Fame Comes Swiftly On Another's Name

A few weeks ago, a reader requested that we do with Taylor Swift's songs what we did with Rascal Flatts'. Unfortunately (or perhaps that should be fortunately?), Taylor Swift hasn't written enough songs of her own to make up a long enough or half-way sensible post. So, we decided to combine her song titles with those of the man upon whose name she built her fame, Tim McGraw.

Tell me why, because just to see you smile I'd come in with the rain from outside and stay forever and always. I guess you don't love me anymore because I've got the cowboy in me. My next thirty years can come not a moment too soon. I'm a real good man and you got the wrong man and that won't change. The way I loved you was fearless so stay beautiful while I cry teardrops on my guitar. Who says grown men don't cry? Tim McGraw? Well he's just a picture to burn because our song is a walk down memory lane. Our love story was the best day with a place in this world where the green grass grows down on the farm. Give it to me straight. I still think you belong with me, but it's your love so you can take it with you. Just please remember me.

---

Hey Stephen,

I see the eyes of a woman everywhere and I'd lie if I said I'm smiling. You're my best friend, so please take me away to welcome to the club. Just don't mention Memphis or try to comfort me. I didn't ask and she didn't say why we said goodbye. I guess one of these days when she wakes up she'll realize what she left behind and she'll try to cook up refried dreams. Ain't that the way it always ends?

- Angel Boy

Trying to Write a Post

Every so many days or so, it is my turn to write a post for FCN. Sometimes I forget and nothing gets posted, sometimes I have something ready, and other times I don't have anything prepared and my mind is a blank slate. Today is one of those times.

Trying to come up with a post when you've got nothing is like trying to rip off your own toenails. It's like being interrogated by Jack Bauer. It's like trying to get your younger siblings to do their chores. And it's like having your innards ripped out of you and set on fire before your very eyes.

So here I sit at midnight on a Thursday, trying to write something funny, or at least clever, to post on Friday morning. But, I've got nothing.

Meanwhile, I'm listening to Pandora and watching espionage shows on hulu. Suddenly, an idea comes to me. Why not write a post about a musician who is an undercover spy for the Russian secret service? It would go something like this:

Vladimir was having a long day. He had already eliminated five spies from three different foreign agencies and he was ready to get some sleep. Unfortunately, his coffee was only 1 hour into his system and he'd be awake for at least another four hours.

"Oh well," he thought. "I guess I'll just try to arrange a meeting with Banov."

After that, it's pretty fuzzy. I suppose I'd finish off with an explosion and Vladimir's death or something (anything to prevent having to continue a series), but I really don't know. This post, at any rate, is over.

Violin Recital

Reginald plays violin. When most people say that, they mean the subject of their sentence saws away at the strings of their instrument with sophomoric gusto, creating a sound that is reminiscent of the squeak of nails on blackboard. They are being nice and calling the violin's abuse and subsequent screams "playing." Reginald is, if you will indulge me a moment of pleasantness, really quite good. He left the chalkboard stage some years ago and is now very proficient at his instrument. In fact, he's on a trajectory to land somewhere between Haendel and Bell.

It's an acknowledged risk that if you play violin, you may be asked to perform in front of others. This is less of a risk with the accordion, banjo and harmonica; most players of those instruments perform in private or not at all. Reginald chose the violin fully aware of the fact that he would have to perform at recitals and other musical functions and inadvertently committed his relatives and friends to accompany him. I was one of the committed.

The recital was set in a darkened, dank and unheated church building in the bowels of town. Tucked away between S-Mart and Best Buy, the church's traditional stained glass and stone steeple seemed out of place. The church's bulletin tried to preemept questions about its location with a trumped up tale of ancient placement. If the faux fading on the program were credible, the church was put in order by an old priest who's only claim to religious relevance was a relic consisting of a piece of wood from the boat that wrecked with Paul off the island of Malta.

I think the pews were crafted from that wood. I sat carefully down in one of the rows, cautious not to disrupt the kneeling prayer board at my feet. I motioned for Frankeda, my date, to take a seat next to me. She giggled at the prayer board and moved it into its active position, pinning my feet to the ground. I think she meant to apply the board as a prank, but was unwilling to replace it, despite my hushed remonstrations. Another couple sat down at the other end of the pew and rested their feet on the cushioned board. There would be no relief. Frankeda mouthed "I'm sorry" and I tried not to think about the 2,000 year old splinters being shoved into my foot. I checked the program, estimated the time remaining and resigned myself to an impromptu, post-recital surgery on my podal tendons.

A little girl from the front row was the first musician up. She was as cute as a button and knew it. She was dolled up in the sort of poofy dress that would get negative reviews from the editorial board of People after the Academy Awards. Her mother, a gangly woman with the body of a vegetarian, moved purposefully to the aisle where she began snapping pictures with a disposable film camera. CLICK! tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk CLICK! tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk CLICK! She frantically advanced the 35mm film after every picture as if worried that her daughter would sprint from the stage and leave the scene without proper documentation.

Poofy Cutie started playing. Her soft scratching noises were interrupted by the loud CLICKing and tsking of her mother's journalistic efforts. I rather think the performance was improved because of that.

When the last tired notes of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star With Slow Stops (or "Twinkle" as it's known in the business) emitted from the stage, the audience erupted in an applause that was much too raucus for the song to which we had subjected ourselves. I don't know how Vegetarian Mom was able to keep taking pictures as she applauded.

Reginald was last, so Frankeda and I waited through several more performances. The musicians slowly improved and became less cute as time went on. A pimply youth with over-gelled and undercombed hair did a piece from "Fiddler On The Roof." He was too fat to do the dancing, but he tried anyway. I whispered something about Tutte Lemkow to Frankeda. She nodded appreciatively. I'm pretty sure she got it.

