Our atom bombs were just no use.

I've always had the sense that my previous selves had better musical taste than my current self.  Records that I bought in the last two years invariably end up collecting dust on my shelf (or with 0 plays on iTunes), while records that I bought while I was in high school and college get tons of play.  It's a bad sign.  But an even worse sign is one I just discovered, i.e., that not only did I have better taste in music ten years ago, I also had better taste in music as a nine-year old.

Consider Weird Al Yankovic.

Recently, while trading music with Money Changes Everything (henceforth on this blog: MCE), I was reacquainted with two Weird Al records: the classic "Dare to be Stupid," and "Weird Al Yankovic: In 3-D!".  I had no idea that Weird Al was not only a talented jokesmith, but also a musical genius in his own right.  Leave aside his song parodies for the moment, such as "Like a Surgeon" or "King of Suede."  There are two other essential facets of Al records: original tunes, or "style" parodies, and Polka Medlys.

Let's take the latter first.  On "Hooked on Polkas," it seems almost as if Al is putting the pedal to the metal, so to speak.  The song starts out SO FAST - it's as if he's daring the audience to keep up with the 3:45 of the song.  Something like 11 songs go by in the midst of this polka, it's really amazing, as are the transitions between songs.  Sometimes he sticks to standard polka musical staples, but other times, he appears to be building between songs to create a sort of mid-song "metasong," as, if you listen, the transition between "Footloose," "The Reflex," and "Metal Health (Bang Your Head)" becomes.  It's really quite astounding.  Maybe you think I'm crazy describing a guy who does polka as a genius, but don't knock it until you really listen.

Second are his original tunes, or "style" parodies.  There are many of these, including "Velvet Elvis," which is a Police parody from "Even Worse."  But two especially deserve mention.  The first is "Dare to be Stupid" from that same record.  This is clearly a Devo parody, but it's really done with a sense of command over the genre.  It's as if Al himself has inhabited the Devo universe and taken control, produced "Dare to be Stupid," was overthrown, and returns to our universe with the original master tapes of his creation.  And furthermore, the music is dense, the track is deep, it's overall very satisfying.  Slap some non-joke lyrics on there, and you'd have yourself an extremely good synth-pop tune.

But the one that I think just cements Al in the canon of musical greats is the track "Slime Creatures from Outer Space."  I listened to this tune yesterday, and I immediately was suspicious that it was an Oingo Boingo parody.  But as Al did another Boingo parody later ("You Make Me" on "Even Worse), I was unconvinced.  One thing that I knew was the track was totally sweet.  Great arrangements, incredibly tight vocal harmonies.  Really tight.  When writing harmonies like that, you have to know what you're doing.  You really have to know what you're doing.  The various parts move in an out of 3rds, 5ths, and 7ths in a super compelling way, with each harmony part sounding like a melody of its own.  Now that's hard to do.

I didn't know who it was a parody of, but I remember saying to myself: whoever this is a parody of, I really want to listen to because this is so good.  Answer: it's Thomas Dolby.  You know, that Thomas Dolby I've been going on and on about for a while now.  The Thomas Dolby who's super-sweet.  But it's a testament to Al's genius that I could find the same affection for Thomas Dolby in one of Al's tracks without consciously knowing that it was a parody of Dolby.  Again, he inhabits a musical universe and returns with extremely delightful results.

So, as it happens, not only would the high-school-me slap me around for listening to crap, so would the nine-year-old me.  And, frankly, I'd have to agree. 

I guess it just wasn't my night.

Being diabetic and drunk at the same time is sometimes tricky business.

Mixing up one thing for the other can lead you to serious medical problems, or lead you into serious drunkenness.

Knock on wood, only the latter is going on tonight.

A brief recap: it was Mrs. Rugby's birthday (or thereabouts), so I trudged all the way to Claremont - actually near my old house - to drink screwdrivers and party.  Well, apparently I had a little more party in me than the party did, because everyone else crapped out by 1am, while I was still three sheets to it.  The wind, that is.  So I made everyone stay up while I sobered up - no one complained, though I could feel their condemning eyes on me.  Screw you, people!  Ahem, anyway, just drove home and now I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that I was a little too goddamn wasted to a) be driving; b) for any other purpose whatsoever.

Look, I'm getting on in years, and it's less likely that I'm going to find excuses to rock and roll all night and party ev-er-y-day.  So I take them when I can get them.  Few and far between, as it were.  Scarce.  So I take advantage.  What I sometimes don't realize, however, is the extent to which my own capacity for drunken revelry is trumped by others' consistent alcohol intake, leaving them less likely to want to close down every bar in town when I want to.  C'est la vie.  Anyway, this has been a long-winded introduction to my drunken blogging skills.  Frankly, I think I'm damn good at it.  In closing, I wish to present the following sweet-ass picture of his Royal Badness:

Mashed potatoes can be your friends.

We have a new entry in the crackpot list, found here.

I got this link in an email.  The author is apparently campaigning for the Nobel Prize in Game Theory.  This is odd because there is no Nobel Prize in Game Theory.

I was there to match my intellect.

Test.  Test.  Test.  Trying out a new blogging widget.  Rock and Roll will Never Die.

You can eat a bunch of sushi then forget to leave a tip.

