossover dork." That is, although he was a dork at heart, he was capable of faking normalcy well enough to fit in with the cool kids most of the time. Sellers was a good student, reasonably athletic, and could speak intelligently about professional sports teams.

By contrast, I was small and uncoordinated, couldn't force myself to fake an interest in spectator sports, and wore thick, fantastically uncool glasses. But as Matthew Broderick says in The Freshman, "There's a kind of freedom in being completely screwed." I never bothered to try to fit in because I knew it was hopeless. This wasn't much fun for me -- if it weren't for crossover dorks like Sellers and Glacial Spain, I would have been completely ostracized. But at least I was free to be who I was.

Sellers, on the other hand, lived in constant fear that he would be exposed. In the book he paints this fear mostly as a result of circumstances:

Any antisocial or disturbingly eccentric behavior would have got you singled out as a mutant by the kids you had to see in class every day, year after year, and, considering how pious the school administrators were trying to appear, it might even have got you expelled. Why make your time there even worse than it already was?

This is essentially true; I've written about our ass-hat junior high teachers myself. But he goes on to say:

There were no rebels at [our elementary school].

This is a backhanded defense of Sellers' own lack of rebelliousness, but I would argue that it's not true. Bill V., who once broke into and vandalized the school, was surely a rebel. Kyle D., who used to jump from desk to desk when the teachers weren't in the room (and who was eventually held back because of his failure to complete assignments) was a rebel. And then there was the kid who studied D&D rulebooks during class, called out the creepy math teacher for tickling the male students, and skated by with C's and D's despite his obvious intelligence. That was me.

Sellers' fear of standing out intensified as we grew older. In high school he used to play dumb when the topic of Dungeons & Dragons came up, as if he had no recollection of the many Saturdays we spent in my parents' basement killing goblins and drinking Towne Club soda. To his credit, though, he never dumped me as a friend -- which is somewhat remarkable considering that I was pretty much uncool incarnate at that point.

At the same time Sellers would make absurd and arbitrary claims, as if setting up straw man personalities to see who would knock them down. It was impossible to tell which of his obsessions were real and which were fabricated: He was the first person I knew who embraced rap music, but I also clearly remember him telling me that Oliver North was an "American hero." Meanwhile, I did my best to reserve judgment on both fronts.

I don't say any of this to denigrate Sellers; I'm quite certain that the social pressures he felt were very real, and his journey out of the wilderness of Huey Lewis and Duran Duran to indie bands like the Smiths and Guided By Voices is genuine as well. There's also no doubt that Sellers has a deeper knowledge of music and appreciation of the indie music scene than I have.

On the other hand, I wonder if Sellers' current musical tastes are still dictated to some degree by what the cool people are doing. Sellers' complex, obsessive and (I suspect) only partially tongue-in-cheek formula for rating the greatness of a band smacks of someone who still has never quite learned to listen to music purely for the joy of music.

In 1987 I listened to Huey Lewis because I related to a guy who didn't feel the need to wear leather pants or trash hotel rooms to prove his coolness. A rock star who could sing unabashedly about how uncool he was ("Now I'm playing it real straight/and yes I cut my hair/you might think I'm crazy/but I don't even care/There is no denying that/It's hip to be square") was validation of my own square rebellion. Today I still howl along with that song while barreling down I-580 on my way to work. There's simply no explanation for this behavior other than the fact that I love the song, and that it takes me back to a day when I too suspected, despite the crushing pressures of adolescence, that it was okay to be a dork.

Now Sellers writes entertainment articles for Spin and GQ, and I have the ultimate dork job: writing computer software. So I suppose Sellers is still cooler than I, but there's a lot of pressure that goes along with being cool. As for me, I've come to the conclusion that Huey was right all along: It really is hip to be square.


*Not long after this, that teacher made me cough up $12 for my share of a car window that Greg K. broke when he inadvisedly threw a rock near another teacher's car. A group of us had been playing in an off-limits area behind the school, so we were all held equally responsible. Always one for semantic exactitude, I pleaded not guilty on the grounds that we had been told "not to play tag behind the school." We were not, in fact, playing tag, and therefore not in violation of the rule. So my 4th grade teacher can take that $12 and buy her own damn copy.

If you enjoyed this post, may I also recommend: Do You Feel Like I Do (About Huey Lewis)? | The Rhythm of Love | This is My Brain Without Drugs Even humor-blogs.com is cooler than me.

Paying the Piper

You want to know how square I am? A few days ago I was downloading songs from iTunes. Yeah, I know, there are all kinds of places you can go online to download songs for free. But here’s the thing.

Back in 1999, when Napster was at its peak of popularity, I used to spend all my free time at work downloading MP3s. And having spent most of 1998 automating all of my job responsibilities, I had a lot of free time. I downloaded every song I could think of. It’s a good thing that nobody was paying attention to how much time I was actually spending at the office, because my musical tastes weren’t broad enough to justify more than eight hours a week of downloading. If my boss had actually been paying attention to when I was arriving and leaving, I’d probably have 80 gigs of polka clogging up my hard drive.

I justified my theft of copyrighted songs by blaming the greedy record companies. It irritated me that they expected me to pay eighteen bucks for a CD when I only wanted a single song on it. I mean, who the hell wants an entire album by A-Ha? My thinking was, I can go to the grocery store and pick up a single 3 Musketeers bar for a dollar. If the candy industry worked like the music industry, I’d either have to pay $4.99 for a 3 Musketeers with some inedible detritus taped to the other side, or shell out $18 for a pretty package filled with barely palatable machine scrapings just so I could get that one 3 Musketeers.

I’d have felt a little more inclined to fork over that kind of money if I thought that any of it was actually tricking down to the artists. I suppose I could have just downloaded the songs illegally and then sent checks directly to the artists, but I’m not sure they’d want my charity. Besides, I think I’m already giving to the members of A-Ha through the United Way or something.

“If only the record companies would offer individual songs for, like, a dollar, I’d be willing, nay, glad to pay for them,” I said to myself.

And then they called my bluff. Now that you can get most songs for 99 cents, I feel obligated to pay for all the music I download. Bastards.

So I stopped downloading songs illegally. But then the question arose of what to do with my existing collection. There was a surprising amount of gray area here, as with songs that were on an album that I once had, but then lost. Should I have to pay for another copy of a song, just because I can’t find my copy? Surely not. And what about a CD that I had loaned to a friend, but never got back? I still owned it, didn’t I?

And what about the CDs that I had borrowed from friends, never gave back, and then lost? I didn’t intend to steal them; I just, you know, forgot to return them. Besides, the people I borrowed these CDs from had certainly given up on getting them ever back, which is to say that they had ceded any claim of ownership to me. Or to look at it another way, maybe I did steal them, but wasn’t that all in the past now? If I was going to be blamed for having stolen something years earlier, then shouldn’t I at least have a copy of it?

In the end, it was decided to form a Truth and Reconciliation Committee to consider these issues. The Committee spent many hours deliberating, eventually coming to the conclusion that “mistakes were made,” and that it was in everyone’s best interest to put the whole sordid mess behind us. Thus it was that my entire pre-Reconciliation music library was grandfathered in. A blanket amnesty was declared.