When Reginald took the stage the audience hushed. Someone coughed and the pause became awkward. I thought about getting up to go to the bathroom, but remembered by foot situation and the spliters from Malta and crossed my arms instead.

Reginald's song was really long and he played it without notes. A man in the third row moved his head appreciatively to the music in the Classical music headbang. An elderly woman behind Headbanger smiled with a faraway look as if remembering the world premier of Gone With the Wind. I thought about whispering something about Vivian Leigh to Frankeda, but thought better of it. A six year old slept in her father's arms in the back of the room. Of anyone in the room, she was probably the most appreciative of Reginald's talents.

Then the song ended. The audience clapped -- less vigorously than for Poofy Cutie -- and people got up to attend to the American tradition of calorie laden post-event refreshments. Frankeda lifted the prayer bar and blood rushed back into my hooves.

Reginald smiled appreciatively when I complimented his playing. "I always enjoy Vivaldi," I said guessing at the composer. I was wrong, but Reginald didn't correct me. Vegetarian Mom gave me an awkward look, though.

And that was that. It took an hour, three disposable film cameras, eight young performers and impromptu surgery on my podal tendons, but Reginald recited and I performed my duties as a faithful audience member.

Siblings Who Play Instruments

Have you ever lived in a family with multiple people who play instruments? If you haven't, let me tell you right now, you're really missing out. On a lot of fun AND a lot of headaches!

With 5 siblings who play instruments - 1 pianist, 2 violinists, & 2 guitarists - and practice daily, I've listened to my share of musical cacophonies. It seems that no matter what we do, two or three people always end up practicing at exactly the same time. That's why my family owns about 4 orchestral music stands and 2 folding ones.

We used to make up a schedule of practice times but it never worked. Inevitably something would come up that would prevent one person from playing at their scheduled time, forcing them to practice at the same time as another sibling. It was worse when the violinists were just starting out.

Talk about fingernails on a chalkboard! I think there must be no worse sound than that of a beginning violinist, beginning to practice. Not only is every note out of tune, each one screeches. And how many times can a person listen to variations on "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" without going insane? I think I might have reached that number.

And then there was the time when my older sister - the pianist - was learning her audition pieces for college. Her teacher at the time had the wonderful idea that she should play Bartok. I think Bartok could easily win the prize for ugliest piano compositions ever. Anyways, she had to practice 3+ hours a day and on one particular day she was having trouble with a 3-measure passage of Bartok and played it over and over and over and over and over and over again. It was torture!

But then there are the fun times too. Like playing our instruments at our neighbors, who respond by blasting on their trombone. Or having rythm contests on family roadtrips, trying to guess the meter of whatever song we're listening to. Or just playing all at once and trying to be the loudest. And, of course, purposely singing off-key at the top of our lungs!

My Pumps

What I gonna get to match these pumps?

These cute little classy high heel pumps ?

I'ma gonna get get get these shoes,

Get these shoes I love so much.

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps,

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my lovely high heel pumps.

You may call me lazy,

Stillettos drive me crazy,

I just can't dig those flip flops,

Designer's such a rip off,

Mizrahi and J Lo,

Gucci, Ferragamo,

Coach, Dolce, Sarto,

they cost way too much dough.

Sister, I ain't fakin',

my bank account is breakin'

Open toe, closed toe

I try to stop but I can't help it

So I keep on spendin'

An' this is the beginning

I feel like I'm winnin'

Payless BOGO now I'm grinnin'.

My pumps (pumps), my pumps, my pumps, my pumps (pumps)

I love my high heel pumps (pumps)

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps (pumps),

My pumps they got me

Lookin' for clearance,

(Oh) lookin' through those outlet shops, and hitting auctions online

Lookin' for clearance,

(Oh) lookin' through those outlet shops, and findin', those savings

What I gonna do with all those pumps?

All those pumps I bought last week?

It would make make make you freak

To see the pumps I bought last week

My closet ain't near big enough

To hold all of my shoes and stuff

It would make make make you jump

To see my pile of high heel pumps

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my pumps, (what!)

My pumps, my pumps, my pumps, my lovely high heel pumps.

A Swingin' Mood

Lately, my moods have been changing more often than a neat-freak's bedsheets. They've been like a ship without an anchor, tossed about on the waves of circumstance. This past week in particular has been a roller coaster ride.

---

With gas prices once again climbing past the 2 dollar mark here in happy NorCal, I was hoping that my transportation's mechanical troubles were over. But as I drove towards school one day this week, I knew that it was not to be. Pulling out of my driveway, I pressed the gas pedal, began accelerating to 55, and realized that my transmission was not shifting.

Instantly, my mood changed. From looking forward to a half hour of listening to country hits and pushing my car to its limits, I was thrown into the deepest doldrums of dollar deduction. I began mentally ticking off the greenbacks. Visions of $500, $1000, and then $1500 repairs began marching through my mind.

Sadly, I turned my car back toward home. I would just have to miss school today; hopefully the prof would understand, but I doubted it.

When I walked through the door, I was greeted with a big smile from my mom. "Class got out early? Wonderful! You can clean your room today."

Still wallowing in a slough of self-pity, I slowly dragged my feet down the hallway to my bedroom. There's a reason we don't allow guests back there. I was accustomed, comfortable even, with the sight that greeted me, but it only served to further my depression. Books and papers were piled high on a desk and dressers, clothes were scattered across the floor and bed, candy wrappers leftover from last year's Valentine's day lay heaped in one corner, and cobwebs hung from every cranny of the ceiling.

