Not-Quite-Ready-for-Primetime player

My nine-month old daughter is starting to develop her own sense of humor.
I discovered this a few weeks ago, when, as I was changer her diaper on the changing table, I took the pacifier from her mouth and put it in mine. She was confused for a moment, and then broke into a broad smile and giggled. She thought it was funny – why is Daddy doing something the baby does? – and then she reached up and grabbed it back from me.
It’s strange to think about, but we were all born without a sense of humor. Not that we didn’t develop one in time, of course, but at the moment we came into the world, we probably had what most babies have: a strong cry, minimal reflexes and, in my case, a permanently confused look on my face. None of us came out of the womb knowing anything, let alone what’s funny and what is not. We learn it in time. I’m only realizing this now, as I am seeking a human being develop herself from a little speck in the ultrasound pictures into a beautiful little person.
It makes me consider how my own sense of humor was developed. My first memory of something being truly funny came when I was around 5 years old. The family had just purchased its first VCR, and one of the tapes we had was “Saturday Night Live: The Best of John Belushi,” which we watched many times. I found his extreme physicality and intensity to be hilarious, finding out only years later that it was this same excess that ultimately led to his death from an overdose in 1982.
After this introduction, I was an “SNL” fan, and would watch the old episodes on cable TV with my Dad. As I grew, I became interested in the early 90s cast, with Mike Myers, Dana Carvey, Chris Farley, and Phil Hartman. I watched it, found some of it funny, but always knew in the back of my mind that it didn’t hold a candle to the work of the “Not Ready for Prime Time” players of the show’s early years. In time, Hartman would be murdered, Farley, in an eerie echo of John Belushi, would die of an overdose, and I would walk away from watching SNL for nearly 15 years.
In the late summer and fall of 2008, as my daughter grew closer to being born, my interest in SNL returned with its coverage of the 2008 election, and Tina Fey’s dead-on impersonation of Sarah Palin, which once again showed how powerful a comedic medium this venerable enterprise could be when it measured the pulse of the society it mirrored. I think this one character portrayal did more damage to Sarah Palin’s credibility than all of the gaffes and painfully awkward interviews. After the election, my interest in the show again faded, except for the occasional sketches I would hear about around the coffee maker Monday morning.
Still, I know that when my own daughter is old enough, I will hook up the VCR, dust off the beat-up cover of the Belushi video, and ask, with a twinkle in my eye, “Hey, do you want to watch something funny?”

Shoe on the other foot

It’s hard to fit the shoe on the other foot.
It has been very interesting to watch the Internet reaction to mysterious posters of Barack Obama allegedly being posted in some parts of the United States. The poster, for those who haven’t heard, depicts the president in “Joker” make-up from the most recent “Batman” movie over a single word: “Socialism.”
According to an KTLA.com article on posters found in the Los Angeles area, Los Angeles Urban Policy Roundtable President Earl Ofari Hutchinson is calling the depiction “politically mean spirited and dangerous.”
What is interesting about this scenario is that the magazine Vanity Fair portrayed George W. Bush in the same make-up in 2008, and no one said a word. In fact, I remember far worse being said, some of it by yours-truly, about the 43rd president. I even went so far as to install his head on pictures of Adolf Hitler using Photoshop while pretending to pay attention in my college media classes.
For eight years, it was really easy to point fingers and scream about how bad the president was, how opportunistic and insincere he seemed, and how it seemed that he wanted to lead us down a path to our own destruction. When I cast my ballots Nov. 4, I think I did so in the hopes that it would change something - to present an alternative to the ham-fisted antics of George W. Bush. It was, in retrospect, the high water mark for eight years of bumper stickers reading, “Dissent is patriotic;” eight years of telling the other side how bad their president was doing; eight years of smugly telling ourselves that we could do it better.
Well, it’s our side (if there is such a thing) in the White House now – and it’s been somewhat of an eye-opener to me. One of the nice things about being in the opposition is that you can cast stones but don’t have to deal with the bruises. Is dissent still patriotic when someone you like is in the White House? Now, I find myself trying to explain why Obama did this or that to people who didn’t vote for him. It gives me a sense of what it must have been like for the embattled conservatives who tried to join the student newspaper at St. Cloud State - defending decisions you didn't make, and may not have agreed with, on the principal that the party you supported made them.
Here is the most ironic comparison of all: in a way, I've become what I once despised. On a bright fall day in 2004, when W. flew into St. Cloud for a rally, I was among hundreds of counter-protesters who showed up bright and early to express their displeasure with the 43rd presidents. The event went smoothly, until the conservative spectators who showed up to cheer W. on to another White House victory started to leave the baseball stadium that hosted the event, and crossed paths with the counter-protesters. It was as if you'd mixed baking soda and vinegar: it didn't explode, but it sure simmered. One of the most often-hear remarks I remember that day, thrown at us as an epithet from anonymous W. supporters, was the phrase, "Get a job." It stung. We were there because we cared deeply about the future of our country. Or thought we did, anyway.
Now, as I hear about people protesting health care reform, or demanding that Obama produce a birth certificate that proves he wasn't born in Kenya, I find myself saying the same thing: "Get a job."
It's certainly easier to blame than to try, isn't it?

