Virtual Confetti

It’s hard to describe music for a particular period in time, as everyone is an aficionado or at least has a strong opinion on who the best bands are or what the best style of music is.  Therefore, many will disagree when I say that I can summarize the music of the 1980s in two words:  hair and keyboards.

“Hair bands” have been around since the 1970s, but it didn’t take on a new meaning until British pop culture started working its way from punk and new wave enclaves into the mainstream American pop charts.  Hair wasn’t just long, it was frizzy, spiked, colored, shaved… pretty much anything you could do to a poodle, they did with hair.  Wham! had perfect, shampoo-commercial hair.  Dale Bozzio of Missing Persons fame seemed to change her frizzy, multicolored ‘do regularly.  Pete Burns of Dead or Alive would have made a peacock proud.  And Boy George of Culture Club… I’m not even going to go there.  In the ’80s, being unique was so trendy to the point where uniqueness itself was hackneyed and commonplace.

What was arguably different about music in the 1980s was the proliferation of the electronic music synthesizer keyboard.  Unlike electric organs and early “synths” of the ’70s, synthesizers allowed manipulation and shape of the raw components of sound waves: oscillators, envelopes, filters, amplifiers, and various effects.  Tones could be made to resemble musical instruments, from bass guitars to flutes and even accordions.  They were far from the perfect instrumentation of their orchestral counterparts, but the mechanical and electronic “feel” of synthesizer sound was what really gave the 1980s its musical signature.  The resonating saws of the Oberheim OB-Xa made Van Halen’s Jump, well… jump.  The light, almost-hidden, saxophone pad in Simple Minds’ Don’t You Forget About Me adds to the depth of the verses, contrasting with the sharp “da daa ta daa daa daaaa” strings of its chorus .  As a backwards comparison, Never Tear Us Apart by INXS shows us versus full of staccato strings, complemented by a true saxophone solo by Kirk Pengilly.

One of the bands that relied heavily on the synthesizer, perhaps even defined by the synthesizer, was Duran Duran, with keyboard artist Nick Rhodes pushing the limits of what one could do with the technology.  In Last Chance on the Stairway, you can hear the ethereal strings binding the tune together.  The arpeggio was a mechanical advancement in synthesizers, automating rapid, staccato-based tones.  In Rio, the arpeggio provided the “plinking” sound in almost-random fashion, which was also popular with their hit song Hungry Like the Wolf.  Noticeably in Rio, they used a real saxophone for the solos rather than a synthesized sax, giving the synthesizer its own commanding role rather than being a mere replacement for live instruments.  The 1980s synths gave us clever and unique qualities to expand music, meshed with the traditional instrumentation from prior eras.

As music continues to evolve, so did synthesizer technology during the 1980s.  The electric organ had been around for decades prior to the 80s, but the development of the transistor in the 1960s allowed companies like Moog Music to start producing electronic, musical keyboards.  These synthesizers allowed the player to modify various tonal qualities and parameters using knobs, switches, and wires.  The concept of an instrument was no longer limited to one type of tone; a single synthesizer could play tones emulating a bass guitar, string concerto, woodwind flute, or brass trumpet.  They were called analog synths due their reliance on passive, electronic components such as resistors and capacitors.  It was common to have to tune them or otherwise maintain them in order to produce consistent sound.

As noted earlier, the synthesizer was not a true substitute for a real instrument.  By the early 1980s, however, the tones were good enough to reasonably emulate instruments to where the player could differentiate between a church organ and a Hammond organ or between violin and cello.  This imperfection, coupled with new electronic sound experiences, provided the charm and uniqueness of what we now refer to fondly as 1980s “synth pop.”  Bands were constantly adopting and tweaking new keyboards as fast as manufacturers could produce them in order to deliver the next “new sound” to the world.

Music continued to evolve, and synthesizers evolved with it.  The synth industry was sure to incorporate the latest electronics to create more realistic sounds.  One key advancement in realism was the introduction of digital technology.  Instead of relying on passive electronics to generate sound from scratch, real life sounds could be sampled, or stored in a type of computer memory so that a key press would replay a recording of a real instrument.  A byproduct of this was the invention of the drum machine and sampling keyboards, where one could record his own sounds to be replayed at the touch of a key.

