Hey you kids, turn down that bad singing!

I get that every generation has its music. And I get that every generation thinks its music is better than the music of other eras.
Hey, our grandparents thought Elvis was a freak. And our parents rolled their eyes at the antics of Elton John and David Bowie.
But I must admit that I am now closer to the mentality shared by past generations, which is a nicer way to say that I am now in full-fledged Oldguyhood. I watched the American Music Awards Sunday night and thought for the most part, the music stunk.
Especially Rihanna. I don’t know all that much about her but I know she’s supposed to be a big deal in the music industry. The problem is, I didn’t think she could carry a tune in a bucket.
Just to make sure, I texted Younger Daughter: “I didn’t know Rihanna didn’t know how to sing. I thought she was supposed to be good?”
Younger Daughter responded: “She stinks in live performances.”
Oh. OK, so Rihanna was just having a bad night. Everybody has those now and again. I try not to have mine in front of millions of television viewers, but I usually don’t have to worry about that. And besides, Rihanna looks a lot better in a skintight, white peek-a-boo body suit than I do. So maybe she really doesn’t have to sing much.
Then there was Eminem, 50 Cent and Timbaland. I always thought the guy’s name was M&M, like the candy. That was wrong. Anyway, these guys are called hip-hoppers I’m told. They all performed at the awards show and I can state with absolute certainty that I did not understand one word any of them sang. Or hipped. Or hopped. Or whatever it is they do.
We had musicians that didn’t enunciate either. Hello, Bob Dylan.
All I can do is echo the words of my forefathers: These crazy kids and their loud music.

High regard for the goofy and geeky

I was never much for science. At a school open house, I usually gravitate toward the English Department to find writers.
But at a recent high school open house, it was the science teachers that provided the most entertainment because they were the most goofy and geeky, two qualities I hold in high regard.
The most interesting classroom on this visit was the science lab, where the teachers had set up a bunch of microscopes in which visitors could look through and see a variety of gross things, the origin of which is known only to science teachers.
Science teachers have a unique sense of humor. On this evening, they had laid out a big stinkin’ snake on a tray, which from my vantage point from across the parking lot (I really don’t like snakes at all) looked like it was about the size of a bazooka. I couldn’t really tell if it was dead at first, but it turns out that it was and was tagged to eventually be dissected.
At one point, I approached one science teacher who was fiddling around with a big, sealed bag of something, so I maneuvered away from the big snake and toward the big bag.
Turns out it was a bag of brains. Har-dee-har-har.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wizard. But that looks like a bag full of brains you’re fiddling around with there,” I said.
Of course, he gave me the 25-cent explanation that had a lot of 25-cent words in it that I didn’t understand as to why he was left holding the bag of brains. At one point, I believe we discussed the benefits of actual dissection as opposed to virtual dissection, and I didn’t understand any of that either.
“I’m sorry sir,” I said. “I just came to this open house because I thought cookies would be served. But I ended up in here talking to you while you were holding a bag of brains.”
And instead of eating cookies I ended up nearly tossing mine.

Hey JoePa, a little help would have been nice

One week the Phillies are playing in the World Series and my alma mater, the University of Iowa, had an undefeated football team and was sniffing around a possible national championship. It was good to be me.
And then everything went kablooey on both fronts the next week. The New York Yankees spoiled back-to-back world titles hopes for the Phils and then a bunch of smart guys from Northwestern University handed the Hawkeyes their first gridiron defeat of the season and dashed any premature talk about a national college football championship. And it was bad to be me.
Naturally, both teams could have used a little help, especially the Hawkeyes. And they could have used it from JoePa and our friends at Penn State.
See, I have no particular rivalry problem with Penn State. The Nittany Lions weren’t even in the Big Ten Conference when I was at Iowa. I am friends with a lot of Penn State graduates. But I don’t have any love loss for the Ohio State Buckeyes, and that’s who Penn State played last week.
Certainly Iowa could have controlled its own destiny by just beating Northwestern. But since that didn’t happen, Iowa was hoping that Penn State could knock off Ohio State, which didn’t happen. Now Iowa goes to Ohio State this week in a must-win situation essentially to determine the Big Ten’s representative in the Rose Bowl.
Had Iowa beaten Northwestern and Penn State beaten Ohio State, then the Hawkeyes wouldn’t have to win this week in front of an unfriendly crowd in Columbus, Ohio.
Ahhh, phooey. College football frustrates me. But hey, only 14 weeks until pitchers and catchers report.