I sat down on my bed, instantly exhausted by the sight. For a good 10 minutes, all I could do was look around and stare at the mess. Finally, some resolve began to form in my little finger, and I slowly moved my hand to pick up a t-shirt that lay on the floor. I folded it and set it next to me. I repeated these actions until all the clothes had been folded and then put them away in my dresser. Turning around, I noticed something shiny lying just under my bed. I stooped down and picked it up.

Instantly, I became elated. It was my John Williams' Greatest Hits CD! I thought we had lost it in our last move, but here it was, in all of its shiny wonderfulness. Freshly energized with renewed energy, I popped the disc in my stereo and set about sorting the papers that lay scattered around.

As the glorious notes of Schindler's List and Home Alone soared through the air and reverberated against my ear drums, I mechanically shuffled the various documents...trash, school stuff, trash, bank statement, school, trash, paystub, trash, trash...wait, what's this? My hand closed around an envelope that I'd never opened. The return address said "California DMV." Uh-oh.

I quickly tore it open and began scanning the pages. "Registration overdue. Must pay $300.00 by February 2, 2009." Oh dear, that was yesterday! "Or car will be seized and impounded." OH NO! Even though my car wasn't operating properly, it was still my only means of transportation. Losing it meant being grounded 40 miles from the nearest major city. Frantic, I ran outside, only to see a tow truck leaving our driveway, my car trundling along behind it.

The notes of John Williams' music forgotten, I dejectedly sat down on our front step and cried. How could my day have gone so horribly wrong? I decided I was in need of a nap, but as I got up and turned my feet toward the front door, I remembered the mess that awaited me in my room. Granted, it wasn't as bad as before, but it was hardly conducive to rest.

Emotionally and physically drained, I decided to sleep on our trampoline. And that's what I did. Until my younger brothers came and started bouncing, ruthlessly returning me to reality.

FCN BC08 - Ana: Music Explains It All

Several years ago, I was completely lost when it came to understanding the opposite sex. If I mind my own business, I thought, guys won't bother me and I'll be able to finish school without distractions. But I was wrong.

The first time I was ever "hit on," it was by a young man who, let's just say, is a few fries short of a happy meal. Looking back, I should have answered differently when the first question he asked was "do you have a boyfriend?" but I was so caught off guard that I straightforwardly answered "no." After enduring 10 minutes of being asked out in a variety of ways via questions about my religion ("no, I'm not Baptist...Actually, no, our beliefs are not similar"), schedule ("I already have a group of people I hang out with on Wednesdays....and every other night of the week" - I figured my family of 8 counted as a group of people), school, and work ("I'm very busy, I don't really have time for anything else"), etc., I realized hints were not going to work.

Desperate, I told him he'd have to talk to my dad if he wanted to go out with me. When he replied that he knew my dad, that my dad likes him, and that he thought my dad would be fine with it, I was very blunt. "Actually, I don't think my dad would approve." After the young man had the gall to contradict me, I realized it was a hopeless case and gave up, praying that my brothers, for whom I was waiting, would hurry up and finish their job. Thankfully, they came to the car soon afterward and I left with hardly a goodbye.

On the way home, I was lamenting to my brothers that the first time I was ever hit on, it was by a young man "not firing on all cylinders," if you catch my drift. Ever eager to give comfort, my youngest brother said from the backseat, "Well, he must have been desperate." Men are such good sympathizers. Not.

Anyways, to return to the purpose of this post, I no longer have a problem understanding guys. Thanks to the music I listen to on the radio, which I discovered a few years ago, men are now an open book to me. Using popular songs for inspiration, I have created "Ana's Lyrical Guide to the Opposite Sex," which I present below for your edification.

1. Relationships
"The way you walk, the way you move...girl, there ain't nothing about you, that don't do something to me."
Translation: Men notice the physical. It doesn't matter if you're the sweetest girl in the world, if you don't have the looks, the guys aren't going to like you.

"He is sensible and so incredible...I couldn't ask for anything better...but I miss screaming and fighting and...you're so in love that you act insane."
Translation: Women may say they want a perfect gentleman, but they really don't. In fact, they don't even know what they want, but they rarely want what they have, even if they know it's "incredible."

2. Breakups
"What hurts the most was being so close and having so much to say and watching you walk away."
Translation 1: Just because a man doesn't say he loves you doesn't mean he doesn't love you; you just need to not sit so close to him so he's not distracted and can say what's in his heart.
Translation 2: Men don't like to talk, but their biggest regret after a break-up is that they didn't talk more.

"I'm still living with your goodbye, and you're just going on with your life. How could you just walk on by without one tear in your eye?"
Translation: It takes a woman a long time to get over a breakup, and if you get over it before she does, she'll resent you to the day she dies.

3. Cheating
"I didn't want to know the truth, I'd rather go on lovin' blind, girl, than go on lovin' without you; I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then."
Translation: What a man doesn't know, won't hurt him. He'd rather not know that you cheated on him than break up with you.

"I dug my keys into the side of his pretty little souped-up four wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seats."
Translation: Shakespeare said it centuries ago: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

Well, there you have it. I hope this clears things up for you as you head into 2009 and the uncharted territory that is every relationship.

Footnotes

While in an empty library with a couple of (female) friends, I improvised a few lines to Brad Paisley's Ticks. When I got to class, I punched out the following. Enjoy.