Today, keyboards are so sophisticated and refined that the instrument quality of a digital keyboard is virtually indistinguishable from the real instrument, due mainly to the ability to sample real instruments with high resolution.  The grand piano on a Roland Fantom-X, for example, is recorded (sampled) four times per key to emulate four different levels of pressure that a player may exert (known as keyboard velocity). As keyboards push toward more and more realism, technology distances us from the synth pop of the ’80s.  The charm of the genre is still alive, however, as many new bands are reviving that old synth pop sound.  In fact, most new digital keyboards now contain presets that emulate classic sounds of the era.  The once workhorses of the ’80s, such as the Yamaha DX-7, Roland Jupiter, and Sequential Circuits’ Prophet, are now sought after by new bands looking to break away from instrument realism.  These now rare relics fetch a hefty price on secondary markets, such as eBay.  In fact, it’s not uncommon to find an analog Roland Jupiter 8 on “sale” for four-to-six thousand dollars (US), much higher than its original price in 1984, and more than twice as expensive as a modern-day Roland professional digital synthesizer.

Before Xbox, before Nintendo, there was the Atari 2600 Video Computer System.  Yes, there were other gaming systems before the 2600, but none so mass marketed to the point where every block had at least one other kid with whom you could share games with. And games weren’t CD-ROMs that you could copy; they were cartridges about the size of a deck of cards that plugged into the top of the machine.  The “ROM” memory chip inside made them too expensive and too complicated to copy.

The wood veneer finish told you it was designed in the 1970s, but the hard plastic joystick screamed 80s.  I look at a modern console game controller, curved to fit the hands, with many controls that allow complicated game movements.  The 2600 joystick was a square box that fit oddly in your palm, with only a stick and a large orange button to move objects on the screen.  Both the button and stick were stiff and difficult to move, and rashes or bruises were common after several hours of play.  It wasn’t long before other manufacturers caught on and produced slightly better versions of the box-stick model.  We didn’t know what Carpel Tunnel Syndrome was at the time, but I’m pretty sure that’s what made us numb — not Mom complaining that we were staying up to late.

There were no 3-D games for the 2600, and graphics were limited to 128 colors.  The 2600 was known for it’s blocky graphics, and “people” were either squares or clumps of squares.  A gun was typically a line extending from a clump of squares.  When you pressed the joystick button, a distortion sound was heard and a dot was expelled from the “gun.”  Sound was equally primitive, with just two sound channels that could produce electronic beeps and tones.  The 2600 connected to your TV antenna or Cable TV jack; using your TV helped make this an affordable entertainment platform for the home.  Note that this sometimes generated fights during prime-time TV viewing hours.

Using the 2600 was simple.  It came with two joysticks for two-player gaming, but you could also purchase paddle (turn-able knob) controllers or other accessories for specific games.  It had four levers on the front (power, b/w vs. color, game select, and game reset) and two slider switches on the rear to control difficulty for each player. To play a game, you simply put the cartridge in the slot and turned the 2600 on.  A menu or title screen would appear, at which you would hit the game select switch to flip through options for the number of players or variations of game play.  Hit the reset switch and you were off to have fun.  Playing against little brother? No problem, just flip the rear difficulty switch to “B” to make things harder for you.  Usually this just sped up the game speed or reduced your countdown timer.

Since there was no internal storage memory, all player data was erased every time the console was turned off.  This frequently involved finding a neutral party to witness high scores to prove such events actually happened.  Mom or an older brother more interested in encyclopedias  usually filled that role.

Tempers would sometimes flare, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to hit the reset switch in a moment of rage.  This was usually followed by someone yanking the cartridge out of the slot without turning the power off first — the deadliest sin in Atariland, where doing so was rumored to destroy both cartridge and console.

Games frequently had hidden features that would display programmer credits or produce some other treat for the player.  Word of these “easter eggs” traveled by word-of-mouth or in magazines, as this was years before consumer use of the Internet.  For fun, you could flick the power button causing a game malfunction, where random bits of the game would appear on the screen in improper places with unpredictability, usually followed by an obnoxious unintended noise.

As major game companies like Activision started creating games for the Atari 2600, games that showcased higher complexity became the norm.  A lot was done with two sound channels and 128 colors.  Players still appeared blocky, but game play included adventure games with more objects on the screen and the ability to gather items and maintain them throughout a story-based scenario.