Today my undocumented recordings live in harmony with my legally acquired songs. I try to get all my new music from legitimate sources like iTunes, but man, they don’t make it easy. I just bought a little 2 gig MP3 player a few weeks ago, and I immediately set about copying over a big chunk of my music library. After a few hours of listening, however, I noticed that a lot of my songs weren’t playing. This was, of course, because my Philips MP3 player won’t play Apple’s music format. Apple, you see, has their own proprietary format that allows them to keep you from making unlimited copies of the file.

This is a brilliant move on Apple’s part, except for the fact that if I were the kind of person who was going to make a hundred copies of my music files and give them all to my friends, I wouldn’t have paid Apple for the song in the first place. I would have just used Limewire to download it for free.

The other problem with Apple’s protection racket is that in order to play a song, your computer has to be able to decode it. And if your computer can decode it, it can copy it. Which is why there are a hundred free applications out there that will convert Apple’s proprietary format to MP3 or some other unprotected format. So basically Apple’s scheme only works on two groups of people: people who have no interest in stealing from them, and people who are too dumb to figure out how to steal from them.

I downloaded one of these converters and converted all of my songs. Now I can copy them as many times as I want without having to worry that the song is going to suddenly stop working. And as a bonus, the songs will actually play on my MP3 player.

So now I’m looking to acquire some new songs, and I’m debating what to do. I have no problem paying a buck per song, but I don’t really want to worry about keeping track of licenses or screw around with converter programs. I just want to listen to my friggin’ music.

Between you and me, the Limewire option is sounding pretty good. Besides, who wants to give more money to Metallica so that tool Lars Ulrich can keep whining about how his fans are ripping him off?

I think I’m going to have a 3 Musketeers and write a check to the United Way.

If you enjoyed this post, may I also recommend: Pandora's Box | The Rhythm of Love Find more stolen images at humor-blogs.com.

Pandora's Box

As a compromise between listening to the same songs in my iTunes library over and over and hearing the Daughtry song of the moment sixteen times a day on the local radio station, lately I've been spending a lot of time on Pandora.

Pandora is a sort of customizable radio station that plays songs based on your personal preferences. For example, I told it that I like My Chemical Romance and Pearl Jam, so it assumes that I also enjoy Green Day -- a completely understandable, and entirely erroneous assumption.

You tell Pandora what you like with a simple thumbs up/thumbs down control, which isn't the most precise system. You can give a thumbs up to Def Leppard's "Armageddon It" and give a thumbs down to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll," but there's no way to say, "Yeah, this Counting Crows song is ok, but I don't really need to hear any more in the next 3 hours."

The other problem is that Pandora only allows you to skip so many songs. That means you have to use your skips wisely, because if you skip some dull but tolerable Goo Goo Dolls song, you may end up having to listen to all 4 hours and 26 minutes of John Cougar Mellencamp's "Jack and Diane."

The result of my reluctance to either skip or "thumbs-down" bland, inoffensive songs is that recently I've been listening to an ungodly amount of Genesis. I haven't "thumbs-upped" any Genesis songs, but I can't bring myself to "thumbs-down" them either. I mean, what Genesis song would I give a thumbs down to? How do you pick? It's like having to randomly pick one puppy out of a litter to drown in the river. They're all cute and fuzzy, and equally capable of entertaining me for three minutes.

Because of my failure to take decisive action in this matter, Pandora has decided that I am the biggest closet Genesis fan on the planet. "It's ok," Pandora whispers to me, as the synthesized chords of "Abacab" commence. "I understand. There is no need to speak of your forbidden love."



Compounding the problem, Pandora seems to be programmed to play several songs in a particular genre in a row, so that a Genesis song is often followed up with three or four songs from the combined catalogs of Peter Gabriel, Phil Collins and Mike + the Mechanics. Sometimes I get the impression that Pandora is just showing off. Yes, Pandora, we're all terribly impressed that you know that Mike Rutherford was the bassist for Genesis. Now play some freaking Whitesnake before I slip into a coma, would you?

My suspicion that Pandora is screwing with me is reinforced by the fact that not once has it ever played "In the Air Tonight." I mean, if there's one song that I'm secretly hoping to hear at the end of a Genesis-themed medley, it's "In the Air Tonight." The first thought that pops into anyone's head at the beginning of any Phil Collins song other than "In the Air Tonight," is "Damn, it's too bad they didn't play 'In the Air Tonight.' That song is freaking SWEET.' Plus, I can totally air-drum to it."

But I know the reason why you keep this silence up
No you don't fool me
The hurt doesn't show
but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
duh-DOO duh-DOO duh-DOO duh-DOO-DOO-DOO!

Nor has it ever played Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer." What is up with that? It's played other songs from So, but never that one. Look, I'm not saying "Sledgehammer" is the best Peter Gabriel song ever.

Actually, yes I am. "Sledgehammer" is the best Peter Gabriel song ever. What do I have to do to get it to play? If I thumbs up other Peter Gabriel songs, it will think it was right all along in spurning "Sledgehammer." If I give them the thumbs down, it might stop playing Peter Gabriel altogether. So I'm stuck paging through the songs it's already played, trying to find something else that sounds like "Sledgehammer" so I can thumbs up it. Or alternately, I need to find a song that's diametrically opposed to "Sledgehammer" and thumbs down it. That's an interesting theoretical question. What's the opposite of "Sledgehammer?" I think it's Katrina and the Waves' "Walking on Sunshine," but I could be wrong.



I eventually did figure out that you can specify particular songs that you like as well as artists. I put in "Sledgehammer," and the next song that played was "You Can Call Me Al," by Paul Simon. I wouldn't call that a five-point match, but it's in the ballpark. So then I put in "Urgent" by Foreigner, and it came up with the Tubes' "She's a Beauty." I can't argue with that either.

There's still the problem of genre overkill though. For example, I just sat through a 20 minute 80s hair band mix featuring Van Halen, the Scorpions, Poison, Bon Jovi, and then Van Halen again. I love spandex rock as much as the next child of the 80s, but at some point enough is enough. Pandora really needs to have some kind of safe word that you can use to tell it that things have gotten out of hand. Something intuitive and easy to remember, like "Nirvana."

Ah, and now we're back to "Easy Lover," by Phil Collins featuring Phil Bailey.

Pandora knows me so well.

If you enjoyed this post, may I also recommend: The Rhythm of Love | Rock Me Amadeus! | Bringing Snarky Back Humor-blogs.com was there and it saw what you did.

The Dance of the Ten Problems

Wow, where does the time go? According to Steve Miller, it keeps slippin' slippin' slippin' into the future, but then he also spoke of the pompitous of love, so that tells you how much he knows.

