Karaoke Revelations

As some of you Atari Party attendees know, we have kept up with the Karaoke Revolutions series by Konami. I’m not a very talented singer, but I’m pleased that I have scored perfectly on two songs:

  • “Take On Me” by a-ha
  • “More Than A Feeling” by Boston

I am especially proud because of the songs.

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Late Night CMT Musings, Delayed

1: Taylor Swift. Day-um, that is a pretty girl.

I mean, I’m from Wisconsin, but this young lady has altered the geographical center of my swearing accent.

That’s the kind of girl I would have gotten stupid over at age 20. Come to think of it, she does remind me a little about my high school crush. I only went out with her twice, as I got stupid about her my senior year and didn’t get the nerve to ask her out until spring. She then went on to date a close friend, which would become a recurring theme in my younger days, and after she graduated college, I hear she married a local boy known for impregnating his step-sister, whom he’d dated before their parents married. I am from Wisconsin, but by high school, I was in Jefferson County, Missouri, where such things are not unheard of.

But back to Taylor Swift. Blonde, pretty blue eyes, and a sweet voice, ruff.

Speaking of Taylors, here’s another from back in the day, also blonde here:

2. Hey, I’ve always liked Billy Ray Cyrus.

Actually, I was fortunate to get exposure only after the whole Achy Breaky thing, so that was something I had to forgive him for after I liked him. Here’s the current video, where he looks like a fat Garth Brooks as Chris Gaines, unfortunately:

Sadly, it’s from an album of country sings Disney which isn’t as bad as a Jimmy Buffett or Def Leppard duet, but I have to think Hank would not approve.

Here’s something from the olden days, his second album entitled It Won’t Be The Last. To some of his critics’ surprise, it wasn’t. You’ll have to click through to see “Some Gave All” because Universal Music doesn’t trust me with the embedded video because if you can see the video here for free, you won’t go buy a $50 Blu-Ray Billy Ray video collection.


What, country music videos in the middle of the night? Well, after four weeks of the late shift, I’ve gotten a bit tired of SportsCenter and Hannity and Colmes or Greta repeats, and sometimes the classic movie stations are running Hope Floats marathons. Watching the country videos makes me a bit nostalgic, as you can see.

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Thank God He’s Not A Country Boy

This weekend, someone posted a bit about how Barack Obama should take note lessons from Hank William, Jr.,’s “A Country Boy Can Survive” to court the rural vote. As someone who listens to Hank Williams, Jr., for pleasure, I’d have to point out that Barack Obama could not actually adhere to the philosophy the song encompasses. Let’s do a line-by-line of the lyrics, shall we?

The preacher man says it’s the end of time
For starters, this line indicates going to church, and many of the Democrat leaders only appear in church around election time. Some of the most faithful Democratics I know in the urbanati are active, enthusiastic atheists. So this line and its millenial, evangelical preacher man don’t conform with many Democrat candidate leanings, much less Obama’s–who has preacher man problems of his own, as those who dwell amongst the blogs know.

And the Mississippi River she’s a goin’ dry
A good environmental millenialism. Democrats already tap into the global warming/environmental disaster meme, but so does McCain (sadly). So Obama has nothing to learn here.

The interest is up and the stock market’s down
Well, this economic malaise millenialism fits a Democrat theme, but it doesn’t hold terribly true according to current metrics. The interest rates are way down, and the stock market is a bit behind, but not far off. The song was originally recorded in 1981, and the economic malaise was inherited from Carter (D) with the conditions. Put that sweater on and shiver in it.

And you only get mugged
If you go downtown

Now, we have a bit of a disconnect. The fear of crime and a strong law-and-order impulse are mostly Republican weighted issues. City cores and the urban rulers and voters trend Democratic, so some suburban types (such as me) see the hellholes in cities and think they’re problems caused by Democratic policies until a Giuliani cleans them up. Banging a drum too loudly about how screwed up cities are might draw attention to how they got that way.

I live back in the woods, you see
A woman and the kids, and the dogs and me

A nuclear family. Sounds good. But who is it that mocks family values? Oh, yeah, the urbanati.

I got a shotgun, rifle, and a 4-wheel drive
Guns and a fuel-consuming sport utility vehicle (with dogs and kids, I’d picture a Chevy Blazer). Any urbanati Democrat candidate that espoused these would look foolish and somewhat hypocritical. Like Obama is doing now.

And a country boy can survive
Country folks can survive

I don’t think this is what the urbanati care about. All they care is that the rural folks fail to outvote their urban voters, who will probably go Democrat anyway.

I can plow a field all day long
I can catch catfish from dusk till dawn

As Kerry and other urban Democrat candidates know, regaling voters with stories of harvesting grain or being lifelong hunters doesn’t work, since you’re likely to make a gaffe or slip into cornpone accents.

We make our own whiskey and our own smoke too
Ain’t too many things these ole boys can’t do

Whereas Obama might appreciate a good homemade smoke, Democrats aren’t terribly interested in unregulated craft manufacturing. None of our government officials are, really; if there’s a lobbying group that wants to keep upstarts out, the government leaders pass certification and licensing laws. Never mind that; what else are we talking about here? Ah, yes, smoking and drinking, the new anathemas to modern urbanati living, which must be banned in as many locations as possible. Which is “all” to some minds.