Fifteen-year-old writes about social media, adults set a-Twitter

At first, I thought this article was some sort of joke from the Onion: “Media execs rocked by 15-year-old's blunt, blistering analysis.”
Unfortunately, it is true. Sadly, sadly true.
The 15-year-old is a Morgan Stanley intern named Matthew Robson. Matthew’s observations on social media and how his peers use it is apparently causing a lot of waves at Morgan Stanley’s European Media Group, according to the British newspaper The Guardian. One executive went so far as to say that Matthew’s work was “one of the clearest and most through-provoking insights we have seen.”
What exactly has these executives buzzing? Matthew’s observations state that teenagers don’t use Twitter, read newspapers, and hate advertisements. Plus, they like free music. While I don’t disagree with the veracity of these opinions, I find it really curious and odd that older people who supposedly know better are giving them such weight. Is it really such a revelation to hear that teenagers don’t like to read newspapers? Or that Twitting via cell phone costs money, and therefore isn’t done?
Except for his opinion that many teenagers have never bought a CD, I don’t think that what Matthew writes about is particularly new, clever, or groundbreaking (see for yourself: www.guardian.co.uk/business/2009/jul/13/twitter-teenage-media-habits). What I find very interesting is how the words of a single 15-year-old are being taken as some sorts of revelatory gospel prophesy by media teams who, until a few years ago, dictated how communication was done. Now, with the rise of social media, the game has changed, and like any adults, they are desperate to find out how the mythical teenager communicates. To hear some of the quotes from the executives in the article, you would think they were dealing with gorillas that had been taught sign language:
‘We published it,' said Edward Hill-Wood, executive director of Morgan Stanley's European media team. ‘We've had dozens and dozens of fund managers, and several CEOs, e-mailing and calling all day.' He said the note had generated five or six times more responses than the team's usual research.”
Ultimately, what this goes to show me is that, despite changing times and lifestyles, teenagers remain and mysterious to adults as ever, and adults, being adults, will do nearly anything to get their foot in the door leading to the path of young, aloof coolness.

Appetite for Destruction?