2008. What is up with that? When I was growing up, it was kind of assumed that time would never progress beyond 1999. That's why we made everything out of styrofoam and dumped our motor oil behind the garage. In science fiction movies and pop songs, 1999 was the cutoff for a mythical future that would never actually arrive. In 1975 there was a TV show called Space:1999 that was so horrendously bad that the writers clearly didn't expect human civilization to last until next Thursday, much less the next millennium. We were so sure that the world was going to end before 2000 that we even made up a fake crisis called Y2K in the hopes that it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And then 2000 came and went, a year so dull that Wikipedia lists the Broadway opening of Seussical as one of its key events.

So here we are, nine years into the future, and what do we have to show for it? Hand-held GPS units. Fantastic. Now I can know exactly where I am when I'm stuck in traffic because I STILL DON'T HAVE A FRIGGIN' JETPACK.

Anyway, it's that time again. Yes, those of you who have followed this blog from its infancy will recall that at the beginning of the new year, I descend from the lofty heights of my ivory tower of sarcasm to solve one of the major outstanding problems of the previous year.

As I wrote at the end of last year:

Every year on this date I write down the ten biggest unresolved problems of the outgoing year on small pieces of paper and throw them in a hat. Then I put the hat on my head and dance around the house in my bathrobe to the strains of Journey's Separate Ways until all of the scraps fall out except for one. The last remaining problem is the one that I will solve, for the benefit of mankind. This year's big problems include global warming, the cancellation of Arrested Development, and that popping sound that my sternum is making these days when I move too suddenly. Most of the rest of the problems are related to some trouble spot in the world, such as Darfur, Afghanistan, or I-580 between Pleasanton and Livermore.

Last year's winning problem was Iraq, my solution to which was, of course, to sell the U.S. military to the oil companies. I can't be blamed for the fact that nobody listened to me. Let's hope those in positions of power don't make that mistake again.

Having once again written down the world's biggest problems and placed them in a velvet fedora, I shall now proceed to dance gaily about my furniture and pets. Dance along if you like.

Whew, I really need to start working out. That video, by the way, is irrefutable evidence that the primary qualification to be a music video director in 1983 was the ability to borrow your dad's camera.

Ok, so this year's problem to be solved by me is (air drum roll please)...

The weak U.S. dollar!

Oh geez. Really? I was kind of hoping for something a little more interesting, like, for example, anything else. But again, rules are rules.

So the problem is that the dollar has lost a lot of its value in relation to other currencies, even made-up ones like the Euro. This is a problem because, well, now if I want to travel to one of those countries, it's more expensive. Of course, I never go anywhere, so I don't really care about that. And people who have enough money to take trips to Europe or whatever can just suck it.

A weaker dollar also supposedly means that stuff imported from other countries is more expensive. Which is why, I suppose, Wal-Mart is hurting so badly. Since there are no buyers for cheap Chinese crap any more, they have no choice but to buy their cheap crap from American manufacturers.

That doesn't sound right. Hmmm. Are we sure this is actually a problem?

Oh, I know! How about the national debt, which is denominated in dollars. It's up to about $9 trillion right now, and it keeps growing. Of course, since the dollar has dropped about 30% against the Euro over the past few years, in a sense our debt is now effectively $3 trillion less than it was in 2003.

Ok, maybe I should just skip the part where I explain why this is a problem, and move on to the solution.

First, let's look at why this happened. Originally, the dollar was based on our supply of gold. If you had a dollar bill, you could actually go to the federal government and trade your paper bill for a little lump of gold. The government found this inconvenient, because it meant that for every dollar they printed, they actually had to have a little lump of gold, and gold is expensive. So back before you were born they changed the rules a little, so that they could just print however much money they wanted without making sure they actually had that much gold. Much more convenient.

So now the dollar is worth something because, well, everybody assumes it's worth something. Instead of being based on gold, the dollar is based on trust that the federal government won't print any more money that it really needs. Which is, as standards go, not quite on par with a shiny metal that can be made into pretty trinkets. Surprisingly, this system has been known to break down, as when the government decides that it really needs to bring democracy to Afghanistan or midnight basketball to Philadelphia.

I suggest a two-pronged approach:

First, there is the problem of currency devaluation caused by indiscriminate printing of money. Don't misunderstand me: clearly the federal government needs to be able to continue printing insane amounts of money with impunity. I suggest that from now on, however, the government only be allowed to print foreign currency. Perhaps we could print a run of a hundred billion Euros to warm up. Then maybe a few trillion Brazilian pesos or Nepalese Rupees. This would simultaneously give our treasury more money and weaken foreign currencies relative to ours. We could even target uppity little countries that we feel are getting out of line. If the Danish piss us off, we crash their economy by printing a few bazillion Krones.

Second, it is essential that we peg our currency to some commodity that is universally recognized as valuable. Sure, gold or silver would work, but I think we can agree that precious metals are a little old school. After all, we're running a 21st century economy here, not a pirate ship. We need a commodity that is sufficiently rare, and yet considered valuable by today's sophisticated and educated citizenry. I suggest marijuana.

Federal, state and local governments confiscate millions of tons of precious marijuana every year which they burn in vast quantities without even having the decency to put on a Pink Floyd record first. This pot could be freeze-dried and stored in vast government facilities with names like Fort Ganja and the United States Federal Hash Reserve. We could put it right next to the Federal Doritos Repository.

Of course, Joe Citizen wouldn't be able to turn his dollars in for a dime bag. That would be irresponsible. Marijuana is a dangerous drug which must remain at all times in the hands of the squares. But that doesn't change the fact that it's extremely valuable. The federal government would not be allowed to print more money than could be justified by the current street value of the total U.S. pot supply.

So there you have it. We protect the integrity of our currency by pegging it to marijuana, while ensuring that we can meet all of our vital needs by printing unlimited amounts of foreign currency. One more problem solved. Oh, I suppose there might be some long term negative consequences, but we're not likely to ever see them. It's a well-known fact that the world is going to end by 2010.


Humor-blogs.com is still writing 1998 on its checks.

Noel, Noel, Noel. What Were You Thinking?

Everybody loves Christmas carols. Christians love Christmas carols. Jews love Christmas carols. Even Satanists secretly love Christmas carols. The only people who don't like Christmas carols are Communists and people named Carol who are going to smack the next person that asks them if they are a Christmas Carol because it's just not funny after the bazillionth time, ok?

One of the most enjoyable Christmas songs to listen to is "The First Noel," the lyrics of which were presumably written as some sort of prank by a guy named Noel. The tune is wonderful, but the lyrics are ridiculous. He works his name into the song like 87 times, for starters.

Noel wrote a song, Noel Noel
Noel Noel Noel Noel
It's my song so suck it, Noel Noel
Sing Noel Noel Noel Noel
Noel Noel Noel Noel
Born is the King of Israel whose name is Noel!

If it weren't for "Hey Jude", old Noel would still be on the hook for Most Needless Repetition of a Name in a Song.

Ok, ok. That's not really how the song goes. In reality, the lyrics are far, far worse. If you don't believe me, you obviously haven't had to try to sing the song lately. Sure, it sounds great piping gently through the speakers at Starbucks, but at my church they actually expect us to sing the song, and let me tell you, it's damn near impossible. That song has the most godawful awkward lyrics I've ever tried to wrap my lips around.

