Song parody time

I thought it was time for a song parody. Google tells me that some wingnut has beaten me to this idea (and I'm not posting the link here), but I like mine better. It's not Weird Al, but I work a lot cheaper.

BLAME IT ON BARACK OBAMA
(to the tune of "Blame It on the Bossa Nova" by Eydie Gorme)

Well, I lost my job
And my wife done gone
And she left me here
With my dog and gun
But I can’t accept
Responsibility
So I’m gonna blame that guy down in D.C.

Blame it on Barack Obama!
‘Cause my state turned blue
Blame it on Barack Obama!
‘Cause Rush told me to
Last November he carried the day
Now someone said he’ll take my guns away
Blame it on Barack Obama, the President

(Now is it the debt?) No, no, Barack Obama
(Or maybe Dubya Bush?) No, no, Barack Obama
(Or your own damn fault?) No, no, Barack Obama
The President!

Now, my friends and I,
We’re gonna have a ball
We’re gonna raise a fuss
At the old town hall
Gonna rave and rant
And get on the news
As we sing the creeping socialism blues

Blame it on Barack Obama!
‘Cause he’s African
Blame it on Barack Obama!
Just because I can
I can’t believe they voted for that clown
Why, he’s the reason why my car broke down
Blame it on Barack Obama, the President

(Is it random chance?) No, no, Barack Obama
(Or your horoscope?) No, no, Barack Obama
(Or Freemasonry?) No, no, Barack Obama
The President!

Not a place to hide

The 2009 Annual Gathering of American Mensa is in the books. Over 1800 people attended, many people worked really hard, and just about everybody had fun. All that, and Dr. Demento, too.

My adolescence (at least the good part of it) flashed before my eyes when the Doctor gave his presentation on his 50 years in radio. His multimedia presentation was loaded with favorites from his show, such as “Fish Heads,” “Dead Puppies,” and several tracks from Weird Al Yankovic. I revisited a musical world that I once thought was known only to me, but as I looked around the room, I saw that I wasn’t alone after all.

I was given the honor of driving Dr. D from and to the airport. The Doctor is quite reserved off the mike, a contrast to his manic radio personality. He’s still an encyclopedia of musical knowledge off the air, but my conversations with him went all over the place—his hometown of Minneapolis, a collegiate trip across the country on a Vespa scooter, his stints as a roadie for Canned Heat and Spirit, and what Barnes and Barnes are doing now.

I also caught up with many of the people who have been a big part of the story of my life over the past decade. While I haven’t had the chance to attend as many Mensa gatherings over the past two years, Mensa has been, and continues to be, the crux of my social life. I met my wife through Mensa, and we were married at a Mensa function.

I’ve often asked myself, “Why Mensa?” The easy answer is that I get along better with Mensans than I do with the general population, but that just leads to another “Why?”

Is it because I have common interests with them? To some degree, yes. Like many Mensans, I know the words (Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!) to many (He’s just pining for the fjords!) Monty (Now go away or I shall taunt you a second time!) Python routines. But I can get lost in their conversations on many other topics, just as easily as I can in a non-Mensan conversation. And not all of my interests are especially Mensan (I’m still waiting to meet another Mensan with more than a passing interest in horse racing).

Is it because Mensans are inherently kinder or more tolerant than non-Mensans? Anybody who has been involved in Mensa politics knows that’s not true. Mensans can be downright cruel at times. These are, after all, people who hooted when Dr. Demento mentioned a radio station “right here in Philadelphia.”

The other morning, I had one of what my wife calls “epiphanettes,” one of those little insights that tend to hit me when I’m not looking.

I think I found the reason why Mensa gatherings are the only place where I don’t feel like the rear end of a pantomime horse. (Enough with the Python already, Bob!)

Mensa is the only place where I don’t have to hide my intelligence.

It sounds a bit silly on the surface. Why hide your intelligence? The better question is, why show it? Sometimes I wonder why they call people of Mensan-level intelligence “gifted.” Unless that gift happens to be of a specific type that an employer is willing to pay a large sum of money for, it’s a gift as appealing as an ugly tie. The only solution for many of us is not to wear that tie.

Many people are so insecure about their intelligence that they resent the gifted. We are taught from an early age to avoid one-upping classmates, teachers, family, co-workers, and bosses in order to get along in life. Mensa is the one place where we’re able to let the geek flag fly.