Every time you read your book
In this quiet library
Give that page another look
Cause me to reverie
And on the cover there of your text
I see my favorite author
I'd like to see what you read next
And get to know more

Hey that gives me an idea
Let's get out of this class
Walk down into the basement
And find a place to sit

Cause I'd like to see you out in the biographies
I'd like to kiss you way back by the quotes
I'd like to walk you through a shelf of dictionaries
And I'd like to check your footnotes

I know the perfect little path
Out in these books I used to read
Don't worry babe they've got some Longfello
And the life of Abbot and Costello
I'd hate to waste a calm like this
It'll be safe you wait and see
The only thing that interrupts this bliss
When we get there is me

You know every guy in here today
Would like to take you home
But I've got way more class than them
And that ain't what I want

Cause I'd like to see you out in the biographies
I'd like to kiss you way back by the quotes
I'd like to walk you through a shelf of dictionaries
And I'd like to check your footnotes

Ooo-ooo-ooh you never know where one might be
And ooo-ooo-oooh theres lots of places that are hard to read

I'd like to see you out in the biographies
I'd like to kiss you way back by the quotes
I'd like to walk you through a shelf of dictionaries
And I'd like to check your footnotes

Oh I'd sure like to check your footnotes

How to Tell the Difference Between a Violin and an Accordion

It's one of those awkward moments that happens to everyone. You see someone playing an instrument and go to complement them.

"I didn't know you could play the accordion!"
"It's a violin, you thtoopud!"

Awkward. Very awkward. After a recent incident involving a spatula and a very irate accordion purist, we decided that a public service announcement was in order. What follows is a concise but complete 2-step guide to determining which instrument you're looking at. We like to call it the FCN Accordion/Violin Method, or simply the FAV Method.

Step 1) Avoid making a total fool of yourself.

There are many different kinds of instruments, including bassoons. If the instrument in question is neither a violin nor an accordion, you should avoid using this method. Here are a few red flags:



A big flaring end. This is for sound to come out of when you blow into it. Any instrument with such a device is definitely not a violin or an accordion, and may possibly be a bagpipe.

Frets. These usually come on stringed instruments, which make them hard to spot because violins also have strings (more on this later). Look for metal lines running perpendicular to the strings. If you see them, the instrument is not a violin or accordion. There's an important exception to this rule, however. If the frets are made of paper tape, you can be absolutely certain the instrument belongs to a beginning violinist.

A mouthpiece. Mouthpieces are for blowing into. Violins and accordions are NOT for blowing into. Even a violinist with taped paper frets will not blog into her instrument.

Bigness. Anything requiring wheels, multiple decks of keys, a hand crank, or trade tariffs is probably not what you're looking for.

Safety devices. Instruments are designed to be safe to use (except for harmonicas of course). If you have to buckle yourself into it, it's probably not a violin or accordion.

A trigger. The only musical instruments that come with triggers are custom-made mandolins, the players of which are not to be trifled with. You should never come close enough to an object with a trigger to determine whether or not it is an accordion.

2) Look closely.

This is a violin. Note the bow, strings (without frets), bridge, unique box shape, and tuners.

This is an accordion. Note the keys, levers, handles, contracting accordion bag, and general frenchiness.

And that's all there is to it! Remember that the key to the FAV Method is practice. Don't beat yourself up if you get it wrong a few times. Keep practicing. It's okay to print out these pictures and take them with you for quick reference. Observe a few violins/accordions close up and personal. Note what they have in common and what sets them apart. With time you'll get it and you'll be able to join the ranks of the FAV Masters.

I am AxxO

Online piracy, long a thorn in the belly of the IRAA and a boon to bandwidth wholesalers the world over, is as much an industry as the entertainment off which it siphons its life blood. We pirates put countless hours into developing, marketing and distributing our product to a pimply faced consumer base while hiding our activities from the authorities. We take music, movies and other media and make them accessible for free on the internet.

Expressed acronymically, we bring MMM to the WWW.

My name is AxxO. That's not my real name, of course. That jealously guarded secret is housed with a cool million in cash where the FBI will never find it. AxxO is the name I use on any of the millions of piracy sites where normally expensive media are available for free, not unlike the gum beneath eye level at a convenience store.

I purchase movies and rip them to my hard drive, using a pirated proprietary software that is, I am sure, really expensive for most people. I then upload these ripped files to millions of users the world over, who share them with others in a big commune of entertainment equality. My files are relatively small (often a tenth of the size of the original film), but they maintain most of the quality, leaving pirates with the impression that they are watching the real thing, not a cheap knock off.

Only my name, AxxO, identifies my product.

You may have seen my moniker on various piracy websites (my name is the most common search term on several of them) and you may even have one or more of my ripped (off) files on your computer, if I can truly call them mine.


I am a sworn enemy of the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), a terrorist organization with ties to Hollywood and Tom Cruise. I will do everything in my power to see the record labels brought to their knees and to keep the owners of intellectual property from making money off of their media. I am the Marxist of the internet world and the file housed in your share folder is my manifesto.


Funny Class Notes is my online home. That's right. I, AxxO, am a contributor to FCN.

For years I have kept my identity secret. Despite pleas from thousands of webpages and tens of thousands of fan emails, I have not revealed my true identity. And I will maintain my secrecy even through this post. Know, however, that one of the authors of FCN leads a secret life as AxxO. Now you know; don't tell the RIAA.

This post should answers a lot of questions. I hope it clears the air on what has become an unnecessarily convoluted subject and an issue that has divided many in the peaceful world of cyber stealing. It is such a relief to get this off my chest in my own way and own time, exactly the way Roger Clemens didn't. The truth was bound to come out eventually: IP addresses can only be concealed for so long and a demanding public loves to uncover embarrassing connections. Why not reveal the truth on my own terms? You know my work; now you know my blog.


Thanks for believing. Thanks for uploading. Thanks for reading. Please, upload what you’ve downloaded, and then some.

Kelsey get low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low.

I was well on my way to living an incomplete life.

There's nothing like getting elbow-deep into college and then realizing you never really went to prom. You get a sort of vague uneasy feeling like you forgot something – the kind of feeling you get just before you realize you locked your keys in the car. When I dropped out of college and got a minimum wage shift job, I more or less forgot about that nagging feeling in the back of my head.