One of the funniest things in the delightfully subversive movie “WALL-E” is how humanity is portrayed in the future: morbidly obese on hover chairs, unable to get up or do things for themselves.
Well, if reports issued today by the BBC and Reuters are any indication, we might already be halfway there. Obesity rates in the U.S. rose 22 percent last year, without a single decrease in any state across the union. Of these, Mississippi rated worst, with 32.5 percent of adults considered obese. The Reuters report said that the state has had this dubious title for the past five years. Colorado had the fewest obese adults, with 18.9 percent.
According to the BBC article, “in 1991, no state had an adult obesity rate above 20 percent, and in 1980 the national average for adult obesity was 15 percent.” Now, nearly two-thirds of American adults are either obese or overweight, the Reuters article said.
I’m one of them. I have a BMI of 27. A BMI of 18-25 is considered normal. Like many Americans, I am the victim of two things: one is my own lack of willpower to choose the right food to put in my body, and the other is the fact that much of the affordable food is so high processed that it makes getting fatter much, much easier than it used to be. Throughout human history, and in some places today, getting fat was a sign of wealth and prosperity. Now, perhaps being skinny is the sign of being wealthy enough to eat organic and non-processed foods on a regular basis.
The irony in this scenario is that the poorest people, who buy the cheapest or fastest food options, are now the fattest – something that would have no doubt confused the hell out of any time travelers from the Renaissance. In an era where Americans know how important exercise is, it seems that we lead such busy, complicated and ultimately stressful lives that few actually do on a regular basis. I know I am guilty of this. Also, as times get worse, and people’s stress levels go up, they eat more, adding more pounds to an already vicious cycle.
There’s going to be hell to pay for this. It’s well known that obesity contributes to health care costs. So how are we going to continue paying for premiums that increase nearly 30 percent a year?
I think I just lost my appetite.

We've lost our chance for a happy ending

Like many people today, I was shocked by the sudden death of Michael Jackson.

I was getting on to the on ramp to Highway 169 North when my niece and I were shocked by a radio announcement. "...TMZ is reporting that Michael Jackson has died. He was taken..." The next half-hour was spent on the phone, trying to confirm that it was true. After all, TMZ being what it is, I held on to the possibility that it wasn't true. I had my reasons.

Michael Jackson was the closest thing to a fallen god that our pop culture will likely produce. For much of his life time, everything he touched turned to gold, as the Pop King Midas hit after hit. He influenced an entire generation with records like "Off the Wall" and the immortal "Thriller." Until the late 1980s, he was unstoppable. Afterwards, the eccentricities and controversies overshadowed his tremendous talent and influence. In time, he became a sad punchline, an easy laugh to make at the expense of a many who in many ways remained a child.

In my mind, Michael Jackson's death denies us what I think many of us wanted for him: a happy ending. After so many false starts, so many missed concert dates and unmet expectations, we wanted that shining moment where we could look at him again as many of us saw him during the 1983 Motown special that revealed his out-of-this-world moonwalk for the first time. We all wanted to see this tortured and eccentric man remind us why we all believed in him in the first place - and I, for one, believed that he could do it.

He simply seemed to have the ability to make magic from absolute nothingness, to take a tragic and lonely childhood and and use it as fuel in a successful quest to make the world love him. I will remember him for that as much as anything else.

Dance, consumer, dance!

In order to combat the scourge of Internet piracy, the music industry bravely went after the source of the problem: a 32-year-old mother of four from Brainerd.
According to an article from the Pioneer Press, “a federal jury ruled Thursday that Jammie Thomas-Rasset willfully violated the copyrights on 24 songs, and the jury awarded recording companies $1.92 million, or $80,000 per song.” It seems that the sins of millions, perhaps billions, of Internet-savvy techsters have been placed on this one woman’s head, and I don’t think that’s fair. There’s simply no way someone like that can pay nearly $2 million for 24 songs they shared on Kazaa (a file sharing service). It seems doubly cruel that the recording industry would target someone like this, who they know probably can’t afford to saddle up the same legal team they can. It’s a message to the rest of us: don’t download music. Or we’ll screw you up, too.
For years, I think the recording industry has missed the point of downloading. I don’t think it kills music; I think it expands taste. Chances are, and I’ve seen surveys that say this, that people will buy more of an artist’s work once they are exposed to them. With computer-generated play lists dominating most Top-40 stations these days, or seeming to, anyway, as I hear the same six songs over and over again, where is one to hear new music? Not there. Not on MTV or VH1 either, which have seriously gone down the tubes over the past decade (as if I thought that were even possible in the early 1990s). In a corporate-controlled environment, where artists are sucked up and disposed of like so much cocaine or pixie sticks, there has to be an alternative, and for a while, downloading offered that alternative.
This case reminds me of what happened to the Dead Kennedys in the 1980s, when they were sued for a poster contained in their album “Frankenchrist.” They were brought to trial on obscenity charges (eventually dropped), and raked over the coals for what conservative elements in Washington and parent groups saw as an out of control art format that was rotting their children’s brains. Notice what was targeted: a small punk band, on its own independent label. A little guy, charged with the sins of others who could have put up a far stronger fight.
When I was about 17, I found a record at my local Goodwill that contained an insert message on it saying that home taping was killing music. I didn’t believe that ever happened, and I don’t believe it will ever happen with Internet music. I think part of why this happened in the first place is that it was simply easier to click a mouse and get a product rather than actually go through the hassle of finding a physical copy. If you set up a proper Internet music store, like iTunes, people will pay. I wish the music industry would spend more time trying to do this, rather than sue people who can’t afford to pay as a warning to the rest of us to keep our downloading queues clear.