Like all good things, Atari eventually folded due to what many perceive as poor marketing of its products.  Subsequent game consoles like the Atari 5200 just never caught on.  Affordable home  computer systems such as the Commodore 64 and Apple II provided more gaming features and doubled as a home computer, complete with a keyboard.

Although Atari technology seems primitive by today’s standards, the charm of the Atari 2600 was that a lot of kids had them, and it was easy to make new friends just by showing up at their house with a new game.  It was a creative outlet for youthful energy that didn’t involve annoying the neighbors in the backyard.  It was a rainy day treat.  Most of all, it was a marvel for its time, opening the door for the home adoption 0f future gaming platforms, such as the Nintendo, PlayStation, and now Xbox series of systems.

I love bookstores.  Usually you think of them as being stuffy and library-like, staffed with spineless, stuffy librarians.  But if you read between the lines, they are loaded with comedy.

Let’s start with this iced mocha thing  from the café… it’s a joke in itself with all the uncrushed ice blocking my straw.  Apparently, ordering it “Light” means they cut the fat, sugar, and electricity to the blender.  But that’s ok — bookstores are usually located in the hot open sun where I may need to keep my drink cold for several hours.

Even the mere placement of books can inspire a giggle, such as with the Sex & Sexuality section conveniently located next to the Addictions & Recovery section.  You’ll find these humorous pairings throughout the store:  Games & Humor next to Relationships, True Crime next to Politics, Religion next to Alternative Lifestyle, etc.  Such interesting pairings are not exclusive to the normal aisles, mind you. Even in the ad-hoc bargain section, some clever employee found it entertaining to stack Chronology of the Holocaust next to a biography on Himler.  Yes, even the bland, innocent bookstores cannot escape dark, sick humor.  Of course the best joke in there is that some author thought a biography on Himler would become a best seller.

Perhaps I should write my own book:  Making Books and Bookstores Fun! Now that’s a novel idea.

It started out as a staple of carbs. Simple, bland, but capable of sustaining life.  Early curmudgeons probably ate them raw like apples.  Eventually hominids learned to cook them, even season them.  And how warm and “mashable” they became!  Throughout it all, however, the potato has pretty much remained what we call a “side” to a main course.  It complements a meat and appears in menus alongside baked beans, broccoli, corn on the cob, and the like.  It’s the filler that keeps us from overindulging, and it keeps meals affordable. How… sensible.  Overlooked and unappreciated, poor potato has always been, at most, a sidekick.  And that’s even IF it is chosen over another side selection.

It was therefore inevitable that the potato would someday avenge itself.  Enter the stuffed potato.

The stuffed potato elevates this common starch into a main course.  In fact, I ordered one tonight to relieve me of guilt.   It was impregnated with chicken, which until recently was its own main course.  And as if to laugh in the face of tradition, it was stuffed with broccoli — a side dish in its own right.  Poor broccoli, doused in alfredo sauce and melted cheese to the point that it is no longer recognizable.  Should the meal be too cold, too hot, too saucy, too salty, too flatulent… it can all be blamed on broccoli, the fall guy.

Something magical happens when a potato is stuffed.  The skin, basted in alfredo sauce, becomes part of the meal rather than just protective shoe leather.  Its “eyes,” which were once considered defects, are now sequins of light, sparkling on the plate.  It has graduated from sensible to sensational!

It will happen soon, this author predicts, that other side dishes shall rise to glory. Perhaps out of eons of oppression or simply out of jealousy.  Stuffed zucchini?  You laugh, but it wouldn’t surprise me if that zucchini has been slit open and stuffed with mashed potatoes.

I spend a lot of time on freeways.  As such, that means I spend a lot of time parked on asphalt behind other people who are parked on freeways.

“How’s my driving?”

I see these bumper stickers all the time, but I question their effectiveness.  Actually, I question their purpose.  “How’s my driving? Call 1-800-WE’LL-LAFF-AT-U.”  According to the legend, responsible companies with fleet vehicles register themselves with third-party organizations that report employee driving habits to ensure that they are driving safely and courteously.  In theory, a rogue employee who drives his 18-wheeler recklessly through town would get a call from his boss.  “Brutus, I know you’re attending your anger management classes regularly, but someone reported to FleetFellows that you were driving your cement truck at over 200 miles an hour through an orphanage.  That’s just not allowed.  You know, policy and all.  Sorry, but you’re fired.”  And the world instantly becomes a better place.  The goal is to threaten employees to drive safely, otherwise “big brother” will hunt them down.