Meeting Brian Wilson backstage

As Brian Wilson might say, “Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true.”
And it did. I got to meet Brian Wilson last week before his show at the Keswick Theater in Glenside.
It’s not often one gets a chance to actually meet the person whose work has had such an impact on one’s life.
I could go on and on about that, but fans of the Beach Boys and Brian Wilson know what I’m talking about. The music has moved me, touched me and helped shape me along the way. It has helped define me as the person I am today.
But there I was, with my wife The Blonde Accountant, backstage at the Keswick, shaking hands with Brian, courtesy of his band director Jeffrey Foskett, who I had interviewed for a preview story on the Glenside concert.
Of course, I immediately turned into a 12-year-old boy who had just discovered girls for the first time — sweaty, trembling hands, knees visibly shaking, blathering something completely incoherent.
Brian has a nice, firm handshake. I knew he was taller than me, but he seemed even a little taller than I expected. He signed a copy of my story, as did Jeffrey. I had previously purchased a 45 rpm record of “Surfer Girl” at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland in August, and Brian was gracious enough to sign that as well.
Then we had our picture taken, and Brian threw his arm around my shoulder. As you can see in the picture that accompanies this story, Brian, Jeffrey and I all got the “blue shirt” memo that day and flawlessly executed the pre-concert procedure.
As an added and humbling bonus, Jeffrey mentioned that his friend Roger McGuinn — the Roger McGuinn, lead singer and lead guitarist on many of The Byrds’ records — called Jeffrey and told him what a nice article I had written.
Wow. With apologies to The Mamas and The Papas, McGuinn and McGuire couldn’t get no higher . . . and neither could I.
The whole exchange probably didn’t last more than a few minutes. Those that know Brian’s history know that while gracious with fans, he isn’t particularly chatty or comfortable in meet and greet situations.
Still, the few moments I got to spend with him answered the question, “Wouldn’t it be nice . . . to meet Brian Wilson?”
It was all of that. And so much more.

These sour grapes make a unique whine

Admittedly, I got a big crate of sour grapes ready to be distributed. But I don’t care. With the way the Yankees have treated the Phillies up to this point in the 2009 World Series, I am in no mood to be nice.
And if baseball must be played in November, then certainly I would like the Phillies to be one of the teams still playing. Having said that, though, I was at Game 4 of the World Series, it was so dadgummed cold that I nearly froze my patootie off, which had that happened, would have created a lot of problems for me trying to hold up my drawers.
It tends to get chilly this time of year around here. But hey, the alternative is somebody else’s team is still playing baseball in November, so I guess I can stand to do with a little less of my patootie.
Here’s what else about this World Series to date has me peeved:
— It appears to entirely be my fault. I was at Game 4 of the 2008 World Series and the Phillies scored 11 runs, won the game and eventually went on to become world champions. I apparently did not do my job as a fan this year in Game 4, and for that I apologize.
— Ballplayers, Phillies included, either need to shave or not shave. I am tired of looking at four-day facial growth. Either grow a beard or don’t grow a beard. I am surprised the baseball wives have not chimed in on this. What, I have the only wife in the world who doesn’t like to snuggle up and have her face scratched?
— Tuck in the back pocket of your baseball pants. Players sometimes keep a batting glove, or something else in that back pocket. When they pull that something out, the pocket gets turned inside out. It needs to be tucked in because it just looks stupid flapping there in the wind, especially on anybody in Yankees pinstripes.
— I am no longer interested in anything that Alex Rodriguez has to say on any topic, not even if he’s talking about Kate Hudson.
— Having said that, I will not and did not boo Derek Jeter or Mariano Rivera. They’re great players, they show a lot of class and all they do is beat you. That should be admired by all baseball fans.
And then the Phillies won Game 5 Monday night and I was less grumpy. At the time that this is written, there could be one more game, there could be two more games. The outcome will determine weather my weekend is full of wine or . . . whine.