I. The E-Bay Moment of Clarity

I've been a bit obsessed lately with electronic music gear. I got my SY77 a few weeks ago, and it is totally fun. Like, super fun. It's way more fun than my old SY85, even though that one was slightly newer. Getting the SY77, however, was somewhat arduous. I had to drive up to LA, and not even just LA, but the valley, to get it. When I called the dude the day before he was like: "I know you're coming from San Diego, but could you tell me, you know, exactly when you'll be here, so I can make sure I don't have to spend the whole day waiting because, you know, being in LA I'm used to a lot of flakey people." Whatever. I'm paying you $250 bones for this thing and you want me to send you text messages for every highway I pass? Screw you, buddy! Anyway, I'm driving up there at like 9am on Saturday a few weeks ago, and I call him at the designated time (when I left the 405 for the Ventura Freeway). His wife picks up the phone: "Oh, sorry, he has a meeting for another hour or so." Grr. Flakes in LA, indeed. Me: "That's ok. I have cash. I can just get it from you, right?" Her: "No. He wants to be here."

Growl. Pisser. Sumbitch. What the fuck? That jackass made me drive up all the way giving him little electronic signals for every stoplight I passed, and now he won't even let me pick up the damn thing? Cruddy. Anyway, I get off the freeway and take Mulholland (that's right! WOOHOO!) up to this guy's neighborhood. I decide to wait for his ass in some fancy-ass grocery store, which was far too fancy-ass for my tastes. It had an automatic wine-chiller device. Apparently, you put your wine in this machine for a designated number of minutes, and it returns all chilled-like. I wonder if it works for Colt .45? That'd be a miracle. Anyway, he finally calls and I go get the thing.

The thing is, I was sort of on a time crunch that day because my dad wanted me to come by his house for dinner. However, there was an extra incentive. If I made it by 3pm, I could meet George Foreman! Woohoo! Apparently there was some chance that the Champ was going to be at this function because his kid goes to my dad's school. So I'm trying to burn rubber from Burbank to Redlands. And, thank you very much, I did it in one-and-a-quarter playings of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. (Why did I just write out the whole title? I'm a mystery.

However, the GF thing was a bust. He was a no-show. For my time, I got to sit in a middle of a football team pep-talk, with a speech given by my dad, approximately half of which was given up to introducing me and giving minute details about my personal and professional life. Or, anyway, that I'm a philosopher. Which is too much information for some people to take.

Anyway, that was a long winded introduction to my recent ebay moment of clarity. Because this keyboard is so much friggin' fun to play with, I decided to look around to see what other used gear is out there, and stumbled across this. Now, I have a long history of lust for this keyboard. The first time I noticed the name "Kurzweil" was on the back of the keyboard that Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran was using during the Duran Duran comeback of 1992-3. I thought: that's a weird name for a keyboard. But then I happened to mess around with one at Big Dude's Music City of Kansas City, MO. Sweet. Of course, the price tag was a consistent $3500, beyond my means. So I got a cheaper one, my old standby SY85.

But these things have been showing up on ebay. Especially the rack-mount one, which is considerably less and does everything the normal one does. So I've been bidding. And one was ending today, which started the day off at $120. A steal. So I bid. And bid. And bid. Finally, I get to $150. I know that if I bid even $2.50 more, I'll get it, because I've reached the other guy's maximum.

And that's when it hit me: how the fuck am I going to afford $200 (including shipping) for a Kurzweil K2000? No way at all! So, with 58 seconds left in the auction, and with my cursor in the "Bid Now" field, I let it expire. No go.

A little sad, perhaps. Disappointed. But greatfully, thankfully, alive.

II. The Real Moment of Clarity

I was at a labor-day party on Monday, Labor Day, that is. Having a smashing time with Mr. Rugby, Mrs. Rugby, Monopoly, and assorted others. Occasionally it happens that my glasses will get a little dirty. Perhaps a little dusty, a little oily, a little smudged with mustard or some other condiment. Perhaps some potato salad. Or a little saurkraut (though I rarely do this one on purpose). Anyway, I took my glasses off to rub them with the front of my shirt, and to my utter astonishment, they break in two. Right in half. You know that classic nerd image of the guy with a pocket protector and tape on the bridge of his glasses? Well, that's me without the tape or the pocket protector. My glasses have gone kaput.

What to do? Well, I walked around the rest of that day looking really closely at things. I decide that Tuesday I will get a new pair. But how? If I don't have $200 to pay for a Kurzweil K2000 (a tear...) I surely don't have $200 to pay for a pair of glasses. But then I remember one of the fundamental principles of our economy: credit cards. Mine, however, happens to be a somewhat limiting American Express, refused by the student health optometrists. Ugh. So I guess I'll have to go to Lenscrafters. So I go. I say: "Could you possibly read the prescription off of my glasses? I just want whatever I have in a new frame." He say: "No can do. You have to get eye exam." I say: "Dashed! Ok." So I go get an eye exam. Whatever. Halfway through he takes my glasses. He says: "Ok, I'm going to take your glasses and see if your prescription has changed." Er. Wait. Pause. Consider. Ruminate. Ah-ha! The Thomson Twins! You have to read my old prescription off of my glasses in order to get my new prescription! Buggerer!

So I'm pissed as I go to pick out frames. There was a grand total of one pair that didn't make me want to barf. But it was 250 bones. It was cool, a very distinct Clark Kent look that suited me. Alas, however, I couldn't afford them. I settled for a sub-par pair of Ray-Bans.

Until I went to pay for them and realized they tacked on another $180 for lenses.

BULLSHIT!

So I split. Went to student health. Paid $119 for a pair of semi-Clark Kent frames that just came in today. Poor for the rest of the month, although it's quite likely that I could leap small buildings in a single, or perhaps two, bounds.

Two moments of clarity, for a grand total of $424.