Old Become New Again

When I was growing up, we didn't have cable TV. For one thing, it was the logistics of having a cable strung out to the middle of nowhere that I called home at the time. For another, it was the fact that my family, being small-time farmers, preferred not to have the extra expense of a monthly bill just so that we could watch even more television. I was one of those kids that would struggle to get out of bed every day for school. I'd barely get ready in time to catch the bus. However, my internal clock was so well-tuned that it would wake me before the crack of dawn on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons. I'm sure that I'll write more about that at another time. I was just wanting to make the point that we watched a lot of television. My dad especially watched a lot of TV, especially science fiction. If it was somehow related to the sci-fi genre, my dad was watching it. Star Trek, Babylon 5, Tripods, The Flash, Time Trax, Quantum Leap. He recorded as much as he could, and it wasn't much since we had limited channels. Dad also had horrible sleep apnea and would be up at very odd hours of the night. Occasionally, when I would have trouble sleeping, I'd head to the living room and find him watching some form of TV. Sometimes it was a movie. Sometimes it was a World War II documentary. Many times, though, it was science fiction. I would remember coming into the living room to the sounds of Kirk saying, "Space...the final frontier." At times, it would be at the end of one where all I'd catch is the "Oh, boy" before Sam leaped to someone else's rescue. I also remember a few times walking in to this very, very odd and haunting theme song. It was electronica music that had a very simple melody that would get stuck in my head. I would try to watch the show with Dad, but the special effects were horrendous, the scenery was obviously cardboard and all of the people spoke with really funny accents that made it hard for my poor American ears to understand and comprehend. I'd much rather watch Star Trek; big ships, phasers set to stun, and good, solid accents that were easy to understand. Except for Pavel. Never quite understood what he was trying to convey. I mean, all this other show had for a ship that I ever saw was a stupid telephone booth that said "Police" on it and had no windows. It just didn't make sense. Dad seemed to enjoy it for some reason, though.

And then, I grew up.

I came to learn that the show Dad was watching was Dr. Who. I also learned that it was the longest-running science fiction series in history. It started in the '60's and produced episodes on-and-off for decades. There would be times that I would be up late at night and an episode would be on. Every so often, I would try to watch one of these episodes, but it always felt like I was trying to catch up on who knows how many episodes. There were characters I didn't recognize and didn't understand why this one or that one would be evil but this other guy was good. I also never understood how you could have a series where the main character kept changing. Oh, it was always someone called "The Doctor," but his face was (from my perspective) constantly changing.

And then, I entered real life.

A friend of mine at work is a huge sci-fi fan. We talked a bit about Dr. Who and he let me in on the secret: The Doctor is an alien from an immortal race of time-travelers that have the ability to re-generate themselves if they receive some form of mortal harm. The regeneration process, however, changes them. It changes not only their faces, but their voices, mannerisms and even personality. And that was the genius of the creators of the show (or whoever thought of the concept). This is what allowed the show to go on for so long. If an actor got tired of playing the role, let him die in one episode, only to be regenerated in the next with a completely new actor playing the Doctor. Brilliant. My friend also told me that the BBC had started creating new episodes of the show that would be broadcast on the Sci-Fi Network, and, if I wanted him to, he would record the shows and burn disks for me to watch. I decided to give it a shot since this would be a new series, and I would have a very simple jumping-on point.

And now, I'm a fan.

We're into the second season (and second new Doctor) of Dr. Who now, and I've been loving it. The special effects are still nothing to brag about, and they still talk with the accents, but I can handle that, I think. The writing is fantastic. The acting is, for the most part, quite good. The stories have a way of making the aliens and the time travel and the robots touch your emotions in some way. There's the WWII bomb victim that's been resurrected by alien nano-machines and is walking around with a gas mask on asking in a haunting voice for "mummy." Chilling. There are the futuristic clock-work robots that dress as 18th century French courtesans with frozen porcelain doll faces. Creepy. The "last living human" that's been reduced to a brain in a jar and a face stretched within a frame and demanding to be "moisturized" all the time. Disgusting.