One unfamiliar with Mensans might be surprised at the occupations they hold. To trot out a cliché, they do come from all walks of life. Yes, computer geeks are common. There are also lawyers, teachers, doctors, writers, scientists, plumbers, mechanics, electricians, and, yes, a now-retired adult film star. There’s one occupation that I’ve always found under-represented—college professors. (And please don’t bombard my inbox with the names of Mensan professors. I’m going by my own experience here.) My theory? They don’t need Mensa because they don’t have to hide their gifts in the real world.

So to the 1800-plus who attended the 2009 AG, I hope you had a great time. I’ll see you down the road when I have the means to come out of hiding again.

Cheerio, when the moon sails along
In your heart, sing a bright little song
Someday I’ll kiss away your troubles and woe
Cheerio, cherry lips, cheerio
And don’t forget to stay demented!

On the death—and immortality—of rock ‘n roll

Some pointed comments by E-Streeter Steven Van Zandt at the SXSW musicfest have brought something to the front of my mind that has been back there among all the back issues of Spin for a while.

He’s said what many people have had on their minds for a while—contemporary pop music sucks.

You can hear it for yourself on any commercial FM station that isn’t country (don’t worry, I’ll get to country some other time)—the endless parade of rappers tossing out facile chants about partying, and dance divas bleating through synthesizers about, well, partying.

Top 40 radio never was as great as its reputation suggests (the list of great artists who have never had a Number One hit is too long to reproduce here), but it’s never been as shallow as it is now.

OK, so the Top 40 singles charts haven’t been relevant to anyone over 14 since the mid-80s. (And do they still make singles, anyhow?) You can’t use the old line that “albums are where it’s really at” anymore, either. Don’t believe me? Read this. Of the top 20 best-selling album artists, the only ones who are worth a damn are a band that broke up when I was four and a dead country singer. OK, The Dixie Chicks get points for chutzpah, and sometimes I’ll throw Metallica in there, too, but still…

So, after reading Miami Steve, I’ve been all over the web, reading articles from pundit after pundit prattling about the sorry state of pop music and/or the death of rock ‘n roll.

I have come to two conclusions.

1) Rock is dead.

2) Rock is not dead.

Let me explain.

Almost from its inception, rock has been about more than music. It was a state of mind, an attitude. In the public eye, it was more about youth and rebellion than the music itself.

If you doubt this, watch any documentary about the history of rock ‘n roll. Which are you more likely to see—a music theory professor talking about the blues scale and power chords, or naked girls dancing in the mud at Woodstock?

Rock, the attitude, has been dead for a long time, for a simple reason—old age.

Rock’s audience is older, and its fans are, more often than not, those in power in our society. Kids can’t rebel by listening to their parents’ music, so it’s no accident that many of them now prefer rap and hip-hop. But corporations have discovered that teenagers now have much more disposable income than they had in the early days of rock ‘n roll and are more than happy to give them a place to dispose of it. That’s why so much music aimed at youth today comes across (at least from my more adult perspective) as slick, false, and as menacing as a Muppet.

But then there’s the music itself. Shorn of its controversies and politics, a lot of good music has been released under the general banner of “rock,” and there will be more to come. You just won’t see it on a list in Billboard.

Rock has started to assume a place in American culture similar to jazz. Both come from a rich musical tradition and, while they have both been popular in the past, are now less accessible to the masses. But while they are not as popular, they’re both far from dead.

Rock is still around, in small clubs, on independent labels, and in the hearts and minds of all those who love it. As someone posted on Yahoo! Answers when posed with the “Is rock dead?” question: “If you’re listening to it, no.”

Everyday I face the book

One thing I have noticed is that this blog often does not live up to the subheading.

It reads, "Politics, Culture and Whimsy from a Chipped Chopped Mind." It often seems as if there isn't enough whimsy here. I often think I would like to just babble, do a Jack Kerouac "first thought, best thought" thing. So that's what I'm doing now.

I could go back to mondegreens. Those seem to get a lot of hits, but not one-tenth as many as the Fall Out Boy video. Everybody loves the luleelurah.

I have been accused of making up my mondegreens after the fact. But the mondegreens are exactly as I heard them, although most of them I misheard when I was little. I thought of this one tonight:

WRONG: One little wrong brings home the food that the children never remove
RIGHT: One little wrong brings all the gloom, sends a chill in every room
"Chip Chip," by ?