Then one day, I overheard a friend of mine in discussion with someone else. We'll call her Kelsey, because that is her name. Kelsey was lamenting the fact that everyone had recruited prom dates months before she even thought about it. “I've asked everyone!” She said. “They're all booked.”

I unleashed my FCN wit to make a stupid smart-alecky joke. “You haven't asked me.”

She whirled to face me. “Are you serious?'

“Hm? What? Me?”

Four weeks later, I found myself rushing home from work to pull on a tux I borrowed from a friend of mine whom we will call John, because that is what everyone else calls him. Then came the florist: “Oh, you're the yellow sunflower boy! Issues. You should seriously have gotten something red or white. Yellow? Come on now. Issues.” Then pictures at Kelsey's house. Kelsey's parents were friendly but vaguely suspicious. I decided to keep my driver's license in my pocket where it belonged. They didn't need to know I was a college dropout bum who writes for FCN.

Then off to someone else's house, where flash bulbs chattered like machine gun fire. You know that last scene in The Rookie where he hits the lights and everyone is taking pictures? Yeah. It felt like that. My eyes were a bit off after the pictures – I remember a 20-passenger white hummer limo (heck yes) professional photos, and a restaurant. I also remember my trophy date, Kelsey, constantly telling me to suck it up and/or deal with it. Whatever that means.

So after about five and a half hours of hanging out, someone finally got the bright idea of actually going to the prom itself. After a short and very exciting breathaliticizer-o-matic test, we got rid of most of the accessories/jackets/etc that we'd carefully donned to go to the prom. This seemed very counterintuitive. Why bother dressing up if it's all going to go in a numbered paper sack anyway?

I learned the reasoning as soon as I hit the dance floor. See, I come from a background of what I call “morphed” dancing. That is, if you trace social dancing back a few hundred years, you find waltz, swing, line – stuff like that. You can put all these different dance styles on a timeline and see how they've morphed from one to the next. But this was not morphed dancing. This was dancing evolved.

A SHORT HISTORY OF PROM DANCING

The first prom ever was at Cambridge High in 1740. Everyone got all dressed up and got their pictures taken, then went into a big room and talked. It wasn't much of a hit, but the school staff was determined to make prom a success. So the next year, they brought in some violinists who played background music. This enhanced the atmosphere significantly. Prom started spreading to other schools. Everyone liked standing around listening to music.

Proms remained largely unchanged until 1912, when Jojo Spudwink of Miami Unified snuck a bongo drum past security (security wasn't nearly as advanced back then as it is now, in a post-9/11 world). About an hour into the violin music, Jojo whipped out the bongo drum and started pounding. The beat was so overwhelming that the party goers couldn't resist nodding their heads to the rhythm. Jojo became an instant legend. The drums continued to be popular at Miami Unified but didn't really catch until heavier rhythms because popular in music around the sixties.

Not that much has changed since the bongo drum days. The head bobbing had become marginally more complex, and the music has become marginally simpler.

/A SHORT HISTORY OF PROM DANCING

And that's about what we experienced. It doesn't take any skill or practice to Prom dance. You just walk into the crowd with your date and start feeling the beat. Of course, there are a few no-nos. The most popular is freak dancing, (also known as booty dancing – avert your eyes children!).

But perhaps the biggest no-no is not feeling the beat. About two hours into the dance, ignorant of this important convention, I launched myself off into the crowd in agonizing slow motion, gradually turning and stepping in what I wanted to think was graceful elegance. Almost thirty seconds later, a school official tapped me on the shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asked. Now there are two ways you ask if someone is okay. The first is the way he didn't do it, which is to ask in a concerned way as if to offer help. The second is the way he did do it, which is the way police ask if they can help you when they really want to know if you need to be shot to improve the gene pool. I got back into the crazy bopping and the official backed up, grudgingly satisfied.

Nothing individually was particularly special about prom. It was the whole collected experience – dressing up, photos, limo, good food, a friend winning the title of Prom Queen – that really made it a night to remember. Had I not gone, my life would just not have been complete.

Now all I have to do is check out this whole Disney Land thing everyone's talking about.

The Sideburns' Last Stand

On a fine morning of April, that valiant warrior of a month which enlists even the heavenly showers in its mission to "pierce the droughts of March to the root," I awoke to the reassuringly baritone voice of NPR's Robert Siegel blaring on my radio clock. Only a British accent can lend a voice as much credibility as being three octaves lower than normal does. This blog of male readers will understand the rejuvenating effect such a voice must have on a mind groggy after staying up way too late playing Halo doing homework.

Peering into the bathroom mirror, I realized that I had a problem. My sideburns were downright bushy.

Sideburns should never be bushy. You can wear jeans for two weeks straight and get away with it (I have), you can carefully wipe your fingers on your socks without serious consequences (or so my uncle tells me), and you can even shave all your hair off like a wannabe swimmer and not look totally dumb. But whatever your blunders in the way of hygiene or appearance, don't ever for the love of Elvis Presley mess up on your sideburns! Sideburns make the man. They are manly. In fact, despite what some people think, most women don't even have them. Grow your sideburns too long, and you'll look like a failed Taliban who wants a beard but can't quite manage. Cut them off completely and you'll look—shorn. Like a suited scrivener who's too meek to venture into the bold land of real whiskers. (Apologies to certain individuals out there who are at this moment angrily protesting.) And blond, unshaven peach-fuzz burns are the worst of all.