I get it now, Dad. Thanks.

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Thanksgiving, Surgery, and Carthage

Well, gentle reader, here I am again. Somewhat ironically, I missed being able to post an article on my own topic last week. Chronic laziness is indeed a joyous affliction. Even better is when chronic laziness is accompanied by raging apathy. That way it doesn't bother me in the least when my chronic laziness asserts itself. Sadly, this dear friend is nowhere to be found this week, so on to the matter at hand. Carthago delenda est!

With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching, most of us are thinking not so much about being thankful (Gratitude? What's that?) as about the turkey with which we are going to stuff our faces, the afternoon football tradition, and generally the semi-drugged stupor into which we will fall (following our consumption of the soporific turkey, of course). Why do the holidays always have to be about you? They should be about me. To that end, I am going to enthrall you with a marvelous tale...a tale of a fateful trip...that started from this tropic port aboard this tiny ship. Well, in all honesty, my tale has nothing to do with a trip...or a tiny ship. Rather, it has to do with one relatively recent occurrence in my family's life for which I have been exceedingly grateful, albeit inconsistently so. Last January, I was personally thankful that my infant son needed massive cranial remodeling surgery. Carthago delenda est!

Perhaps I should explain this statement, especially when one considers that cranial remodeling surgery basically consists of removing the skull of the patient (usually an infant or very young child), cutting it apart to allow its reshaping, and putting the newly remodeled cranial structure back into place, allowing it to once again do what it is skulls are supposed to do. Perhaps not. Perhaps this will be more effective if I simply leave it at that. I guess this is not an option. The voices are telling me that I need to explain. The voices cannot be denied. The voices are my close companions. The voices have spoken. That is all. Carthago delenda est!

When my son was born, following the current customary practice of modern medicine, he was given a complete physical. The results of that physical were less than perfect...at least from my frail perspective as an insignificant human. We learned that my son had three "soft" signs of chromosomal abnormality. Now, with only one of these signs, there was roughly a ten or fifteen percent chance that he did not have any such chromosomal issue. However, there were three. Our doctor informed us that tests were being run which would determine whether or not such abnormality was present. Thankfully (by which I mean, of course, "I've never been so frustrated and angry in my entire life"), we would only have to wait six to eight weeks for the results. No big deal, right? Of course not! Especially when our son later that day decided he would fail his hearing test as well. Oh, yeah. And then there was the teeny tiny little issue that decided to reveal itself a few days later--he had no "soft spot" on the top of his head and would likely need major cranial remodeling surgery. Carthago delenda est!

Needless to say, I'm sure, my wife and I were a little stressed out during this time. Now, don't get me wrong--I loved my son more than words can say...absolutely regardless of the results of the test. I'm not convinced I could have borne him having a chromosomal abnormality, however. I'm not that strong. Not even close. I have a very dear friend who has someone close to him/her with such a difficulty. I'm not certain whether or not I've every told him/her this, but I admire more than I can express both he/she and his/her family as they are confronted with the unique challenges this situation affords them. Even more, I am grateful for the lesson they have taught me personally--it's not an "affliction" or an "abnormality" in any sense that implies lesser status or value or worth or even ability to enjoy life. In my own experiences with the someone, I have equally been struck by that someone's pure joy in the simplest things of life and the child-like faith that has been evident to me on many an occasion. Does this mean there are no challenges? Of course not. But this does not mean that the quality of life or value of the individual is somehow lessened. If anything, I find that I am constantly taught things in a profound way by the someone, things that I may have never learned were it not for the unique circumstances of this situation. Now back to my point. It is incredibly easy for me to say this when it is not my family that is directly affected. It is a completely different matter for me when there is the possibility that my little son may be the one with a chromosomal abnormality. The waiting period revealed to me one thing above all else: I am weak. Far weaker than I would have thought. Again, does this mean that my love was somehow lessened by this? Absolutely not. Does it mean that I finally began to see new depths to my own depravity? You bet. Carthago delenda est!