Let's take the first stanza, shall we?

The first noel the angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!

First of all, a "noel" is a song. So this is a song about a song. If you were to update the refrain of this song to modern English, it would be:

Song, Song, Song, Song
Born is the King of Israel!

Which, if it weren't redeemed by the second line, would be the worst refrain ever.

Next, you don't "say" a song. You sing it.

Then there's the pointless redundancy: "in fields as they lay/in fields where they lay." That's just lazy. And what the hell are the shepherds doing lying in the fields? Shouldn't at least one of them be awake? And if they're asleep, how are they "keeping their sheep?"

Then there's the little fact that Jesus was most likely not born during the winter. And even if he were, what exactly makes a night "deep"? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'll tell you what it means. It means somebody couldn't think of a word to rhyme with 'sheep.'

Ok, so we've established that this song is confused, repetitive, factually inaccurate and banal. And we still haven't even touched on the fact that it's virtually impossible to sing. It's like the lyrics were written for a completely different tune.

The-uh fir-irst no-o-el the-uh angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay
I-in fie-eelds wheretheylay kee-ee-eeping their sheep
On a cold winter's ni-ight that wa-as so deep.
No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-e-el
Born is the Ki-ing of I-Isri-el!

Maybe the syllable breaks make sense if you're a world-class stutterer or something. And in case you think, "Well, that's just the way those old songs are," take a look at the first stanza of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing":

Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With th'angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

Hey, the syllable breaks actually match the notes of the tune! Other than stretching "sing" and "mild" into two syllables and creating the contraction "th'angelic", you start a new syllable every time you hit a new note. It's a Christmas miracle! "Joy to the World," "Silent Night," "O Come All Ye Faithful" -- they all match their respective tunes almost perfectly.

You would think that once a lyricist has given himself license to depart from historical accuracy and go off on tangents about farm animals, he might have a chance of finding some words that actually go along with the tune, but old Noel had no such luck. In fact, the song actually gets worse in the later stanzas:

They-ey loo-ook-ed up a-and sa-aw a star
Shining i-in the Ea-east beyo-ond them far
And to-o the-uh earth it ga-a-ave great light
And so it continued both da-ay and night.
No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-e-el
Born is the Ki-ing of I-Isri-el!

Ok, I need to stop trying to figure out where the syllable breaks are before I develop a case of Turrett's. For the record, according to Luke the shepherds saw no star. The shepherds were "nearby," and if they needed a star to find Bethlehem, they were some pretty piss-poor shepherds. Oh, and if they had attempted to follow a star "in the east," they would have found themselves in the Dead Sea.

The next stanza is my favorite.

This star drew nigh to the northwest
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest
And there it did both pause and stay
Right o'er the place where Jesus lay.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!

Is there a more drawn out way to say "The star stopped over the baby Jesus"? I especially like the fact that the star "did both pause and stay" -- a phrase which is painfully redundant even without dragging it out over 37 syllables.

And now, the moment you've been waiting for: the historically inaccurate and syntactically disastrous inclusion of the three wise men:

Then entered in those wise men three
Full reverently upon their knee
And offered there in His presence
Their gold and myrrh and frankincense.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!

Ah yes, the famed Wise Men of the Southeast, who arrived on the heels of the shepherds. Historians have, of course, disagreed about the number of wise men. The standard interpretation is that there were three, based on the fact that there were three gifts. Revisionists, however, point to the fact that they all evidently shared a single knee.

Oh well. At least the intrepid vocalist is rewarded for his persistence with a single coherent, semi-singable stanza to close the song.

Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord
That hath made Heaven and earth of naught
And with his blood mankind has bought.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!

Couldn't have said it better myself. Merry Christmas, everyone.


I'll probably take the next few days off, but I'll try to whip something up for the caption contest on Friday. See you then.

This post did both pause and stay at humor-blogs.com.

Do You Feel Like I Do (About Huey Lewis)?

Update 12/21: If this is your first time here, this is what you need to know:

The avowed purpose of this blog is to bring back the genius that is Huey Lewis. In particular, I want Huey to get the airtime on classic rock radio stations that is being squandered on hacks like BTO and Foghat. If you would like to add your name to my petition, leave a comment on this post.

After you've done that, make sure that you vote in the Huey-pocalypse -- the final showdown between Huey Lewis and the forces of evil.

Help spread the News! Together, we can bring Huey Back to the Future!


And now, in case you're interested, here's the story of how all this started....

---------------------

An interesting discussion broke out recently over at the Ominous Comma about something that I said in my book, Antisocial Commentary.*

The discussion centered on this item from the introduction to the book:

For me the kiss of death for a humor piece is to start off trying to convince someone of a particular point of view…I don’t mean that humor is an effective way of making a point; I mean that humor is the point.

Brent, the proprietor of the O.C., notes:

To be honest, I don’t know if I agree with the Fossil-Fueled One on this point. For as much as I enjoy entertaining people as a Basically Agenda-less Humorist** I have to wonder if I couldn’t be doing something more beneficial. If I couldn’t somehow improve the world, or make some small difference by bringing some of my personal causes more fully into this, my pubic platform.

Actually, he said "public," but it's funnier without the "l."

In any case, the more I reflect on this statement, the more I realize that Brent is right. I should be doing more than just making people laugh. I have a pretty good-sized readership with this blog now, and as that modern day Augustine, Peter Parker, once said, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

So today is a historic day. Today I am embarking on a crusade of sorts, to use my blog power for a greater good. I’ve thought long and hard about what cause to take on, and I’ve settled on something that I think is a noble, but still realistic, goal. And that goal – my “holy grail,” if you will – is this:

I’m going to convince classic rock stations to start playing Huey Lewis and the News.

It’s long been known by me that Huey Lewis is an under-appreciated and misunderstood genius. Ballads like "Do You Believe in Love" and "The Power of Love" are classics of the earworm genre. "Workin’ for a Livin’" spoke timelessly*** of the working man’s plight, and the songs "Walkin' on a Thin Line" and "Back in Time" addressed the serious issues of the struggles facing Vietnam veterans and time travelers, respectively.

And yet, classic rock stations across the U.S. stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the genius that is Huey Lewis -- not to mention legendary bassist Mario Cipollina, guitar virtuoso Chris Hayes, and presumably someone playing the keyboard.

This, then, is my petition to the powers that be to add some numbers from the Huey Lewis catalog to the classic rock radio playlist:

------------------------------

To the National Organization of Deciding Who Gets to Be Considered 'Classic Rock'****:

For shame! Since the birth of the Classic Rock format around the time that somebody decided that Jane's Addition and The James Gang were perhaps two different kinds of music -- 1989, I think -- I have watched the Classic Rock genre slowly expand to include such offerings as Guns 'n' Roses, Metallica and Styx, but thus far you have refused to admit a true legend of rock & roll, Huey Lewis, not to mention his stalwart companions, the News.

