If James Lileks is going to spend the week blogging, I'm going to spend my week bleating. Ohhh, he might have the age, experience, and talent, but I have youth, obliviousness, and raw enthusiasm. And like they say, youth and enthusiasm trumps age and guile every darn time.
When I was younger (so much younger than today) I used to tape songs off the radio and make mix tapes to trade. The content of these tapes were bad classic rock ("Double Vision," "The Final Countdown"), amateur comedy skits, and a huge avalanche of novelty songs from the local morning show, sub-Dr. Demento stuff that was hi-larious to a twelve year old but maybe isn't quite as compelling now that I have quality-control software installed.
Nevertheless, there were some stone classics in with all the dreck. "Smoke That Cigarette," "Dead Puppies," and the entire Weird Al Yankovic oeuvre, from "My Bologna" to "Eat It" remain great stuff, soul food for my inner preteen. In fact, just mentioning "Smoke That Cigarette" puts it back in my head.
[camera pans slightly up and to the right as a thought balloon appears above J T-C's head. Cartoon animals gambol within as a barbershop quartet of monkeys link arms and sing "Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette/ Puff, puff, puff, until you smoke yourself to death/ And tell Saint Peter at the golden gate, that you hates to make him wait/ But you just gotta have another, cigarette."]
Ok - I'm back, that was nice. Somewhere, Thomas Pynchon is having a fit. There was an actual, erm, point to this post, but it has been shoved into a corner by the cartoon animals so here's some stuff about clothing.
Went shopping with Goodwife Two-Cents this weekend for a new summer wardrobe. It is an indication of just how much being married has changed me that I am now aware that there are summer clothes and winter clothes, the difference being more than just whether they keep you warm or cool. The big change was that I found myself agreeing to buy alien garments that a younger me would have kicked my ass for wearing. A lavender shirt. A baby blue shirt, in a really nice subtly two-tone fabric (the miracle of synthetic textiles!). Brown, backed clogs (clogs!?!) with excellent arch support that look totally boss with my unfashionably unfashionable brown suit. And the capper, a tie that in certain lights could be accurately be called, um, PINK. Pinkish, anyway. To wear with the same brown suit. I really should kick my own ass anyway, just out of duty, but I look so shaaarp, and I dont want to wrinkle anything. Besides, I still wear black jeans and plain t-shirts on the weekend, just like the forty-year-old I will become eleven years hence.
The mall trip reminded me of one of the very best novelty songs of my youth, which neatly combined my incredibly nerdly Star Trek fixation with the base humor I still love. If you have ever been a fan of Dr. Demento, you have heard it and probably even know all the words. It is Leonard Nimoy's immortal 1967 classic, "Highly Illogical." The pertinent stanzas run thusly:
From far beyond the galaxies I've journeyed to this place
To study the behavior patterns of the human race
And I find them highly illogical
[cue cute two-step pop music]
Girl meets boy they fall in love
She says he's everything she's dreamed of
But when they get married before he's aware
She changes his habits the way he combs his hair
She changes him to someone he's never been
And then complains he's not like other men
Now really I find this most illogical
Not that Goodwife Two-Cents has changed me at all. I have simply learned that some things I used to do are wrong, and that there are better ways. Her guiding hand has merely eased my path to enlightenment.
Ahoy! The point!!
It occurs to me that Doctor Demento is a perfect example of how niche genres of music thrive in a non-commercial setting. Somewhere in a drawer, on a little homestead in the brown hills of northeastern Ohio, lies a shoebox filled with those mix tapes, the truest documents of my childhood. Of the hundreds of pieces of copyrighted material within, not a bit of it was licensed in any way. And you know what? Even as the RIAA is planning to burn down the house to kill the mice within, my record collection contains many, many legitimately bought records by everyone from Weird Al, Spike Jonez, and The Frantics (authors of the greatest novelty song of them all, "Ti Kwan Leep/Boot To The Head"), to Europe ("The Final Countdown," a legacy of my poodle-metal days back in Ohio). All these purchases were made possible by my illegal taping and distribution of those songs when I was very young. I know these songs because I came to love them for free. Not necessarily over the radio, mind you, but because my little community shared the songs within itself. The RIAA can crack down all they wantit just proves that, after fifty years of peddling rock and roll and twenty years of focus-groups and statistical analysis, they have no idea why people buy what they buy, and why they choose to download it for free instead.
[update]: Umm... heh, heh... I would never, ever, EVER wear the pink(ISH) tie with the lavender shirt. Just for the record.