(The original "Chip Chip" was by Gene McDaniels, but my mondegreen was from a cover version by a female country singer in the early '70s. I don't know the singer, and Google's been no help. Readers? Bueller?)

Then there are those mondegreens which can only be described as Dada:

WRONG: To St. Tiffany I want to pray
RIGHT: When I see Mary Ann walk away
"More Than a Feeling," Boston

St. Tiffany? Not to be confused with St. Taffy, patron saint of the peter pull.

The problem is that a lot of things don't seem funny. Then again, almost anything can seem funny to some people. In my family, we made jokes about serial killers at the dinner table. John Gacy--now that guy was a real laugh riot. I heard he recited the 23rd Psalm while strangling people. And dressed as a clown to boot.

I've been on Facebook a lot lately, discovering a lot of people from high school and college, many of whom I barely knew back then. There's a link to this blog on my profile page, so I can't say anything about what a dork that one guy is...you know who you are...

It certainly is an eclectic group, full of Christians and Jews and pagans and atheists. No Zoroastrians. Yet. There are screaming liberals like me and some right-wingers who....are entitled to their opinion....(cough!) There are gays and grandmothers, Methodists and Mensans, Pittsburgh Steelers (and even some Browns) fans and people who think "first down" is something a gosling has.

And all of them have some connection with me, even though I wouldn't recognize many of them if I were in the same room with them. This is Your Life, Bob Fritz! Do you recognize this voice? Uh...no....

Ah, the power of the Internet. It can make even a nerd feel popular.

Whose American Dream?

The American Dream. It’s a phrase that’s thrown around a lot every day, although few people can tell you what it really means.

Wikipedia defines it thus:

The American Dream refers to the freedom that allows all citizens and all residents of the United States to pursue their goals in life through hard work and free choice.

Wow. Just reading that took my breath away. Well, not literally, but you get the idea. But since the phrase was coined in 1931, its meaning has been bastardized beyond recognition.

The next time you hear “The American Dream” used in the media, pay close attention to how it’s being defined. It’s usually used by a newscaster while footage of some housing plan loaded with ugly McMansions is being shown. The voice-over will say something like, “The cost of the American Dream just got higher today….”

That’s right—the American Dream has been narrowed down to owning a house. Where in the above definition does it say anything about owning a house? Why is it assumed that the goals in life are always material?

The need to survive being what it is, many goals are material, but does that mean the media should be in the business of creating false needs on top of the real needs that are already breaking people’s backs?

Perhaps it’s time to sit back and assess what this American Dream really is.

An idea that has become analogous to The American Dream is the “Horatio Alger story.”

The phrase “Horatio Alger story” comes, strangely enough, from stories written by Horatio Alger, which, allegedly, concern poor boys that become rich through hard work and clean living.

That’s how Alger’s stories are perceived today, mainly because few people currently living have actually read them. Most of the protagonists do not become rich, nor is hard work the main reason for their character development:

“However, it is not the hard work and clean living that rescue the boy from his situation, but rather a wealthy older gentleman, who admires the boy as a result of some extraordinary act of bravery or honesty that the boy has performed. For example, the boy might rescue a child from an overturned carriage or find and return the man's stolen watch. Often the older man takes the boy into his home as a ward or companion.”

So that’s what they called it back then…

Today many of us try to live out a “Horatio Alger story,” overextending ourselves in order to gain wealth or status—to live The American Dream.

Maybe this American Dream is nothing more than a misinterpretation of the works of a 19th-century pulp novelist.

Why do you think they call it trivia?

Last weekend, I took part in something called CultureQuest, which has nothing to do with yogurt or strep throat.

Instead, it is a 90-minute test of "cultural literacy" (a term for people who are too prissy to call it trivia) among teams representing Mensa chapters across the U.S. and Canada. Do you know the eight countries in “The Group of Eight”? Or what characteristic makes the Ferruginous Pygmy Owl ferruginous? Do you care?

I have played on CultureQuest teams for two different Mensa chapters over the past few years, and we have, more often than not, managed to earn a few bucks for the chapter—which is good, because all this knowledge should be worth something.

It’s fun, it’s not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon—but with every passing year it means less to me.