How can you justify playing execrable songs like Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" or Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl," while neglecting crowd-pleasers like "I Wanna New Drug" or "Heart and Soul?" "Hip2BSquare" was the anthem of my generation*****, and yet you spurn it in favor of crap like BTO and Foghat. Look, I'll admit that "Stuck With You" can be a little grating after 30 or 40 listens, but it's hardly fair to hold a grudge because of that one song. Have you forgotten about Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" or the Van Halen album with Gary Cherone?

Please, I beg you: add "Workin’ for a Livin’" or "Heart of Rock & Roll" to your playlist. Come on, those are solid pop/rock songs. Certainly no worse than anything by John (nee Cougar) Mellencamp or 38 Special.

You wouldn't even have to eliminate anything from your current playlist. For example, I know for a FACT that no one has ever listened to Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like I Do"****** all the way through, at least not since he awed that group of easily amused stoners with his talking guitar back in 1975. Seriously, throw that CD in the player some time and just try to listen to the whole song while completely sober. It's impossible. So here's what you do: After the 68th time that Peter Frampton says "Do you feel like I do," right when you feel like screaming at the CD player, "That depends. Do you feel like jamming a meat thermometer in your ear?!", you mute it and crank the entire first side of Sports. And then you switch back to the Frampton song for the last 38 seconds. No harm, no foul.

You can do the same thing with the interminable interludes in "Riders on the Storm" and "Oye Como Va." The trick is to wait until the listener is thinking, "Holy crap, the entire run of Viva Laughlin didn't last this long. I'd rather hear two possums fighting over an accordion than listen to one more second of this." Then you pop in the Huey, and they think, "Hey, this is such an improvement that I don't mind that I'm going to have this song stuck in my head until I get my first postcard from my great-grandchildren on Venus."

I urge you to take action quickly. I have attached the signatures of [fantastically large number] people who do, in point of fact, feel like I do.

Respectfully submitted,
Diesel

------------------------------

If you would like your name to appear on the petition, please submit a comment, and maybe add a few words in support of Huey. I will mail the petition and comments to the NODWGTBCCR, or Clear Channel, or whoever's in charge these days.

And if you would like to offer some additional support for the cause, please write your own impassioned plea in support of Huey on your blog, link to this post, and encourage your fellow bloggers to do the same. Yes, this is a meme, and you know how I feel about memes. But this time it's for a good cause. Let's let the world know how we feel about Huey. Even Grundir the Implacable has a soft spot for "Doing it All For My Baby."

Look, I even made a neat little banner you can use. See how sad he is because his music isn't considered Classic Rock?



The code for using the image to link to this post is here:

<a href="http://www.mattresspolice.com/2007/11/do-you-feel-like-i-do-about-huey-lewis.htm"><img src="http://www.mattresspolice.com/images/huey.gif" alt="Huey needs your help!" border="0" /></a>

I should be able to enlist Renal Failure, who has made no secret of his affinity for Huey. And Logophile just gave me a Def Leppard shout-out, so I think I can count on her support. I'll drag Central Snark along too. And maybe Brent, Bossy, the Frogster, Sinister Dan and some of the other Humor-Blogs.com members.

Man, I'm really excited about my blog's newfound purpose. Come on, folks, let's show those radio people that the heart of rock & roll is still beatin'!


* That’s right, people are actually talking about my book. Don’t you feel left out? It’s like that time when everybody in your class had seen The Empire Strikes Back but your mom wouldn’t let you go on opening weekend because it was Aunt Cecilia’s birthday and the next Monday everybody made fun of you because you didn’t get the joke when somebody said that you smelled like the inside of a tauntaun and then you hid in the supply closet and cried after recess and found the janitor’s special magazines that made you feel funny inside.
** The acronym for which, Grundir the Implacable has just pointed out to me, is BAH!
*** If you set aside the non-inflation-adjusted "two hundred rent."
****It's possible that the NODWGTBCCR doesn't exist, in which case I will deliver this petition to the nearest approximation I can find. Perhaps Interpol or Unicef.
*****Although if I were two years younger, it would have been "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
******According to Wikipedia, the title of this song is actually "Do You Feel Like We Do," which doesn't make any sense. And anyway, halfway into the article they change their minds, so obviously Wikipedia is written by monkeys.


Humor-blogs.com is stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream.

The Rhythm of Love

As a child of the 80s, I have a deep and inexplicable love for cheesy rock music. While I enjoy bands from the 90s and the naughties*, nothing beats the endorphin rush I feel when I hear the opening strains of "Urgent" by Foreigner, Journey's "Stone in Love," or pretty much anything by Def Leppard. I recently made a startling discovery about this musical genre, however. I'm sure you'll find this hard to believe, but it turns out that almost all of this music is about sex . I know, it makes you look at Kiss's "Lick it Up" or ZZ Top's "Tube Steak Boogie" in a whole new way, doesn't it?

It took me a while to put it all together, but my first clue came when I was a teenager. I was paging through one of those "Rock Music is of the Devil" books at a bookstore, and came across the assertion that the title of John Cougar Mellencamp's "Hurts so Good" was "a clear reference to sadomasochism." The remarkable thing about this claim -- in addition to making Mr. "Pink Houses" the S&M poster child -- is that the author managed to pick one of the tamest songs of the 80s to pin his case on. I mean, did this guy even bother to check out Prince's "Darling Nicky" or Van Halen's "Black and Blue"? Do some research next time, you friggin' hack.**

The cultural standards of the 1950s forced rock & roll lyricists to tone down the sexual content of their songs, and rock musicians of the 60s and 70s seemed to think they had to elevate rock music with political messages or references to acid trips. It was during the 80s, however, that rock musicians realized, "Hey, we can just sing about sex! Why didn't we think of this before?!" The result was a seemingly endless parade of rock songs that appeared to be written by and for fifteen year old boys. Often these songs -- like Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher," which is about, um, a kid who is hot for his teacher, were completely lacking in innuendo. The more astute lyricists of this group employed double entendres and sometimes even metaphors, with a range of subtlety that generally ran from "hammer to the head" to "sledgehammer to the head."

AC/DC was a pioneer in this field, having already started writing songs like "Love at First Feel" in 1975. Take their song, "Big Balls," for example. According to Wikipedia, "Though the song is ostensibly about a person who hosts social balls, the majority of the lyrics are innuendos about sexual activities and testicles." Using that explanation as a sort of Rosetta Stone, one can glean an entirely new meaning from the following lyrics:

Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But when they're held for pleasure
They're the balls that I like best
My balls are always bouncing
To the left and to the right
It's my belief that my big balls
Should be held every night

So you say it's actually about testicles? Fascinating. I had no idea.

Then there are songs that are clearly about sex, and yet so lyrically confused that it's impossible to connect the melange of metaphors to anything concrete, such as Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me."