As I'm sure you've gathered by now--at least the two of you that are still reading this--the test results came back completely normal. On top of that, my son passed his second hearing test (about four weeks after the first) with flying colors. The only thing remaining was the closed soft spot. As a matter of fact, this structural issue is what actually was causing the "soft" signs mentioned above. Rather than all three of the major issues with which we had initially been confronted, we were now faced with only one...and that one was eminently fixable. So, I was thankful...no, I am thankful that my infant son needed major cranial remodeling surgery. It was the only issue with which we were contending, and it was a "fixable" issue at that. This has to be one of the strangest things for which I am thankful. Carthago delenda est!

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Strange and Confused

I'm a reasonably intelligent person. I also like to think that I have a bit of creativity within me. However, I've never been very good at spur-of-the-moment creativity. I would have been horrible as a court bard. The king would say, "Sing me a song about hassenpheffer!" and then I would get pummeled by half-eaten turkey legs because I wasn't quick enough to come up with a word to rhyme with "rabbit." After all, any reference to "Charlie Babbit" would still have been several centuries off. If, however, I was allowed to take a bit of time for my composition, I would eventually come up with something ("dag nabbit!"). Such is the case with the topic of this week. Gudy sent us an email announcing the topic, and I spent the next few days allowing it to percolate in my head a bit. After all, we all can name things that we're thankful for, but what's the strangest thing for which I am thankful? I would go exploring down several different avenues of discussion. Some quite personal that I don't know I want to go down just yet and some that I know Anne would have a problem with. But I'm not mentioning either of those. It was starting to get to me. I mean, I had encountered writer's block before, but usually, the way my mind works, I'm able to get around it by coming up with some line to focus on or be driving towards. Then it hit me: my strange mind.

I've always known that I look at the world a little differently than most people around. Things will strike me funny for reasons that aren't apparent to anyone else in the general vicinity. There will also be times where something will strike me as interesting, and I internally take it on a very strange tangent. For instance, when I was in choir, we were singing some music where the bass cleft split into three parts, and we asked the director if he wanted us to have the tenors split and sing the top and the middle or if he wanted to have the basses split and sing the middle and the bottom notes. He thought about it for a minute and said, "I think we'll do a T-T-B di vici." The T-T-B di vici stuck with me. For some reason, an electric bass line started going through my head. You know the type: just a constant "Thump thump thump thump" that you'll find in pretty much any techno song in existence. Then I had a monotonic deep voice going over and over in my head: "T-T-B di vici...T-T-B di vici...T-T-B di vici...T-T-B di vici..." I went on to add in other parts all surrounding different directions that one finds in music such as "crescendo." It entertained me for days. No one else found it nearly as interesting, but I enjoyed it.

So, there you have it. The strangest thing for which I am thankful is my mind and how it works. It's allowed me to be entertained by things that are seemingly insignificant. It's allowed me to write a techno song that only entertains me. It's allowed me to come up with different ways to be romantic with my wife (though probably not as often as either of us would like). It's also allowed me to write different articles for this blog so that I have an outlet for creativity and you, hopefully, are being entertained by them as well.

Of course, with all of these things, it helps to be sleep-deprived.

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An Alien Among Us...

This week's topic, "Sci-Fi/Fantasy in Media Other than Movies or Books" affords me the perfect opportunity to address a growing concern of mine. I believe that one of the evening news anchors at a major station here in the Twin Cities could be an alien. Is it far-fetched? Yes. Is it out of the realm of possibility? Probably. Does it make for an entertaining column? I hope so.

Hear me out, though. First of all, to protect you readers from an evil alien plot, I'll henceforth refer to this person as "Jim" so that you are not aware of their actual name or gender. With that out of the way, I am going to address the three tests I have to reveal whether or not a person could potentially be an alien.