My unabiding love for....Wierd Al

I have a confession to make: I really enjoy listening to Weird Al. SHHHH!! Don’t TELL anyone!

I recently found a copy of the 1985 Weird Al album “Dare to be Stupid” at the library, and I can’t remember that last time a simple library find brought me so much joy. Unlike many of the CDs I find at the library, which are “important” or “groundbreaking” (like Bob Dylan’s “Blonde on Blonde”), I actually enjoy listening to this CD. It doesn’t claim to be important, or memorable. It’s simply silly for silly’s sake, which I think we can all use a good dose of these days.
Even when he isn't funny, Weird Al is still funny. He's been entertaining 13-year-olds for nearly thirty years now, which is no mean feat, given how fickle that particular demographic can be. He's like the old Chevy pickup of the music business: he may not be the most flashy thing to come along down the highway, but he's reliable, well-made, and will get you from point A to point B with minimal fuss. His lyrics are well written, and the backing band always spot on. Yes, I've given this thought.
Listening to this album brings me back to the days of riding the bus sophomore year, when my friend Paul Victorey and I would share a pair of headphones to listen to his extensive Weird Al collection. There we’d be, tittering away at something no one else could hear, having a ball in the most socially humiliating way possible. These memories make me smile, because it’s the calm before the storm that was my junior year, when I traded Weird Al for anti-depressants, and I didn’t ride the bus with Paul anymore. For these brief, shining moments, I felt like a child, light and free – free to indulge in a song like “One More Minute” (sample lyric: “I’d rather jump naked onto a huge pile of thumbtacks/ Stick my nostrils together with crazy glue/ I’d dive headfirst into a pool of double-edged razor blades/ Then spend one more minute with you”).
Those aren’t the only Weird Al memories I’ve got. During the summer of 1992, my cousin John Michael and I practically wore out his copy of the Weird Al album with the parody of Nirvana’s “Nevermind” on it. We’d set up a boom box by the tree swing at the summer cottage our families rented for a week, and sing along to every word. At age 12, there’s not much more than you can ask for than Weird Al, a Hi-C or two, and a tree swing. Bliss.
I am fortunate to have married a Weird Al fan. Karla and I actually saw him at the Minnesota State Fair in 2007, and he put on a hell of a show. Even when a song might not have been as funny as it was 20 years ago, he poured his heart and soul into it, even going so far as to don a fat suit for the song “Fat” and dancing with a chorus of Imperial Storm troopers for his Star Wars-inspired take on Don McLean’s “American Pie.” He never stopped moving the entire time he was on stage, and he never stopped giving his audience what they wanted. It was a really great show.
So yes, if you drive by a green car blaring “I Want a New Duck,” it’s probably me. But I can guarantee you that there’s more fun in doing that than there is talking about John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps,” Patti Smith’s “Horses,” or other pompous critic-rock. There needs to be silliness in a world that takes itself too seriously 99 percent of the time, and Weird Al is the doctor to administer the cure.