We grow good ole tomatoes and homemade wine
And a country boy can survive
Country folks can survive

The song is an anthem to self-reliance. Growing your own food and making your own booze? But Democrat initiatives don’t expect that much of constituents. No, instead, here, have some free money and free cheese. Vote for me, and next time it’s more free money and maybe some chicken. Please don’t spend that money on seeds, or we’ll cut your benefit.

Because you can’t stomp us out
And you can’t make us run
‘Cause we’re them old boys raised on shotgun

Resilience and tenacity. Put some bombs bursting in air, and you’ve got “The Star-Spangled Banner”.

We say grace and we say Ma’am
And if you ain’t into that we don’t give a damn

This is a libertarian impulse coupled with a traditional conservative respect for others and belief in God. Unfortunately, one does not get the sense that the Democrat party platform is about not giving a damn about other people’s business. Sadly, neither is the Republican party’s in many places. But I doubt Obama’s “Change” involves not freaking out about how tall your neighbor’s lawn is or whether Georgia allows this when Connecticut does not (What! Let’s pass a Federal statute to make it the same everywhere according to the prevailing busybody taste!)

We came from the West Virginia coal mines
And the Rocky Mountains and the western skies

No, the Democrat frontrunners come from the cities and other urbanati enclaves in academic environments. Saying you’re authentic or that you’ve worked for a living won’t make it so, so let’s not just drop a hard hat with a carbide lamp on you for a photo op, okay?

We can skin a buck; we can run a trot line
And a country boy can survive
Country folks can survive

Skinning Bambi? Catching fish? Hurting Mother Gaia’s more important children? Okay, I’m adding urbanati hysterics for fun here, but a lot of urbanati want to limit hunting in myriad ways. I don’t know Obama’s voting record on these issues, but I’d guess they’re either “Present” or not against the limitations.

I had a good friend in New York City
He never called me by my name, just hillbilly

That’s actually probably in line with urbanati conversation, although “redneck” has replaced hillbilly as the appellation for choice for those not fortunate enough to live amid the concrete warrens of the like-minded.

My grandpa taught me how to live off the land
And his taught him to be a businessman
He used to send me pictures of the Broadway nights
And I’d send him some homemade wine

An exchange of the “service economy” versus people who actually make stuff for a living. A photo for a product. To the urbanati, that’s a good exchange. Perhaps Obama has already tapped into this, offering style instead of substance.

But he was killed by a man with a switchblade knife
For 43 dollars my friend lost his life
Again, the crime in the city. The Ed Koch years. Remember the 1970s and 1980s and the New York City of that era? Yeah, to urbanati of a certain age, living there amid the crime and the crumbling gives them credibility. Unfortunately, Obama’s not that old. Banging the drum of street crime won’t endear him to the urban vote.

I’d love to spit some beechnut into that dude’s eyes
And shoot him with my old .45
Cause a country boy can survive
Country folks can survive

What, with a handgun? Citizens cannot be trusted with handguns. Just lock yourself behind a hollow core closet door and call 911. Then your survivors can lose a lawsuit because police do not have a duty to protect any individual.

Cause you can’t stomp us out, and you can’t make us run
‘Cause we’re them old boys raised on shotgun.
We say grace, and we say Ma’am
And if you ain’t into that we don’t give a damn.

We’re from North California and south Alabam
And little towns all around this land
And we can skin a buck; we can run a trot line
And a country boy can survive
Country folks can survive

I don’t think there’s much in the song for Obama to embrace, authentically and sincerely. The Democratic Party encourages dependency, more than even the other party that encourages dependency upon its largess when in power. Strong libertarian messages coupled with a marked belief in traditional values won’t sound right coming from Obama’s mouth, not if he’s also professing to be the fount of all change and goodness and impending utopia.

(Links courtesy of Outside the Beltway and Instapundit.)

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Don’t You Hate It When That Happens?

When you confuse two songs that have the same title and that came out near the same time? For example:

Duran Duran’s “Notorious” (1986):

Loverboy’s “Notorious” (1987):

It was the video for “Notorious” that I had in mind for some reason. Sadly, I didn’t look 80s cool until the early 90s, and that made for some lonely times and few dates at college.

Another similar circumstance: Robbie Nevil’s “C’est La Vie” (1986):

And David Lee Roth’s “That’s Life” (also 1986 — sorry, no video). Both songs charted at the same time, but fortunately one is titled in French to alleviate the confusion.

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Blast from the Past

In the year 1984, Julie Brown releases an EP with a song on it entitled “The Homecoming Queen Has Got A Gun”. School shootings do not immediately spike.



Would that make you think that perhaps the popular culture influence nor the availability of guns makes these things happen, but more a certain laxity of moral standards that would manifest itself in another decade? Or perhaps the inclusion of these incidents as major signifiers in the sweeping narrative told by popular media?

I got nothing, but I recall I thought the song was funny at the time, but given how times have changed, not so much any more.