1.) If I met "Jim" in a dark alley at night, I would be afraid for myself. This may not seem like such a big deal, but let me explain further. I'm a rather large person at 6'3", 235 lbs. I'm not a giant, but I'm bigger than most people. As a result, not very many people intimidate me. The people that do either know kung-fu (Steven Seagal, Chuck Norris), or are crazy (Jose Canseco, Ron Artest, Yanni, Al Roker). But Jim just freaks me out. I avoid contact with Jim at all times. He gives me the chills.

2.) I have never seen the lower half of Jim's body. This is what starts to separate Jim from the other people I'm scared of. I've seen all of their legs. With Jim, anything is possible. Three legs, 9 tentacles, respulsorlifts that allow him to hover, tree roots...you get the picture. Jim is always behind that infernal anchor desk. Unlike the other anchors in the Cities, I have never seen Jim do a TV spot or promo that would cause him to stand up. He's hiding something behind that desk, and I don't think we'll like what we see if it ever gets revealed.

3.) Jim doesn't have a MySpace page. Aside from me, and a few of my friends, every person in the world has a MySpace page. And I know my friends are not aliens because I am either not afraid of them, I have seen their legs, or both. What is Jim hiding that he can't put it on a MySpace page? My guess, as stated above, is some evil alien plot or conspiracy to take over the world through news of the Upper Midwest.

So, if you find yourself watching the news in Minneapolis late at night, and an eerie power starts to try to take hold of you, turn your eyes away from Jim, and change the channel, at all costs. You safety and mine depends on it. Besides, you can always rest assured that there's a re-run of Seinfeld on just around the corner.

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Bring Your Dice!

When my wife, Anne, and I go to social events, I usually find myself telling some form of story. I can't help it; I got that from my dad along with a habit of staying up way too late for my sanity or good health. Oft times, however, many of these stories end abruptly and seemingly without a point. When this occurs, the people that we're with will usually look at Anne as if searching for an explanation of some sort. She usually gets a chuckle out of these looks because she has no idea what the point was either, but at least she's used to my method of story-telling. You'll understand this paragraph better by the end.

I've been friends with Gudy since somewhere around junior high/early high school. We soon found that we shared many similar interests including, it seemed, similar interests in certain females which, it occurs to me, is how we came to be introduced to each other. That's not what this story is about.

To a certain extent, I've come to be Gudy's sounding board. He has a fantastic imagination and is constantly coming up with ideas for stories or things he wants to try out or a new way of being able to anal-retentively micro manage something in regards to fantasy sports. The unfortunate part is that he often abandons the ideas. He's got a great imagination, but a poor attention span. That's not what this story is about either. It's all set-up. Bear with me, here.

One cold fall night, Gudy called me with another idea: Let's create our very own role-playing game. Wow. Did you hear that? That was the sound of dozens of browsers simultaneously closing. Never thought I'd be that affective. Oh well. Growing up in a very conservative household, I was never allowed to play a role-playing game like Dungeons and Dragons. However, they always intrigued me since one was gathering with a group of friends and, basically, writing their own stories set in a fantastical world where they could play characters in whatever manner they chose. They could be heroes or rogues. Catalysts or foils. Men or women. Bright or dim-witted. It was a fascinating concept to me. Creating our own would be a challenge, but fun. I was fresh off of reading the Tolkien novels and had a new passion for the fantasy realm. I was up to the challenge. So, after covering some of the basics (allowed races and classes along with attributes) I set about working on the mechanics. I wanted it to be simple, so instead of needing a large number of differently faceted dice, I went with using standard six-sided dice for everything. I also realized that I needed someone to play with since Gudy was a good four-and-a-half hour drive away. Well, four hours away for me at the time. It would be about five and a quarter for most rational humans. As luck would have it, Frederick III was living in the same town as me at the time, and he had previous experience with role-playing games. So, we set a day to get together and give it a shot. It went okay. F3 created an elven rouge (thief) named Glyndor that was quite anti-social. Therefore, I put him in a setting where he had to interact with people. I take evil glee where I can find it. F3's wife, Eleonor, was also there watching along, and like me, she had never played an RPG before, but she was intrigued.

