I Don’t Care What You Say Anymore

Karaoke is a harsh mistress.

There is only an occassional need in me these days to get up in front of people and yalp into a microphone. It was sort of, um, bludgeoned out of me some time ago along with a lot of other stuff. But it’s there, and I guess I’m glad for it. Having a birthday, that’s an excuse to drag some people who actually know and respect you somewhat along with you so you can drive that foolish notion out of them altogether.

The Hut has a pretty good karaoke, something I’m sure Alice never would have had the stomach for but that Larry seems quite comfortable with. Larry even gets to leave the bar for a song occassionally; last night it was “Particle Man.” I sang “My Life” and “Authority Song” and couldn’t help but mosey to the stage again while Jay was singing Croce’s “Operator.” Harmonies. I can’t sit there and not do harmonies when they’re there and not being sung.

I wore one of my presents, my new “Howard 100” T, with the Stern Fist logo and everything. Awesome, awesome, thanks to my woman for indulging me so completely. Hey now.

We came home and watched the Big Premiere even though we were dawgtired. Even this morning, I said, maybe it was just that we were tired and it was late or that we’d been looking forward to it for so many months, or maybe it’s because it’s on Thursday and not Sunday. Or maybe, she added, it was just plain bad. I had to agree. Why isn’t Izzie in jail? Why is so much hinging on the ‘Oh My God, They Killed Denny’ plot point? Denny was apparently so special he can make Bailey lose it? Why isn’t Izzie in jail? Baby dumping? Seriously? And, finally, why isn’t Izzie in jail? Something was off, completely off. They forgot to be funny and they tipped too much off with the flashback sequences. Some backstory should remain in the back. And why isn’t Izzie in jail?

Verbing Weirds Language

I’ve just invented a new word, one that I think is rather useful.

Let’s say you’re at work, and you duck your head into someone’s office to ask them a quick question about that borkyfongous you’re supposed to be working on. And the fellow you’re asking starts talking about how much he loves cars. And he goes on about it for like a very long time.

You’ve just been bordraggled.

I Know To Trip Is Just To Fall

When my music collection jumped fairly permanently from LP to CD, some shit didn’t make it, some shit that it’s inexcusable that it didn’t. The Led Zeppelin was never replaced, for instance. I mean it was in piecemeal and in a somewhat ass-backwards sort of way. For some reason, “Coda,” “Out Door,” and “Presence” all entered the library as CDs. “IV” is there too. Somehow, tho, the rest haven’t made it yet in CD fashion.

I mean I know how. You forget. You decide you’re a rudie for awhile, and the anthemic stadium rock just seems fucked up. Or you listen entirely too much to talk radio. You forget. You lose your place. You stray from your true ancestry. Perhaps it’s assimilation. But it’s not livin’.

It’s taken a mad-dash purchase today of “Physical Graffiti” on compact disc to remind me, to remind me of when I first discovered Led Zeppelin, of the life-changing weekend I spent on a grassy, lovely Highlands hill, throwing back mead and flying too close to the sun. That’s the weekend Mom took my adolescent unappreciative ass to Edinboro, and it was rainy all weekend, and friends, rainy by a lake in a dull resort down in Pennsylvania is the perfect place to hear Zoso for the first time.

I know I’m not the only one. Not the sole one who got through Chaucer in English class while doodling the lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven” onyour grocery bag book covers, prouder that you knew those lyrics than you were to understand anything from “Wife of Bath.” I wore a “swan song” amulet. I read “Hammer of the Gods” constantly. And, yes, I held my own little air concerts in my little room with the headphones on, usually as Robert, sometimes as Bonzo.

All right. TMI.

I’m just saying. It’s easy to forget, to forget that there was once music capable of not just entering your ear holes, but of grabbing your scruff and your corpus callosum all at once, and not just of making you believe, but of making you know. If I had to pick a god but it could be anything, it would be this. Zeppelin, man. Remind me never to forget this again.