Now, there was a good reason my sideburns were a little unkempt. My barber down the street is not the kind of person I like to visit more than I need to. Not that he's a Sweeney Todd or anything. That would be cool. A creepy, exciting, mysterious monster of a barber would make a haircut worth the thirty dollars that haircuts cost in our degenerate age. But this barber is just a run-of-the-mill, sleepy chatterbox whose head is shaved to about a half inch of graying growth, and who is fond of garrulously and affably rambling about any subject from sports to politics to how he pirates the most awesome stuff on the internet and has a mega CD collection that he downloaded for free onto his quad-core computer with a terabyte hard drive. I'm not jealous; in fact I am quite happy for him. I hope his computer has a long and satisfying life and that he thoroughly enjoys it. And then I hope it blows up his house.

Just kidding. Did I mention that he doesn't have sideburns?

I, on the other hand, do have sideburns. I have stronger, healthier, sideburns than most people. My virile hair does not grow "very slowly"; in fact, it sprouts up faster than the kids in that family your mother hasn't seen in five years. ("My, how little Jonny has grown! I just can't get over it! *pinch embarrassed sixteen-year-old's cheek*) When I looked in the mirror, my sideburns were of moderate length, but way too thick and positively rebarbative.

Being a resourceful fellow, I knew exactly what to do. Out of my shelf came an electric shaver. Out from the shaver popped the trimming attachment. And I set to work shaving off just enough hair to thin out my burns and polish my already dashing appearance. But alas! My hand is not so steady as I thought it was.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the mirror staring at my vanished glory. To repair the slip, I had been compelled to remove every last whisker from my jaws and cheeks.

Of course, it will grow back soon. But after a few days, I am finding that a smooth, clean image really suits me. In fact, I'm not sure why anyone would want those scruffy strips of bristle running down his face.

Cow Bell 101

This site has cataloged my antics at my school's basketball games before, but this post centers on the behavior of another ardent fan, this one in the pep band. If you've ever been to a collegiate sporting event, you have undoubtedly been treated to the rousing notes of the pep band, rising up over the raucous cheers of the crowd with a volume that does little to disguise its own discord.

A friend who plays a very loud (and thus very important) instrument for the group once confided in me that the band practiced only two times outside of games all semester. For such little preparation, it is astounding that they are able to get so many people to play the right note at the same time, or at least a tone that is within a half step of the right note.

This is higher education: Who's to say what is or isn't the "right" note?

Our pep band has one clear standout. He is the Kobe Bryant of the court, the Bill Gates of the computer world and the Tim Berners-Lee (the guy who invented the internet) of packet sharing. No, I am not talking about any trumpet, trombone, tuba or timpani player, although, for what it's worth, all of those instruments do start with the letter "t." Rather the clear standout is the band's cow bell player.

Yes, the cow bell. You might have heard it on an Amish farm in Lancaster County or in the background at a Nordic skiing event. In these venues, the bell is wrung randomly and with no thought to intensity, rhythm or tonality, all very important qualities for the cow bell instrumentaliste.

When our cow bell player strikes stick to bell, the retort can be heard throughout the 6,000 seat stadium and the winces of the other band members are visible from across the court. You see, our cow bell player is very skilled.

But not only does he keep rhythm, he dances like the white guy he is.

As he strikes, the cow bell player moves his feet back and forth, bobbing his head to the beat he creates. He sways, bobs and weaves like Kevin James in Hitch, Dane Cook after a bad joke or our President in Africa. It's as if he has seen too many showings of Step Up or that Cowbell skit on SNL. During the timeouts, he skedaddles out to center court and continues his gyrations in full view of all.

In the middle of one of these impromptu performances, a friend of mine asked how a cow bell specialist got to study at our school's highly ranked music department. Were there even enough classes, my friend wondered, to allow a major in Cowbell Studies or Fine Cowbell Arts?

After a brief visit with our school's catalog confirmed that, yes, cowbell was an offered degree. We have classes in Beginning, Intermediate and Advanced Cowbell Strikeage, Cowbell theory (including a upper division course in where best to strike a cowbell), History of Cowbell (divided up into pre and post modern Olympic games and a specialty class in cowbells of the Western United States), Cowbell Form and Motion, a cowbell capstone class and even a course in how to dance while playing the cowbell.

Too ensure a well-rounded graduate, majors have to take at least three electives from another percussion instrument including pots and pans, the serrated stick and car dashboards.

I am going tonight to watch my school's last home game of the season and a I guarantee that during the timeouts, I will be watching the cowbell player - the cowbell artist, excuse me - very closely.

The Day I Cruised Down Main Street Blasting Handel with the Windows Rolled Down

I was driving out to work yesterday and came to a stop at a - you know - stop light. Someone pulled up to my right and I noticed his presence immediately. This is because he had his windows rolled down and was playing Ludacris' "Ludacrismas" * with the volume up all the way and the bass booster even higher.

* You have to listen past the first 30 seconds to really get the idea.

"How thoughtful of this kind gentleman!" I said to myself. "Here he's not only providing himself with music; he's providing it free of charge to everyone within three city blocks! Some of them probably don't have radios and wish they could listen to Ludacris more often."

The light turned green and the driver to my left moved out ahead of me. I noticed as he went by that he was wearing a doo-rag over a baseball cap over a beanie and had a massive gold chain dangling around his neck. His license plate read: IRGANGSTA.

Touched by this anonymous fellow's simple gesture, I drove on and worked my shift. On the way home, as I pulled to a stop at the nearest stop light, I did a moment of brief soul-searching. It didn't seem right, I reasoned, to sit here keeping my music to myself when people all over town probably wanted to hear it. How could I be so selfish, especially after the good example given me by IRGANGSTA?

So I rolled down the windows and pumped up the volume. My radio was playing Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith" ** at the time.