So, it came to pass that in these simpler times (read: Only three children between both families as opposed to the seven for which we currently account) we all sat down and played an RPG together. Surprizingly, we were able to get Anne to play as well. It's surprising because, outside of Tolkien, Anne has essentially no interest in the fantasy realm whatsoever. She was willing to give it a shot because of the social aspect of things. We were having friends over and interacting. As the mother of a small child, she would take all of the grown-up conversation that she could at that point. Eleonor played a Dwarven Paladin named Dis (pronounced "deece"), and Anne played a human Paladin named Lidian. Anne got into the role-playing aspect the least of any of us, and her character was mainly relegated to just being muscle. Over the course of the next few months, we would get together and play a few times. It ended up being not nearly as much as we would have like to. After all, 3/4ths of us were in college at the time, and both couples had fairly new babies. We had a few adventures, though. I forced the two characters whose races had a deep-seated hatred for one another (Dis and Glyndor) fall in love (evil glee); Glyndor was poisoned at one point by some caustic berries, and every time he'd get them washed off, something would happen where he'd be splattered with them anew (evil glee); I had a villain for them to fight that I really liked and thought was quite menacing (a goblin named Ahab based on the old song "Ahab the Arab" which, looking back on it, could be considered quite racist). There was betrayal, revelation, and violence. Time marched forward, and we ended up moving away from the city. It was at a point in the story where we were just about to have some really interesting things happen. I had some pretty major plot points that were going to be revealed to the others really soon.

In the course of my lifetime, I've left dozens, perhaps hundreds of stories seemingly hanging, and for the most part, it doesn't bother me. Either I said what I wanted to say on the topic or, in mid-story, my brain finally catches up with my tongue, and I realize that the story isn't going to say what I want it to say, and it'd be best to bail at that point. I regret not finishing this story, though. Part of it is a point of pride. I want to share my cleverness with the others. I wanted to see their faces when I revealed the plot points that were intended to surprise them. There just wasn't enough time to get all of the stories told before life caught up with us. Maybe some day, I'll use this forum to get the story told in a short form over the course of a few posts, but that might be boring for the others who read this site. All six of you. At any rate, for now, the stories will just have to remain in my head, waiting for their time in which they will be revealed.

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Lost in Translation

Hello all. In explanation of this post, we here at Pluckytown have started a new program in which we have three themed weeks a month, and each one of the main contributors here gets to pick a theme for their week. This week's theme, brought to you by Kamp, is the "Longevity of Music." Now it's up to the other two of us to write something in line with that guidepost. Of all the things for me to focus on, I have chosen to take a look at nursery rhymes. Well, nursery rhyme, in this case, since all I'm going to be talking about is Little Boy Blue. This has a tune, so it qualifies as music. Onward.

Nursery Rhymes have seemingly been around forever. If you think about how they have existed, it makes sense. We were taught them as children by our parents, who in turn were taught them as children by their parents, and so on and so forth. They had to originate somewhere, and my guess is that most of them came somewhere out of the Middle Ages or 1800s. As usual, I have no research to support this. As usual, this piece is so ridiculous, it doesn't matter.

If we assume that the average nursery rhyme is more than 5 score old, then we can infer that some of the meaning of the original quip has been lost as language has evolved and been refined. This is where Little Boy Blue comes in. I'm sure that at some point, the moral of the story had something to do with working hard and not being lazy, but I have a hard time seeing that now. Here's the lyrics for those of you who are memorically challenged:

Little Boy Blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow,
The cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack,
Fast asleep.

Let's break this down from top to bottom.

Little Boy Blue come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow,
The cows in the corn.