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A Moment of Strength, or Weakness

I was looking for an old car radio in the dimly lit basement storage room. Amid the archived esoteric computer peripherals and old gaming systems, I found a stack of magazines. It wasn’t a surprise, really, because I have binders filled with an assortment of old magazines, including: old computer magazines with programs you could type into your Commodore 64 to turn hours of hunting and pecking and troubleshooting typographic errors into minutes of fun with primitive games; decades’ old copies of Writers’ Digest that contain the endless loop of advice that magazine provides; several varieties of home handyman magazines to provide me with fantasy projects that I could handle but wouldn’t want and projects that I would want but couldn’t handle; and myriad single copies of magazines I picked up on newsstands while telling myself that they’re research for my writing career. No, instead of those semi-useful magazines, I found two years’ worth of Spin.

Sometime immediately after the turn of the century, I got an unsolicited invitation to subscribe to Spin for two years. As it was, I wasn’t hip to the latest music, and I’d just turned 30. So, with some lottery-ticket hope of recapturing some of my youth, I took the chance and sent the ten bucks, and the magazines started coming. Each issue showed some different group of unwashed kids revolutionizing everything about music. The White Strokes, the Activisions, Dashboard Light, and so on and so on and Scooby Dooby Dooby. Frankly, the magazine didn’t give me the urge to increase my budget for CDs based on the say-so of some music-industry spit-shiners, so I let my subscription lapse. Besides, my music-buying habits in my salad days centered upon buying two dollar cassettes from the racks at Walgreens or Camelot Music and sometimes finding something I really liked, albeit several years and a couple of albums beyond the group’s hits (a-ha and Cutting Crew, for example) and sometimes finding something I played once and then forgot (76% Uncertain et al). So Spin couldn’t help me recapture a youthful musical hipness I never had in the first place.

Still, I browsed the magazines and then threw them into a box. Did I intend to keep them in case I needed them for research in the future? Did I keep them in case they became collectibles some decades hence? I’m not even sure I needed that much excuse, as I’m somewhat of an accumulator of things (see also that list of electronic esoterica). However, when I rediscovered this particular stack of magazines, I decided that I would never actually use them for research. They probably wouldn’t be worth anything as a collectible as the next generations, to whom these would be collectibles, won’t actually collect things. And the bands covered within the magazine are probably just flashes in the pan whose names I obviously cannot get correct even now, three years removed from the musical revolution and whatever passes for hits in the iPod world.

So I stacked them in a box, but I didn’t throw them into the recycling bin. Perhaps I gave myself a cooling off period to ensure that I did not act rashly in my discarding the valuable-because-I-have-them clutterica. Perhaps my hands were too full (of nothing since I didn’t find the car radio). Whatever the reason, the magazines took up residence in the box on the floor instead of stacked atop binders of more valuable magazines.

A couple of days later, I returned to the storage room and found the box of magazines. Now, I could certainly carry the collection to the recycling bin. However, as I looked at the box, I thought perhaps I could list an eBay auction composed of the “collectibles,” but my eBay sense tingled danger, and I knew that I’d only lose my auction fees. Then, I thought about saving them for a yet-unplanned garage sale in the future or using them as a donation to a sale of some sort, but ultimately I’d mark them a dime each and no one would even paw through them. No one pawed through the collection of magazines at our last garage sale earlier this month. So that foolish dream or rationalization too died.

Anti-climactically, I carried them out to the recycling. Ultimately, it was that easy; simply lift with the legs and not the back, ascend the stairs, open the door, set down. Once I got the habitual mental hang-ups out of the way, I did it without fanfare. I got rid of something I had no use for but that was only taking up space in our store room. But, contrary to the hopes and dreams of my wife, that doesn’t mark the beginning of a trend in my behavior. These were just Spin magazines, after all, and not a sixth Commodore 64, a box of uncleaned and thoroughly played with G. I. Joes from the middle 1980s, or boxes of comic books that haven’t been out of their plastic bags for fifteen years. Those things have intrinsic and obvious because-I-have-them value.

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Your Grandfather’s Kajira

Funny, I don’t see any of your grandparents’ Sioux-City-Suean lifestyles banned (unlike Gor-simulation lifestyles) from Web hosting services, but this song from 1945 is not unlike the Kajira:

‘Cause I come from Nebraska to find Sioux City Sue
I’m gonna rope and tie her up, I’ll use my old lasso
I’m gonna put my brand on my sweet Sioux City Sue

Dudes, that’s Gene Autry singing the most maligned elements of John Norman’s books right there.

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Complete Misunderstanding of Concept of Failure

Perhaps the complete misunderstanding of the concept of failure is a precursor to actual success. For example, Kelly Clarkson speaks about the new sound on her new album, and the potential consequences of changing her sound on her new album:

It’s my favorite thing I’ve done. It could sell two million or 12 million. I don’t care. I just want people to hear it, instead of 100-year-old executives making decisions on what’s good for pop radio.

Well, there are other possibilities. But if the floor of your expectations is 2,000,000 records sold, you’re more likely to cut an album than someone who realizes you could sell none.

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