Listen! Red light, yellow light, green light, go!
Crazy little woman in a one man show
Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love
Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up
You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little
Tease a little more
Easy operator come a knockin' on my door
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet
Little miss innocent sugar me, yeah
Take a bottle, shake it up
Break the bubble, break it up
Pour some sugar on me
Ooh, in the name of love
Pour some sugar on me
C'mon fire me up
Pour your sugar on me
Oh, I can't get enough
I'm hot, sticky sweet
From my head to my feet yeah

So... this song is about a guy waiting at a traffic light, where he see a crazy midget who turns out to be a mannequin looking in a mirror. The crazy midget follows him home, where she shakes his bottle until the bubble breaks, lights him on fire and pours sugar on him. Well, that's clear enough.

My favorites are the lyrics that sound cool when you sing them but make you sound like a desperate and possibly retarded fourteen year old when you speak them in a normal tone of voice. I mean, has the line "There's something about you girl / that makes me sweat" ever worked for anyone? I know if I were a woman I'd like nothing more than to hook up with a guy who sweats profusely whenever he sees me. A runny nose and uncontrollable farting would seal the deal for sure.

When I was in college, my friends and I used to entertain ourselves by working the lyrics of these creepy misogynistic songs into everyday conversation. For example, I might walk into a room and announce, "Here I am, rock you like a hurricane." Which doesn't make much sense, but that was kind of the point. One time I was inspired by Mötley Crüe to ask the guys across the hall in my dorm to call me "Dr. Feelgood." I added, by way of explanation, "You know, just when other people are around." This would be not be the the first or last time that my dry sense of humor would be mistaken for mental illness.

The all-time champion of creepy/desperate lyrics has to be Eddie Money, with "Two Tickets to Paradise." I know, you're thinking, "But I always thought they were going to... Hawaii... or something." No, they're not going to Hawaii. This is Eddie Money, remember?

Got a surprise especially for you,
Something that both of us have always wanted to do.
We've waited so long, waited so long.
We've waited so long, waited so long.

I have a live version of this song that starts with Eddie announcing knowingly to the cheering crowd, "I've got something in my pocket...." I'm not sure what he was referring to exactly, but I have a pretty solid guess that it's attached to a creepy old guy. This song was creepy back in 1977, and it gets creepier with every state fair season that goes by. I mean, can you imagine being the lucky girl dating Eddie Money?

Eddie: Hey, babe, I've got a surprise for you.
Girl: Really? What is it?
Eddie: It's something that we've always wanted to do, and we've waited so long....
Girl: What? Are we finally going kayaking like you promised?
Eddie: No, but we are going on sort of a trip.
Girl: A trip? Wow? You made reservations and everything?
Eddie: Got the tickets right here in my pocket.
Girl: Oh, Eddie, I'm so excited! Where are we going?
Eddie: Well, come here and get the tickets.
Girl: Ok.
Eddie: That's it, right there in my pocket.
Girl: Hey, there's nothing here but a condom and your.... ew!
Eddie: Surprise! We're going to have sex in the backseat of my Thunderbird!
Girl: Man, I should never have broken up with Billy Squier.


*Still hoping this will catch on before 2010.
**Speaking of research, I just browsed through John (Cougar) Mellencamp's Wikipedia article, which is packed with interesting information and concludes with this fascinating tidbit: "John spends most of his free time sucking up to race baiters and the liars in the news media. This is proven by his latest song 'Jena'." Gotta love a user-edited encyclopedia.


Did you enjoy this post? There's plenty more like it in my book, Antisocial Commentary. Order your copy and help me to not have to get a real job, so I can keep writing this crap. Thanks!

Humor-blogs.com will rock you like a hurricane.

Rock Me Amadeus!

A common response to my blog reviews on humor-blogs.com is that "humor is subjective." As the whole point of writing a review of something is to provide an objective appraisal, I take this as a nice way of saying, "What you're trying to do here is stupid."

I'm not sure why people who have a philosophical difference with the concept of reviews bother to read the reviews in the first place. I suspect that if the review were more in line with their own opinion, the commenter wouldn't be so quick to resort to the "humor is subjective" line. My favorite comments are the ones where the reader tells me that humor is subjective, and then goes on to tell me why the negative review of a blog is full of crap. It's like, "Nobody's opinion is better than anyone else's, and besides, you're wrong and here's why."

Obviously there is a large subjective element to humor. But it's simply not true that humor is completely subjective. Original is better than unoriginal. Pithy is better than wordy. Unpredictable is better than predictable. Topical is better than dated. John Belushi is better than Jim Belushi. You get the idea.

I think the same is true of TV shows, movies, music, etc. You might like dramas and I might like comedies, but we can all agree that wooden acting and cliched dialog are to be avoided. You might like classical and I might like rock, but we can all agree that Billy Ray Cyrus is a black spot in the history of music.


Best. Song. Ever.

All this thinking about subjectivity and objectivity got started when Mrs. Diesel and I were waiting for a movie to start the other day. A countrified version of a Kelly Clarkson song was wafting through the theater speakers. My wife said, "Man, they can make a country song out of anything, can't they?"

And I realized that the answer to that was, "Pretty much, yeah."

To me, this is an objective indication of how much country music sucks. They make rock songs into country songs all the time, but you can't make a country song into a rock song. Why not? I'll tell you why not: Because it's easy to slow down a song and add some twangy guitars and overpronounced R's to the vocals, but if you speed up a country song and take out the twang, you don't end up with rock. You probably end up with something that sounds like Gin Blossoms B-sides, and not even people who knew the Gin Blossoms in high school want to hear that.

Rap music is even worse. Most rap songs are just a beat and some sound samples stolen from a rock song. And I'm no expert on music, but I know that you're supposed to have a melody, and you can't have one if you speak the lyrics in a monotone. You understand that's what "rap" means, right? It means "talking." You're talking over a background of drum machine beat and some looped bits of a Van Halen song. I don't think that even technically qualifies as music. Think of it this way: How many rock songs can you name that sample rap songs?

The answer is none, because they don't. Sampling a rap song would be like stealing food that a homeless person stole from another homeless person who picked it out of the dumpster behind Arby's. Sure, it might still be edible, but nobody wants a Big Beef and Cheddar that a wino has licked the cheese off.

As far as I can tell, the music hierarchy goes like this:

• Classical
• Rock
• Pop
• Country
• That surprisingly pleasant squeaking noise that the paper towel makes when you clean the windows
• Rap

Now just so you don't think that I'm a snob, I'll fully admit that I'm not sophisticated enough to "get" classical music. Classical music is just way too subtle for me to appreciate it. I need a thumping beat in my music so that I know what to do with my head. I need the occasional squealing guitar so that I can air guitar and pretend I'm onstage with Gun's 'n' Roses back before Axl got fat. And most of all, I need a clear auditory queue to indicate when I should commence lip-biting.

When I hear classical music, I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or feeling. And I don't even know how to do air violin. When I'm listening to classical music, I feel like a precocious ten year old watching a Bergman film, who just knows he's missing something but can't put his finger on what it is. Maybe when I'm older I'll get it, I think.



That's why classical music is great for movies. When I see choppers hurtling over the jungle in Apocalypse Now, I think, "Oh, so THAT's what this song is about." And then there are classics like The John MacClaine Symphony, Thus Spake the Giant Black Monolith, and the Lone Ranger Overture. Once I'm instructed by a movie that I'm supposed to be feeling awe or excitement or boredom, I can react accordingly.