As one who has a little bit of experience in this department, let me enlighten you a bit on why this doesn't make sense to me. I spent part of my formative years on a hobby farm in eastern North Dakota. We did not plant, grow, and harvest crops, but we dabbled in livestock, including, but not limited to, sheep and chickens. Sheep especially do not like loud, sudden noises. If you don't want to take my word for it, spend some time trying to track down comedian Ken Davis' story about Herman the Sheep. It's time well spent.

Now, if we read farther down into the rhyme, we are told that the sheep are in the meadow, and the cows are in the corn. I am assuming that these are places the animals should not be, otherwise notifying the caretaker of said animals would be completely unnecessary.

So, I guess my point here is that a sudden blast on a trumpet probably isn't going to have the desired outcome of rounding up the animals. It seems like a case of the manager not really having any idea of what his employee's job really entails, or how he should go about doing it. Seems to me a common occurrence today.

Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haystack,
Fast asleep.

Once again, I will draw from my farm experience on this one. I can tell you that if you can see part of Little Boy Blue under a haystack, and he's motionless, he's not sleeping. He's dead. I used to have to stack bales of hay on the farm. These are roughly 3 ft long, by 2 ft wide, by 2 ft high, or so. It's been a while. And I'd estimate each one weighs in the neighborhood of 30-45 lbs. Now a haystack probably can generate more than a few of these bales. We're talking multiple hundreds of pounds here. To have ended up underneath a haystack, Little Boy Blue is either the victim of a terrible accident, or an horrific murder.

So, in summation, we have a case of an employee being ordered to do a task that doesn't make any sense whatsoever, and he couldn't complete it anyway, cause he's dead.

And we teach our children this stuff.

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The Sacred and the Energizer Bunny

Well, gentle reader, after a one week hiatus I am back. Believe me, the one week was a good thing. You thought the LGDs were bad? Well, you've never seen anything like last week. Anyway, rather than entertain you with an exciting and graphic recounting of my marvelous exploits of a week past, I am instead this week going to bore you with something much more interesting to me personally. Of course, I mean this statement seriously only if it will improve my standing in the...fragrant...manure pile of your opinion. If not, I was being sarcastic. England prevails.

Of course, the subject to which I am referring is sacred music (i.e., church music). I find it fascinating that the ability to survive 20 or 30 years in the music industry--as has Weird Al, for example--is relatively rare and is therefore something of an attraction in and of itself. They just keep going...and going...and going...and going. I mean, did I go to an Aerosmith concert several years ago because they are the epitome of musical talent? Of course not--at least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I first of all wanted to see them live because they've become something of a legend in the music industry, with a career that at that time spanned the better part of three decades (not quite as long as the equally geriatric Rolling Stones or Ozzy Osbourne). Secondly, I was curious to see how long Steve Tyler could hop around the stage until he fell and couldn't get up. Finally there's something about going to a concert at which you will see more above-middle-aged people trying to convince themselves and everyone around that they're really seventeen than you'll see actual seventeen-year-olds that just appeals to the people-watching side of me (some would say the "peeping" side of me, but we won't go there), that this side of me finds uncontrollably hilarious in a sad, pathetic, what-a-sorry-state-the-world-is-in sort of way. You know what I mean, gentle reader. Something like you find at an Ozzy concert or (truly sadly) at an Eric Clapton concert. What was my point? Ah, yes. That longevity in the modern music industry is measured in terms of years or decades I find completely fascinating, especially when it is compared to longevity in sacred music, which is rather measured in terms of centuries...or even millenia. England prevails.

