Mother needs something today to calm her down

Further evidence of ignorance being bliss:

Among the mistakes I have made over the course of my life is paying attention to the lyrics of popular songs. Not every song, mind you, but enough of the ones I've heard repeatedly to have gleaned some of the themes expressed. This does not necessarily result in me liking the song in question more or less; I may develop a greater or lesser appreciation for the songwriting, but that appeals primarily to other songwriters (or people who are frustrated songwriters). For the rest of the music-listening public, a good beat, a catchy melody, and earnestness in how the lyrics are sung by the singer (regardless of the content) prove more important in determining how much the song is liked. Some songs are acknowledged for their message or for their novelty, but they are the exception, not the rule.

Make no mistake here: There is absolutely nothing wrong with liking a song for reasons that do not factor in the lyrics. I have over 20,000 songs on my computer; I couldn't tell you what a majority of them are "about" without making the effort to listen to them closely. I could rattle off a list of the ones that really rock, or are played remarkable musicianship, or that are accessible to a larger audience than the rest of the artist's material, but to make a statement about the meaning of the words would take much longer.

In my younger days I used to make mix tapes for friends, and I'm sure there were many times when I included a song that was completely inappropriate in regards to what the lyrics were about but which had, say, that person's name mentioned at some point. Novelty without context. I imagine the only reason I didn't lose said friends was because they didn't listen that closely either. Assuming they listened at all. I digress.

Last weekend my girlfriend and I were at the mall in search of Mother's Day cards for our respective moms (both of whom live at a great distance, so we need to get them in the mail early). The ones that caught our attention were the ones that play part of a song when opened. (You've seen the commercials for them, or you can see some here.)

Glancing over the selection of these musical cards, I noticed that the songs they featured tended to be in that same vein as my old mix tapes: novelty without context. The Miracles' "Shop Around" alludes to motherly advice, certainly, and I guess that kind of fits in, but it's not really about loving mom. "I Got You (I Feel Good)" by the Godfather of Soul (James Brown—egad, if you didn't know that just stop reading now) struck me as a bit of a stretch; perhaps I'd always interpreted "when I hold you in my arms" as having slightly suggestive overtones when I should have seen it as purely innocent affection. I suppose directing all the words at one's mother and dwelling only on the "so good" (bamp-bamp) "so good, I got you" line it doesn't get too creepy. (Hey, I'm not one to judge, but it does get a bit too heavily Freudian for me at some point.)

Clearly the songs were chosen primarily because the publishing company licensed the rights to the card company, secondarily because someone at the card company considered them to have some connection with motherhood. They're popular songs that are safe with broad appeal. They should sell. That's all that mattered, I'm sure. And most all of the ones I saw fell into a category where I thought, Hey, if you want to send that to your mom, knock yourself out. Such is the joy of a free society.

One card, however, gave me pause. The front featured cartoon limes on the front, and cartoon margaritas on the inside. Hey, I'm not offended by the notion of mom needing a little tequila-fueled relief from the rugrats.

When opened the card plays the Rolling Stones' "Mother's Little Helper". Ha-ha. Yep, that's a helper, all right.

The song, of course, is not about an occasional drink; it's about the abuse of prescription medications (likely valium) amongst housewives.

But yes, it does have "mother" right there in the name of the song, and Mic and Keif won't turn down the money, so what the heck. Well, if you have that kind of relationship with your mother and her issues, you've found your card.

Without knowing the lyrics it would just be an amusing little joke with mom about what a little hellion you were in your youth (or possibly still are) and to what lengths you drove her.

Remember: It's not that I don't get it; it's that I get it more than I should.

If only there were something I could take to make me forget about such troubles, possibly in pill form...


Happy Mothers Day to all the moms.

Shameless self-promotion

New photo posted over on the useless site: a building and sunshine cocktail.

This morning's entertainment

This morning I had a dream where even in the context of dreaming I knew I was observing a world similar to that of the movie Escape From New York. At least that's what I (or the me who was in the dream) thought as I watched a shootout between people who were crouched behind boxes (inside a hanger or barn of some sort) and invaders on motorcycles.

That, I admit, doesn't sound like Escape From New York. Still, my dream self thought it was. And that was not the odd part.

From the side of the barn opposite those attacking on the motorcycles, during the battle, entered Neil Patrick Harris, suited up as Barney (the character he plays on the enjoyable sitcom "How I Met Your Mother")—yes, you'd think the fascist officer from Starship Troopers would have fit in better with the theme, but that's not what my unconscious included. He was completely unfazed by the gunfire exploding around us, walking up to those of us crouched behind the boxes for cover, to ask us something. I don't remember what he asked, but I recall my dream self just stood up with blithe disregard for my safety to answer him. (I don't recall thinking the meeting was "awesome"; although my unconscious pulled up his character and wardrobe, it didn't include his catch phrases.

The dream moved to a sequence on a train out in a barren desert (this was more like a Western set in the late 1800s). For this part I wasn't a character but observed from an overhead vantage point, as though in a helicopter trailing the locomotive. The train hurtled at a breakneck pace (or so I feel compelled to describe its speed as such now) as the tracks curved to the right.

On the caboose of said train (yes, it had stereotypical caboose) was a man at a steering wheel, apparently needing to drive the tail of the train (not unlike the driver on the back of a hook and ladder fire engine). The caboose driver, decked out in the stereotypical overalls and brimmed hat (like what Steve Martin wore in The Jerk during the scene where he's driving the train at the park where he meets Bernadette Peters), became alarmed as he noticed another train approaching on a track that was about to meet up with the one his train was on, but (here the dream switched focus to a tight shot of the other train's caboose) there was no caboose driver on that train, and apparently in the context of having trains where the tail end needs to be steered, that put the trains in danger of colliding.

The caboose driver turned the wheel with all his strength and with his strained effort narrowly avoided the other train (which then veered off to the left as though on a completely separate track, and so from a rational standpoint the actual danger seems undercut, but again, in the context of the dream is was quite dramatic). The dream camera (so to speak) zoomed in on the caboose driver as he sighed in relief and took off his hat to wipe his brow.

It was Ted Danson. Dressed as he was (appropriate for the "scene") I can't say whether it was more of a "Cheers" Ted or a "Becker" Ted, but given that I never really watched the latter, and given that he was older there, we'll figure it was the slightly more verile Sam Malone-esque one. He did have hair, so the toupee was included (and sticking to his head remarkably well considering how he perspired in the wake of saving the train).

Then I awoke (a minute before the alarm went off) and had no more unconscious adventures to watch.

I'm so glad that television has had no impact on the way my brain operates, and really has not affected the way I interpret the world. I'm screwed-up enough as it is.

Classic rambling alert

Because you're unlikely to notice on your own, I'll mention that I've added another Another Useless Column (the precursor to this site from my days writing for my college newspaper) to the archives. Specifically here.

(All of the egrigious mistakes have been left in. Please do be amused by them.)

11 years ago I was merely younger. That's the only definitive statement I can make.

To peruse all of those pieces from my days on The Union, click here. (If you'd rather not peruse those pieces, well, there's the entirety of the internet, television, movies, books, magazines, and that weird hair growing out of your side to keep you occupied.)

Pics of the fire (sort of)

Pictures taken last night of the Griffith Park wildfire (well, of the smoke) have been posted here on my photo site.