Now take a song like Tears for Fears' "Sowing the Seeds of Love", in contrast. There's a ton of crazy stuff going on in that song, and I can listen to it over and over and keep noticing new stuff that I hadn't noticed before. And yet, it's also catchy enough that the first time I heard it I thought, "Wow, that's a pretty cool song," and not, "Wow, I wonder if I would be happier listening to myself chewing?"

But at the extreme of simplicity, you have crap like The Black Eyed Peas' song "My Humps." Now I can imagine that if I were at the apex of an absinthe bender, I might enjoy listening to that song one time. But after a single listening in a highly impaired state, I would have absorbed all the complexity that song has to offer. It's like reading a Dr. Seuss book. Everybody loves Dr. Seuss, but trust me, if you've had to read Horton Hears a Hoo every night for three weeks, you know why old Ted Geisel had to change his name. He was afraid of being hunted down and having his Thing One and Thing Two shoved down his throat.

So I know that I should like classical music more than I do, and I should like rap even less than I do, but I'm a simple man and I can listen to just about anything with a decent beat.



And like everyone, I have to admit to having some guilty pleasures. There are some songs that I know suck, and yet I get a ridiculous amount of enjoyment out of them. Why do I own a copy of Asia's greatest hits? The songs are, without exception, overwrought and insipid. Yet I get an inexplicable thrill when they pop up in my iTunes playlist. Huey Lewis, Damn Yankees, Phil Collins.... I can't explain or defend it, but I love them all. I once had A-Ha's "Take on Me" as a ringtone, because it made getting phone calls fun. Try getting THAT song out of your head when you hear it every time the phone rings.

So what's my point? Hell if I know. I guess it's that there is something to be said for trying to objectively evaluate music, or movies, or blogs, or whatever else. But occasionally you just have to give yourself license to say, "Screw it. I don't know why I like it, but I do. Now CRANK IT!"


Did you enjoy this post? There's plenty more like it in my book, Antisocial Commentary. Order your copy and help me to not have to get a real job, so I can keep writing this crap. Thanks!

Brilliant! (James Blunt's Songwriting Journal)

"I wrote 'You're Beautiful' in two and a half minutes, after seeing an ex-girlfriend.'"

- James Blunt

Blunt said on VH1's The Vspot that he wrote this song about seeing his ex-girlfriend with a new man in the London underground. He says that they shared a lifetime in the brief eye contact.

-----------------------------------------------

EXCERPT FROM JAMES BLUNT'S SONGWRITING JOURNAL: Tuesday, January 18, 2005

2:37:30 PM

Train should be here in about 150 seconds. Maybe enough time to write a song???

2:37:36 PM

Possible song topics: Trains. Unemployment. Sodding London weather. Come on man, think!

2:37:42 PM

Isn't that Stacy?

2:37:48 PM

That IS Stacy! Who the f---- is she with???!!!

2:37:55 PM

Stacy be lookin FINE.

2:38:04 PM

Where was I? ... Trains, right. Maybe something about a little engine trying to get up a hill?

2:38:09 PM

Lucky bastard. What was it Mum said when Stacy broke up with me? "God's will." Well I hope the sodding angels are happy. Bollocks.

2:38:17 PM

Feeling very sad.

2:38:21 PM

VERY sad.

2:38:29 PM

Maybe write a song about how sad I feel. Free association time! Sad, sad, sad.... Think of something very sad. Clowns with frowny faces are sad. Sad clown. Clown crying. TEARS OF A CLOWN!

2:38:41 PM

F---.

2:38:50 PM

She looked at me! HI Stacy!!!! GOD I'M SO HAPPY.

2:38:58 PM

Don't think she recognized me. SO SAD. This is the saddest anybody has ever been.

2:39:06 PM

Sadder than Bruce Banner walking away at the end of The Incredible Hulk.

2:39:14 PM

Damn, now I have that song in my head. Bah-bada-Bah. Bah-bada-Bah BAH.

2:39:22 PM

LOL. Should write lyrics about Stacy and that sodding bastard set to Incredible Hulk theme. F---, that's brilliant!

2:39:31 PM

Train's coming! Write something. ANYTHING!

My life is brilliant.
My love is pure.
I saw an angel
Of that I'm sure
She smiled at me on the subway.
She was with another man.
But I won't lose any sleep on that
Cause I got a plan

You're beautiful; you're beautiful:
You're beautiful; it's true
I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
Cause I will never be with you

Yeah, she caught my eye
As I walked on by
She could see from my face that I was
Flying high
And I don't think that I'll see her again
But we shared a moment that will last till the end

You're beautiful; you're beautiful:
You're beautiful; it's true
I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
Cause I will never be with you

la la la la
la la la la
la la la la la

You're beautiful; you're beautiful
You're beautiful; it's true
There must be an angel with a smile on her face
When she thought up that I should be with you
But it is time to face the truth
I will never be with you

2:40:00 PM

Train's here!



Mattress Tags: James Blunt Bollocks

Syndicated on the humor juggernaut humor-blogs.com

A Crude Proposal

I know that y'all come here looking for a few cheap laughs, but today I have important work to do. This, being the last day of twenty-diggety-six, is the day that the world turns its lonely eyes to me to solve one of the big outstanding problems of 2006. Yes, every year on this date I write down the ten biggest unresolved problems of the outgoing year on small pieces of paper and throw them in a hat. Then I put the hat on my head and dance around the house in my bathrobe to the strains of Journey's Separate Ways until all of the scraps fall out except for one. The last remaining problem is the one that I will solve, for the benefit of mankind. This year's big problems include global warming, the cancellation of Arrested Development, and that popping sound that my sternum is making these days when I move too suddenly. Most of the rest of the problems are related to some trouble spot in the world, such as Darfur, Afghanistan, or I-580 between Pleasanton and Livermore.

Having written down the world's biggest problems and placed them in a velvet fedora, I shall now proceed to dance gaily about my furniture and pets.

Whew! Ok, now that I have recovered from my cardiovascular workout and the realization that I will never be as cool as Steve Perry even if I get a sleeveless black t-shirt with a pink checkerboard design and have my testicles surgically removed, I will now reveal The Unresolved Problem of 2006 to be solved by me.

And the winner is:

Iraq!

Wow, I was kind of hoping for that sternum thing, but rules are rules. Ok, so here's the deal:

Liberals are mad because they don't like the idea of a "war for oil." Liberals don't feel like they should have to fight for their oil, because they drive hybrid cars, which means that at worst they should have to play a rough game of ultimate frisbee for oil, or maybe split the difference between making love and making war by having angry sex on the veranda for oil. Keep in mind they don't have a problem with wars per se; they would just rather talk about them over a nice latte at the U.N. rather than participate.