Take, for example, the Gloria in excelsis Deo, which is still used in the Roman Catholic mass (and in the services of some other Christian denominations) and whose first line has been famously appropriated for use in the Christmas carol "Angels We Have Heard on High." (Just draw out the gloria and move up and down the musical ladder a few times, and you'll remember why this phrase seems so familiar.) I have actually heard one individual claim that this song can be traced back into the first century and is therefore quite possibly the very song actually heard by the shepherds "keeping watch over their flock by night." (Luke 2:8 [NASB]) While this is a rather far-fetched claim for which there is little or no evidence, there is no doubt that the song (again, still in use today) indeed can be traced back in some form to the ancient world--probably the third or fourth century. Of course, taken as it is from the Vulgate version of Luke 2:14 ("gloria in altissimis Deo"), though substituting excelsis for altissimis, there is some sense in which one can say that this hymn can be traced back to that of the angels--just not quite in the manner meant by the individual mentioned above. England prevails.

Just as impressive is the realization that several hymns currently in use by various denominations--enough in use that they can actually be found in the hymnals of those denominations--were actually composed originally by St Ambrose of Milan, the bishop through whose ministry the great St Augustine came to the faith. While many of the hymns that were attributed to him in an earlier age are now generally (and correctly) regarded as being inauthentically Ambrosian (though often still of an equally venerable age), at least four are undoubtedly authentically Ambrosian. One of these, Jam surgit hora tertia, can still be found in Episcopalian hymnals. Nearer and dearer to my own heart, however, as my chosen name should reveal, is Veni redemptor gentium, which was actually translated (and used) by the great reformer Martin Luther as "Nun Komm, der Heiden Heiland." It remains a hymn in use today, particularly in the Advent season of the church, and has been rendered into English as "Savior of the Nations, Come." Amazing, isn't it, to think that when this hymn is raised up in praise, the modern congregation is actively sharing in the worship of saints gone centuries before. For me, personally, there are few things that drive home so thoroughly the unity of the body of Christ (e.g., 1 Cor. 12:12ff). England prevails.

What is the point of all of this, you ask, gentle reader? There is no point. Oh, wait. Yes, there is. In the first place, it is that music is indeed a powerful force that can be very effectively used both to edify and to destroy. In part, this is because music endures in a way that most other things cannot. In part, this is because music reaches so many--even the illiterate, the unread, the uncultured, the mentally challenged, the infant share in it and are impacted by it in ways that are often impossible to gauge. Indeed, studies have been done on people with such diseases as Alzheimer's, and music is the one thing that remains longer than any other memory or ability. People who don't even remember their own names, much less the names of their children or other loved ones, still are able to flawlessly sing songs learned early in life, songs that range from simple tunes (such as "Happy Birthday") to much more complex songs (such as "Amazing Grace"). Music (the tune and the content) sticks, both in terms of time (longevity) and in terms of individual memory. England prevails.

The second point follows from the first. Because of this remarkable endurance, music can be one of the most effective teaching tools that can be employed. (Along these lines, note how difficult it can be to recite the ABCs without singing the song, or at least following its rhythm.) At this point, more than any other, does one see the necessity that music--particularly in settings such as church, but really in any instructional setting--be chosen with extreme care. While care can and should be exercised regarding the style, regarding the musical elements (tune, etc.) of those songs employed in the worship service, of much greater import is it that care must be taken regarding the content of the music so employed. Far more effective than the spoken or the written word in communicating a message is the sung word. Poor content in music spreads false teaching far more rapidly and thoroughly than many other means. Conversely, good content in music bolsters good teaching far more effectively than many other means. So, take care, gentle reader, regarding the music you play for (or in the presence of) your children. Take care, gentle reader, regarding the music that you sing in church. Take care, gentle reader, regarding the music that you play for yourself. England prevails.

Now I'm going to go study and, while studying, listen to some Rob Zombie. Gentle reader, England prevails.

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Wierd Al...or Rodney Dangerfield?

