Baker Street and The Year of the Cat

I almost ruined an hour of my limited social life.

So we're on our way to Jockamo UC Pizza and Stuck in the Middle With You by Stealer's Wheel pops onto one of the XM Radio stations. It's not bad for a pop song that was whelped in the early 70s, so I didn't wish it to the cornfield by punching another preset. Instead I offered one of my music challenges to my dear wife about the song. The offer usually is for a sizable cash prize in line with the difficulty of the question. I pride myself in my knowledge of American music and the wife was sequestered in a Baptist home for many years and has, despite a ongoing effort to bring herself up to speed, no more than a cursory knowledge of such things

The question: Who is the lead singer / front man for Stealer's Wheel? This was for $10, because it is relatively easy. Nonetheless, she gives up after making a who-gives-a-shit guess of Chuck Berry. She wanted to listen to the song. After it ended she said, "Well, who was it?"

"Who was what?"
The Stealer's Wheel guy.
"Oh, that was _______________..." My mind goes blank as we arrive at Jockamo.

We greet our friends, but I'm preoccupied with coming up with the singer's name." I appear to be in some sort of snit. giving distant and terse answers to questions thrown my way. I apologize explaining I have something on my mind. When I divulge just exactly what is on my mind, I get puzzled looks. I am assured that I can look it up when I get home and should let it go. I try, but can't stop rolling around names in my head as I hopefully give the impression that I am engaged in the conversation. Al Stewart? Criss Cross? Edward Bear? Gilbert O'Sullivan? All the leisure suited lightweights of the era when Top 40 radio was nearing its death were considered.

"His last name begins with an "R". ", I blurt.
Eyes roll.

After sucking back 11 ounces of Fat Tire, the synapse fires. "Rafferty."
The table is mildly happy for me; more happy that I am done with this nonsense.

"But what was his first name?" John? James? Something with a "J".
I'm alone in my conversation by now. Can hardly blame the people.

More Fat Tire then BANG. "Jerry Rafferty!" - "no Gerry Rafferty with a G"

The Pizza arrives. I come back from the ionosphere just in time to enjoy my pizza and join the party. Later, we come back to our place to play Dominion and I catch a little teasing about having my cards in plastic sleeves. I'm refereed to as Monk for the rest of the evening for my OCD behavior.

Gerry effing Rafferty.

Apple ][ 48K

10 TEXT: HOME
20 PRINT "HELLO WORLD"
30 END

Waxing nostalgic for days when life was supposedly simpler afer an all day migration from Vista to Windows 7, I took note of all the expensive geeky "must have" hardware items that have been purchased and subsequenty trashed. I sold my old Apple ][ setup for $2000 for a leg up on a IBM 286 Machine running at 6mz. I remember my first hard drive, all 20 mb of it. That's mb, folks, about the size of 7 or 8 MP3s. There were EGA monitors, dual-sided 5 ¼" floppy disks, zip drives, dot matrix printers with tractor paper, 2 mb memory expansion modules , 300 baud modems ...

>RUN
> HELLO WORLD

One Two Three Four

On XM Radio, Sirrius XM Radio, or whatever the hell they call it now, I was tuned into the Underground Garage Band station and heard the gawd awful but catchy tune by The Grass Roots entitled Let's Live for Today. The hook, "na na na na na na live for today." is preceded by a count of "one, two three, four" that is probably finest segment of the record.

People (I consider myself one) seem to be sucked in by "1234" being sung or spoken in a song. Take Feists's appropriately titled 1234. Like it or not, it can get into your head. Is it a need to get our minimal daily allotment of mathematics or the need for those with no sense of rhythm to be guided into the proper beat? I don't know but there are maybe hundreds of tunes that feature 1234. Mostly it is found at the start of the track. like in the Ramones' Rockaway Beach.

I particularly like Sam the Sham's Spanish intro to the start of the Tex-Mex classic Wooly Bully.

Don't forget Springsteen's Born to Run.

Gee, wouldn't it be cool to compile a play list of the best songs that have 1234? No? Then bite me. Otherwise, comment here or on Twitter with your submissions and I will put together a play list on this very blog with your entries. Promise.

Previously Untitled

This nation is desperate for entertainment


I only remember three stories from the glut of pablum that passed for news last week. Is this a trend, or just a side trip into the land of the weird and disturbing?

1. Tom Delay was on Dancing with the Stars I do not watch the show, but avoiding this clip was as difficult as securing one's home with duct tape during a biological attack. Delay all but assured that I will not warm up to the idea of gay sex. He went a step further and has dampened my appetite for straight sex. Knowing what this guy's ass looks like and not knowing if Iran is developing nukes for malevolent purposes bothers me.

2. Some woman plans to wear a different dress every day for a year. That's not very hard. Maybe there's more to this, but didn't delve into the details. (insert smartassed misogynystic comment here)

3. Then there's the MacKenzie Phillips thing. What people will so or say to sell a book these days. I can see incest experts lining up to appear on Oprah, Larry King and the like to help people come to grips with this problem. I'm punching Dr. Phil in anticipation of his efforts to capitalize on the new fad.

There is nothing funny about a stroke.

I was confident that I could mine a bit of humorous material from my Labor Day Weekend incident, but I have abandoned the idea. I'm not offended when friends joke that my bumper-car approach to problem solving shrouded the effects of my stroke. I'm more concerned for those in my ward who did not bounce back from their strokes and are facing long rehabilitation.

Some are curious as to just what it's like to have a stroke. I wish I could tell you. I was almost oblivious to the situation. I thought I was perhaps just having an off day and crashing my car, forgetting where I was, and not being able to locate letters on my keyboard were simply due to lack of sleep or a reaction of some sort. Only after I was finally convinced to voluntarily check in driven by ambulance to the hospital that I thought that maybe I belonged there.

As is turns out, I had thousands of microscopic strokes. My vision was effected, with me literally not being able to see straight. My mind would go completely blank for a minute or two, I could not tell time or dial a phone. While various neurological tests were undergone, I started snapping out of the perplexing funk. After one week in captivity, I was released and almost all the vestiges of the attack have disappeared.

The worst part of the seven-day hospital visit turned out to be the best.

I need Xanax to deal with tight spaces like airplane cabins or even sitting in the middle of a row at a concert. I made damn sure I was loaded up for the MRI scan. There wasn't enough Xanax on the planet. I declared "I can't do this!" with such urgency that they pulled me out of the tube at once. A nurse came down and arranged for a special injection of a magic potion. Ten minutes later, I was groovin' to the cool sounds inside the tube. If an MRI is in your future, go the claustrophobia route. When the scan was over I wanted to go again. Drugs rule.

So that's all I have. I'll try to get back to posting via social media. I have plenty of catching up to do.