** The first 30 seconds will give you a pretty good idea.

The light turned green, and I drove on to the next light. As I pulled to a stop, I noticed a few pedestrians at a bus stop looking around in all directions as if trying to find out where the music was coming from. I waved but they didn't seem to connect the dots. They were looking up in the air, in the sewer drain ...

Green light. Off we go. At the next stop, who should pull up alongside me but IRGANGSTA himself. He looked at me for a second with a look of incredulity. I flashed him a thumbs up and a big grin.

He rolled down his windows.

"Hi there, my brother from a different mother!" I shouted over the music. "Are you not totally digging this beat, yo?" He stared for a moment, then turned on his radio. I didn't catch the piece, but it was in the same vein as what he'd been playing this morning. He cranked the volume up all the way.

We listened to our competing musical selections. After a few moments I felt obligated to say something. "Excuse me, home dog. Sup? Anyway, I wonder if you would mind turning your music down. You see, it doesn't sound very nice when played alongside Handel. The tempos are different. So is the melody. In fact, they're not even in the same key. We're talking some serious shizzle here. I mean, what is up with that? Are you with me?"

He made a gesture to indicate he was definitely not with me just as the light turned green. As we drove, side-by-side, to the next light, I wondered how something as simple as community-mindedness could suddenly get so confrontational.

But having been confronted, I was not one to back down. I turned MY music up all the way. I'm happy to report that my speakers were significantly louder than his. Drivers behind us couldn't pick out IRGANGSTA's music, but they could see his car pulsing and vibrating.

Then I leaned over and shouted at him: "Who is the unfaithful woman now, you unfaithful woman? I am not coming on your tab because your tab isn't a hummer. If you want to blow your wig on my blip, that's solid, because I'm perfectly willing to slide my jib until you're done spouting, so help me. Let's face it, you unhep yard dog. You came up on the wrong riff. You can jump this joint all you want. Mellow. But don't you dare start beating it out while I'm busting my conk keeping the port in the groove. You feel me? Because I suggest you latch on to my signification as soon as you can."

I meant that metaphorically. You know that.

I took a left soon after and we parted ways. I declared victory. But I'm sincerely sorry that we couldn't get along more peaceably. Community radio should be about bringing people together. It should be an act of harmony and unity. And it should be a lot of fun. So if you ever see IRGANGSTA around, tell him I'm sorry.

And give him Josh Groban's latest CD. *** I'm good for it.

*** You really don't need to listen to it to get the idea.

Music Video Melange

I detest treadmills. Although I run regularly on rubberized asphalt, packed dirt, turf and, yes, really hard cement, something about putting my full, unrestrained weight on a thin strip of textured plastic while running at speeds in excess of 10 miles per hour is unsettling. I'm afraid I'll fly off the back like a bad Schick Quattro Titanium ad or step on the strip of unmoving platform and twist my ankle. I feel like a spoiled horse on a hot walker, high stepping for my owners beat. I feel like an experiment.

My coaches see treadmill workouts as excellent pace work and the holy grail of cross-training. They advise a liberal dose of machine running, especially when the weather outdoors is not conducive to performance-level athletic training.

The local gym is a friendly place that, at this time of year, is busier than an anthill in the fall. Most guys who work out head straight to the weight rooms after saying "hi" to Shirley, the front desk attendant. Most women go to the cardio equipment (including the treadmills) and start marching. On a good day, there will be more women in the cardio section than on the first life boat off the Titanic. Social and exercise psychologists have tried unsuccessfully for years to determine what draws the female gender so exclusively to treadmills, but the research is as of yet inconclusive.

In an effort to encourage male use of the treadmills (and thus collect a hefty check from the Surgeon General) the gym has kindly placed a bank of televisions in front of the machines presumably so that we can be entertained as we pound off the pounds. Unlike the TVs at BestBuy, these units are tuned to several different channels, designed to reflect the demographics of those watching. That is, they are all tuned to various editions of ESPN.

The other day the gym broke from the unspoken rule and put one of the sets on CMT, Country Music Television. Like most treadmill runners, I listen to my own tunes when I run; something motivating, with a quick beat and a happy disposition. My current running playlist includes Nickelback and Avril Lavigne, but I'll sometimes throw in some 90s dance music like Madonna, Cascada and Whitney Houston. It's music I would never listen to under less calorie intensive circumstances, but that pushes me toward faster times on the otherwise stimulus-free treadmill.

Without sound, music videos are difficult to understand. Why is the attractive blond swinging a bat into a nice car? Why does the fat guy dance around? What's with the old guy?

By far the most disturbing thing to watch is Sugarland's "Stay" a music video commonly thought to be about requited love and a woman who doesn't want her man to leave to see another woman (although I maintain that it's a song about a meddlesome mother-in-law). In the back of the viewers mind is the pervasive thought that any man leaving Jennifer Nettles is an utter buffoon. But if you haven't seen the music video, I don't want to ruin it for you. I have embedded it below for your viewing pleasure:



How can she sing so well while crying so hard? How can anyone produce that many tears to a simple guitar and organ accompaniment?

Imagine watching that muted while running in the fourth mile of a six mile distance workout with Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" playing in your ears. Because that is exactly what happened to me. Lavigne tackles the same moral and social quandary as Sugarland, but from a completely opposite perspective. The conflict causes a stunning confusion.

While tears are flowing on screen and rosary beads clutched tighter for prayer, the sound in my ears tells me to go away. The girl on screen is resigned, the girl in my MP3 player is taking control. The girl on screen is wearing white to Lavigne's black.

Maybe the conflict was a good thing because it got me thinking about something other than how much treadmills scare me. Then someone changed the channel. Arizona was playing Illinois and the Wildcat's star was having a big game. My player started on something from Nickelback and I continued running.