Back in the summer before my eighth grade year, I was a kid going to summer camp. This would be the year that I would have a crush on a girl named Michelle, learn how to really play foosball, and have a councilor named Russ to whom we'd show our respect by thumping our chest whenever we'd greet him, much to his chagrin. It was also the year that I met the guy who would be my best friend throughout high school and most of college. His name was A.J., and like me, he was a bit of an odd duck. A.J. was the guy who taught me how foosball was to be played. He's also the guy who first introduced me to the music of Weird Al Yankovic. Well, at least he introduced me to the lyrics of Weird Al. We couldn't have any sort of CD or tape player at this camp, but that's all another story. A.J. taught me all of the lyrics to "I Love Rocky Road", Al's parody of the "I Love Rock 'N Roll" made famous in America by Joan Jett. I loved this concept: take a song that everyone knows and change the lyrics so that it's funny. It's simple but beautiful, and Al was able to pull it off fantastically. Later that summer, I bought my first CD player from Sears off the clearance rack. The first CD that I bought to play in it was, for some inexplicable reason, Aerosmith's Greatest Hits, but the second CD was Weird Al's Food Album. I listened to that CD as much as I could. It contained many of Al's early hits that involved some form of food or food product: "Fat", "Eat It", "Spam", "Addicted to Spuds", and "I Love Rocky Road". I had found one of my favorite artists. Little did I know that my love of his music would last as long as it has. Here I am, over a decade later, and I'm still buying new music from Al. I'm watching his latest music video several times a week. I'm also having to make the same defense of his music now that I had to make then to people. There seems to be an attitude held by people outside of Al's fan-base that Al is really little more than a "hack." That he's someone who mooches off of the hard work of others and makes money just by changing some lyrics and putting out a CD. Nothing could be further from the truth.

First of all, when an artist is able to have a career that spans four decades (so far), he must be doing something right. Al's parodies first started appearing on Dr. Demento's show in the late '70's before Al put out a CD. The amazing thing, though, is the fact that even though Al's been around this long with so many recognizable songs (for his lyrics, not just the music) he's only recently had a top-ten hit with "White and Nerdy". Al has been working hard putting out an album every couple of years along with regularly touring. One year, for my birthday, my brother purchased tickets for us to go see Al when he was coming to a town near us. This was during his "Touring With Scissors" tour. If there was one thing that I took out of that whole experience, it was that Al puts on an amazing show. It would have been nigh-impossible to leave the arena that night without a smile on your face. One of the reasons that Al has had such a long career is that he's a fantastic entertainer. However, he, along with his band, are also fantastic musicians.

I know what some of you are saying right now: "Weird Al is a musician? You've got to be kidding me! What did I do with my chips?" Sorry, we got some run-over with your off-topic thoughts. Anyway, the answer to your questions are "Yes" and "On top of the refrigerator," respectively. I know that for many of Al's song's he's "merely" copying the musical styling that someone has already done. One would think that all of the hard work is done. However, look a little bit deeper. For his parodies, Al and the band are mimicking a huge variety of musical styles. They do different types of rap (M.C. Hammer, emminem, Chamillionaire), classic rock (Joan Jett), boy band (N*Sync), grunge (Nirvana), hip hop (Puff Daddy, or whatever he's calling himself these days), and bad '80's music (New Kids, Gerardo, Milli Vanilli) straight-up rock (Aerosmith, Presidents of the United States of America), and iconic (U2, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan). To be able to play in the styles of such a wide variety of artists requires a musical dexterity from all of the members of the band from the vocalist to the drummer.

I have talked with some people in the past who rail against Weird Al because he's "stealing music." Nothing could be further from the truth. I'll let Al's website do the talking for this question:

Al does get permission from the original writers of the songs that he parodies. While the law supports his ability to parody without permission, he feels it's important to maintain the relationships that he's built with artists and writers over the years.

The Fair Use Act allows for a copyright-holder's work to be parodied without asking for permission, but Al asks anyway. That's because he's such a nice young man.

I know this probably didn't convince many people to give Al the respect that he deserves, but I thought it important to make the points that I made. His longevity in the music business is testament to his genius. He's lasted over thirty years in the music business, and he'll probably continue to be popular (with at least a certain segment of the music audience) for many years to come. I'm not expecting people to become huge Al fans out of this, but you could at least give him a shot. All I'm asking is that you try.

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