Conservatives are mad because they hate the idea of "nation building." They kind of like the "nation wrecking" bit, but "nation building" just blows. I mean, they hate it. They're all like, "Man, we hate nation building. It's just a bad idea all around. It never works out. I mean, hmm. Well, unless, maybe, just this once, we could.... I mean, it's not out of the realm of possibility that.... Oh. No. No, dammit! Oh man, now look what we've done. Geez. Man, I hate this nation building crap."

So here's what we do: Privatize the U.S. military. That's right, sell the whole thing off to the highest bidder.

"That's crazy!" you say. "What if some nutjob like Kim Jong Il or Tom Cruise buys it?"

"Nonsense," I say. The highest bidder is going to be (1) someone with more money than God; (2) someone who has a lot to gain by having a fleet of aircraft carriers and stealth bombers at their disposal; and (3) someone who has a lot to lose if the U.S. military falls into the hands of Kim Jong Il or Tom Cruise.

Hmmm. Who could that be...? Could it be... SATAN?!

No, it's not Satan. But you're in the right neighborhood. It's the oil companies. I mean, if you're going to turn the military over to an oil company exec, it might as well be a successful oil company exec, right? So we let the oil companies take over the U.S. military and wage war at their discretion in order to secure a free flow of oil. We let them install a benevolent dictatorship in Iraq, and then move on to Iran and Syria if those dudes start causing problems. Maybe take care of that jackass in Venezuela too. And if there are any other trouble spots in the world that threaten the flow of oil, they'll handle those as well. Peace in the Sudan? Start some rumors about Jed Clampett finding "black gold" in his backyard in Darfur and the problem will be solved by this time tomorrow.

"What about the soldiers?" You say. "They didn't sign up to work for the oil companies!" No, they didn't. Which is why they'd be free to seek gainful employment elsewhere. The only way for the oil companies to keep their current personnel would be to pay them enough to make it worth their while. And maybe get them some friggin' body armor.

"But who's going to defend the U.S. if the oil companies are out conquering new oil fields?" you ask. Well, since the U.S. is the number one consumer of oil, I'm thinking the oil companies are going to try pretty hard to keep our economy on track. Which would include preventing things that disrupt the flow of oil, like big explosions and buildings falling over.

And best of all, it doesn't cost the U.S. taxpayer anything. In fact, we make money on the deal. I'm thinking we could get a couple of trillion bucks for the whole shebang. Maybe do it over eBay, and throw in free shipping and the CIA on one of those "Buy it now!" deals.

Oh, sure, the oil guys would get out of hand once in a while and maybe overthrow a democratic regime that was trying to nationalize its oil industry, but I think it would all even out. And on the occasion where they really made a mess of things, we'd be free to throw up our hands in exasperation along with the rest of the world. "Those greedy oil companies and their secret prisons and torture chambers," we'd say. "Man, if we didn't spend all our money on ridiculous social programs we'd totally start our own military and show those oil companies what's what." And then we'd go back to sipping our lattes and filling up our blood-and-oil hybrids.

So there you go. You're welcome. Maybe next year I'll get to that popping sound in my chest.

I Told You It Would Be Cool

The Saturday Quiz has been pre-empted by something better this week.

One of the happy side effects of having family from all over the civilized world and Canada out for John's funeral is that I got to meet several very cool members of my wife's extended family. Since the funeral I have been conversing by email with one of Julia's cousins, a guy named Andrew. I mentioned to him that I was something of a writer, and sent him a link to my blog. He mentioned that he was something of a musician, and sent me a link to a song that he wrote and performed.

I think he wins.

He swears to me that this really is him, but honestly if he had told me that "Man of Clay" was a Temple of the Dog bootleg, I would have had an easier time believing it. "Invitation" reminds me a little of Third Day or maybe Neil Young. The production quality isn't fantastic, but the songs themselves are amazing. Anyway, take a listen yourself and tell me what you think.

Man of Clay


Invitation

Live from Dreamland

I have a lot of weird dreams, which you would know if you had read this or this. Last night I dreamt that my wife and I won a chance to meet the members of the band Live. Live, in case you don't know, is best known for having the worst band name ever, even including The The, The Who, The Guess Who, The TBD, The Huh?, The Uhhhh, What, We Need a Name?, and Bread. Oh, Live is also known for having the only number 1 hit song containing the word placenta. The lyrics to Live songs are often so profound as to be virtually nonsensical, and sometimes they come out the other side to be almost profound again, such as in the case of a little ditty known as Insomnia and the Hole in the Universe:

Angel, don't you have some bagels in my oven?
Lady, don't you know a man when you see one?
Crazy lady with the shiny shoes, where are you?
Kick your feet and calm the space that makes you hollow

Little swami's got his bowl to eat
Little swami always walks his beat, sweet feet
Little swami's got his bowl to eat
And I sing the dirge song

Well, I don't have to tell you what that means. (So that will save some time, as Emo Philips would say.)

In point of fact, my wife and I have already met Ed Kowalczyk, the lead singer of Live, as documented by the undoctored photo above. How we came to meet him is a semi-interesting story in itself, which I will now tell because this post needs some filler.

A local radio station was giving away tickets to see Ed play a very small acoustic show in Modesto, just a few miles from where we live. My wife and I are huge fans, so we dialed and redialed on every phone we could lay our hands on every time we heard the "cue to call," but to no avail. We succeeded in being caller 8, caller 10, and just about every other caller except for the coveted caller 9. About 10 minutes after my last failed attempt, the same radio station announced that they were giving away a $25 gift certificate to Appleby's. After some thought, I decided that a free meal at Appleby's was probably worth hitting redial on my phone. And what do you know, I won! The conversation went like this:

DJ: You're caller nine! You won a $25 gift certificate to Appleby's!
Diesel: (Trying to contain my excitement at the prospect of having riblets for dinner. ) Oh, cool.
DJ: Hello?
Diesel: Hello.
DJ: Hello, are you there?
Diesel: I'm here. Hello?
DJ: Can they hear me? I don't hear anything.
Diesel: I'm here, I'm here!

Dial tone.

So there I sat, having failed even to win the riblet consolation prize, wondering if maybe I'd have a chance at the bucket of fish heads they would no doubt be giving away in another ten minutes. But rather than wallow in my riblet deprivation, I decided to make a stand. I called the radio station back and got ahold of the technologically impaired DJ. I told her that I was the rightful riblet winner, and she apologized profusely for the "technical difficulties." Sensing weakness, I pounced. "Well," I said, "You know how you could make it up to me...."

Which is how we got in to see Ed Kowalczyk with about 50 other people at a bar in Modesto. We were about 10 feet from the stage. Very cool.



Wow, maybe I didn't need that much filler. Anyway, back to my dream. Basically it was me and my wife hanging around in Ed Kowalczyk's basement with the rest of the band. They played a few songs, and then we sat around and talked. At one point Ed started talking about the commercialization of Christianity. And I told him (seriously, I dream in hyperlinks) that he really needed to check out Kinda Kitschy, and that he would probably also get a kick out of Crummy Church Signs as well. If you think I'm making that up, you obviously haven't been here long enough to know how screwed up my brain is.

Hey, at least it wasn't a commercial for a nonexistent sitcom.