Kato, FCN; FCN, Kato

I am writing to you now, not from a cluttered and abused Windows-encumbered terminal, nor from a white, overpriced Macintosh. Nor, faithful few, am I writing this by hand and giving it to some unmentioned scribe, an unsung Nichomachea whose glib fingers and slow mind transcribe better than they imagine. Rather, I type to you through a new intermediary, a new mechanical companion whose mission is as sombre as it is repetitive and who has more zeros and ones in his head than any living human being (except, maybe, Vinton Cerf.)

FCN, meet Kato (not like the think tank; that's spelled with a "C" you libertarian illiterate), a Linux-powered notebook with a great personality and killer looks. Steve, you may recall, was my old personal computing machine who made FCN notoriety for not having any drivers and for making unique and unexpected noises when called on to work harder. Kato is similarly situated, in that it takes great computer know-how to install drivers on Linux and I’d just as soon listen to the system beeps and look at a blurry screen as mess with a command line terminal.

Kato does have an amazing personality. In fact, she told me the other day that she needed to be connected to a power source by notifying me with a subtle facial expression (actually, it was an small icon in the corner of the screen, but it was subtle). Kato has also placed well on objective standards of looks, winning best of class against many other similarly situated laptops.

But Kato’s real winning points are all found under the lid. For the size of her brain, Kato is super intelligent and can do abstract mathematical calculations rapidly and with stylish grace. She is also very communicative, able to network with others quickly and often without their knowing it. Kato is also virtually impervious to viruses and, though she has trouble having fun through any of the popular PC games, she stays healthy and fast. Kato even did the photo editing above using GIMP, a major upgrade over MS Paint.

Can you tell I’m infatuated? Just watching the little cursor blink in the command terminal is enough to get me going and on more than one occasion I have put on her screen saver as a stress reliever.

In fact, I even wrote some lyrics, to be sung to the tune of George Strait’s “How ‘Bout Them Cowgirls” about Kato:

I felt the rush of the Windows operating system
And I've seen first-hand Macintosh
And the motherboard
I've Criss-crossed down to nVIDIA
And Vista via XP and 2000
Think I've seen it all
And all I can say is


Chorus:
How 'bout that Linux
Boys ain't it somethin'
Sure are some proud distros
And you can't tell them nothin'
And I tell you right now
May just be seven wonders of this big, old round world
But how 'bout that Linux.

OK, I’ll stop. Everyone, say hello to Kato. And say goodbye to Steve, who, by the way, is sobbing on the curb like an abandoned woman and is about to Let Himself Go. Off with the old, on with the new, eh?

Wake Me Up When The Quarter Ends

In honor of Spring Break, a time off school that the FCN writers are enjoying by catching up on homework, I wrote the following lyrics that are intended to be set to the tune of Green Day's Wake Me Up When September Ends (Lyrics, mp3). Enjoy!

First half has come and passed
The freetime can never last
Wake me up when the quarter ends

My eyes are blank and glassed
Four long years don't go so fast
Wake me up when the quarter ends

Here comes class time again
When the weekend goes
Sitting in rows again
Writing funny notes

I badly need some rest
Never succeed on my tests
Wake me up when the quarter ends

First half has come and passed
The freetime can never last
Wake me up when the quarter ends

Dust off the books again
Pop a sleeping pill
Wake me up when the quarter ends

Here comes class time again
When the weekend goes
Sitting in rows again
Writing funny notes

I badly need some rest
Never succeed on my tests
Wake me up when the quarter ends

First half has come and passed
The freetime can never last
Wake me up when the quarter ends

My eyes are blank and glassed
Four long years don't go so fast
Wake me up when the quarter ends
Wake me up when the quarter ends
Wake me up when the quarter ends

Congratulations are in order!

Last weekend brought success to a formerly spurned sect of American society, granting legitimacy to a long rejected worldview. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, the political thought of America’s liberals was affirmed on Sunday the last, as the “Chicks of Dixie” took the top spots at the Granny Music Awards.

Looking frightfully anemic (and I thought Texans were big) in their maternity dresses, Emily Robinson, Natalie Maines and Martie Maguire showed the world they were Not Ready to Make Nice (a clever pun, do you agree?) nor dress decently. They strutted across stage and collected their gaudy trophies with style completely unbefitting a Texan.

Actually the singers are ready to make nice, at least to hear lead singer Natalie “Ashamed of Bush” Maines tell it. She told the audience of grandmothers that she was prepared to take reconciliatory action, exclaiming: “I'm ready to make nice!”

When I read Maines explanation the day after the Granny back-scratching-orgy, there wasn’t a dry eye in the FCN house. How impeccably profound! Could Hemmingway have dreamed up such eloquence? This might be too recondite for Al Gore’s Internet!

Despite her remonstrations to the contrary, we are willing to bet Maines’ hair extensions that the Chicks of Dixie aren’t ready to make nice. They have “bad girl” written all over their mascara smeared faces and, quite frankly, this new act is making some serious mullah. The band, new persona and all, dominates Cindy Sheehan’s ipod playlists and, we have it on respectable report, the singers may have finagled a way into Anna Nicole Smith’s inheritance money.

But today is a day for congratulations, not derision. The “Chicks of Dixie” have taken one mighty leap towards their own personal eudaimonia. The band has swung on a mighty pendulum from fad to boycott and back again. The current position of the sultry voiced trio is, as is evidenced the Grandmother’s picks, on the popular side and we should rejoice with the group at this juncture.  And pray that no one is in the way when they go swinging back again.

Let’s enjoy the moment with the glib strumming, blonde talking, dumb singing trio who’s next album will, no doubt, be titled “Ne Ner Ne Ner Ne Ner" and be marketed to the wide variety of aficionados who like their music sans genre.