When I was younger, trivia contests were what I was all about. I was a terrible athlete, had no real talent that went beyond the high school marching band—but I never met a state capital that I couldn’t name.

So, I was a natural for “In The Know.” You might know it by a different name in your town, but the principle is the same—a TV show where teams from two high schools answer trivia questions.

I was always pumped for each game, because it was my chance to shine. The results were all too predictable. My school would win one or two games each year, and then lose to a school where people besides me took the game seriously.

Since there are no professional trivia teams, my spotlight disappeared once I left high school (although, for several years afterward, I would often overhear kids in my neighborhood mumble something about “In The Know” whenever they saw me), but that didn’t stop me from wanting to reclaim it. I would play along with “Jeopardy!” whenever it came on. People in the room would usually say one of two things. One was “Shut up!” The other was “You should get on that show.”

I had my chance to get on a quiz show a few years ago when tryouts for “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” came to Pittsburgh. I made it all the way to the final interview, but was not chosen.

Why? I think it might have had to do with my answers to a questionnaire where I was supposed to tell the producers about myself, recount interesting things I’ve done, tell them about my most embarrassing moment, and so on. It was then that I realized that I’ve led a pretty boring life.

You’ve seen the interviews with game show contestants where they tell the host about the time they were almost thrown in jail in Mexico or climbed a mountain in the Alps. My most embarrassing moment involved pissing off a state driving examiner. Not exactly something that’s going to keep people from switching over to SportsCenter.

The contestants may be lying through their teeth, but their stories are interesting, so they make for good TV. TV game shows aren’t about being smart. They’re about being entertaining.

Which is just as well, because life is no longer a trivia contest for me. I would like to see a game show full of information that is truly relevant. “If you had to be late with one of these payments, which one would it be—house, car, or credit card?” Now that’s important information. How about, “In a job interview, what is your response to, ‘What is your greatest weakness?’”

Forget being a millionaire. I’m just glad I’m not a slumdog.

Personal responsibility

Pittsburgh is not the first place most people would guess that a tragedy like last week’s shooting, which left three police officers dead, would occur, let alone the relatively quiet neighborhood of Stanton Heights.

While most of us were shocked by what happened, what will happen from here is all too predictable. The accused gunman, Richard Poplawski, will have his day in court, during which he will have a free public soapbox for his ridiculous conspiracy theories. He will then have 10 or 15 years to write his book, and then, as a prosecutor on "Law and Order" once put it, there’s that pesky needle.

Much has been said in the media about Poplawski’s easy access to a variety of guns and extremist media. It’s enough to make you think that the Bill of Rights—or at least its first two amendments—might have been a bad idea.

But the problem isn’t too many rights—it’s not enough responsibility.

There is the Second Amendment guaranteeing the American public’s right to keep and bear arms (although nobody seems to quote the part about the “well regulated militia”). I have no problem, in general, with someone wanting to own a gun, but I don’t understand the fascination with guns—and I find the whole fanatical “from my cold, dead hands” gun culture creepy.

Poplawski, with a less-than-honorable discharge from the Marines and a restraining order from a former girlfriend, was able to buy four weapons, including an AK-47, from a local gun store. And nobody saw anything wrong with this picture?

If I walked into a bar visibly drunk, the bar could not legally serve me another drink. If I claimed that I had a Constitutional right to one more beer, nobody would take me seriously. Yet nobody questions why someone with danger all over his past would want an AK-47.

Then there is the First Amendment—the right to free speech. I’m a former journalist, so you won’t find anybody more opposed to censorship than I.

But it’s hard to ignore that two major influences on Poplawski are right-wing crank Alex Jones, who alleges that FEMA (an agency barely capable of handing people bottles of water) is building concentration camps, and Fox News’ Glenn Beck, who disseminates nightly lies about President Obama. Not to mention Poplawski’s frequent visits to hate sites such as Stormfront.

But we know what will happen. The Becks and Hannitys and Limbaughs will all throw Poplawski under the bus. “Don’t blame us. That’s not what we meant. Don’t censor us over the actions of a lone nut.” Nobody is talking about censorship—but shouldn’t media outlets accept some responsibility for the messages they send?

“Personal responsibility” has long been the mantra of right wingers, especially when they want to berate some alleged “welfare queen.”

It’s time for the right wing to accept some personal responsibility of its own.