But seriously, does anyone call and say, “I wanted to let you know that this driver is not only safe, but courteous. And her smiling white teeth are a friendly reminder to improve my oral hygiene?”  Probably not.  They’re just toll-free gripe lines.  And if you think about it, griping to a third-party company calms you down and diffuses the situation so that you don’t contact some kind of transportation authority and file a complaint.  Clever marketing.

I did see another rather clever use of the program.  A truck had the nominal “How’s my driving?” bumper sticker on the back.  Passing it, I noticed that the same number was listed as the company’s number on the side of the truck!

*ring ring*

Me:  I just wanted to let you know your driver is a real jerk!!

Them: Oh, I’m so sorry.  But since you called, have you considered the value of having your old rusty pipes replaced by shiny new copper ones?

Clever marketing, revisited.

I’ve decided that there’s an association between creepy guys and limps. I’m not quite prepared to say that a majority of creepy guys do limp, and likewise I can’t say that guys who limp are usually creepy.  However, if you see a creepy guy, and he happens to limp, there’s something about that combination that tells you, “Yeah, I can understand that.”  In a sense, it’s almost comforting.  And that’s why creepy limping guys are more dangerous than you thought.  However, the danger can be mitigated if we all learn to avoid being victims.

The best defense against a creepy limping guy — let’s call him “Crimpy” for short — is the limp itself.  It is his Achilles Heel.  Crimpy is much easier to outrun than, let’s say, a hunchback or guy with an eye patch. (And rarely do you see a hunchback with an eye patch, as his stooped nature allows him to avoid most eye injuries.  You’re more likely to see a hunchback with a sunburn on his head, as they are most certainly bald.)  I digress.

Should Crimpy unexpectedly catch up to you, there are still some strategies you can use to protect yourself.  As with a falling-behind limping creepy guy, running is still a good option, even with Crimpy at your heels.  However, if Crimpy has indeed caught up to you, it’s subtly implied that you are unable to run away at a sufficient pace so as to avoid him.  You must therefore take advantage of a different defense:  balance.

Assuming Crimpy has had ample time to adjust to his limp, he will favor his lame appendage and instead use his sturdy leg to maintain balance.  A swift kick from behind this leg will knock him off his feet, allowing you to scurry away at even a snail’s pace, if need be.  Should you be trapped to where you cannot move at all, such as the situation where cement has been allowed sufficient time to cure around your ankles, the “knock down” approach may not be as effective as desired. Even with difficulty, Crimpy is bound to stagger back into a upright position at some point.  You can continue to knock Crimpy down using the same behind-the-leg kick, but he is bound to catch on to your tactic by the sixth or seventh time.  (It should also be mentioned that it is a futile endeavor to try to switch legs on him; since the lame leg tends to wobble and flail anyway, kicking the defective limb will only exacerbate this behavior.  Amusing, perhaps, but ineffective.)  If after several attempts you have not managed to attract the attention of a sympathetic passerby, especially one with a jackhammer, you can safely say that at this point, the creepy guy with the limp is the least of your worries.  Scream, flail, dodge, or duck.

Please keep in mind that not every limper is a creeper, and vice versa.   To pass judgment this way is rather, well, lame.

Ever had to kill time because you were waiting for something? I had to pick up my car from the shop today, driving into the Valley. Rather than sit in rush hour traffic, I thought I’d stop off for dinner first. Not long enough. Starbucks was next door, so I killed an hour there. Still not long enough. So here I am, in a parked car, writing about how I’ve wasted the past two hours.

As a writer, I always carry a pen around, so I’m easily able to scribble whenever I have free time like this. As a disorganized writer, I hadn’t thought of taking my current screenplay with me for editing. I improvise with napkins, making sure to tear off the bottom half-inch that bears the Starbucks copyright statement.

Ahh, the world is my napkin, and I am but a felt pen, bleeding into the papercloth. Rorschach would be proud.

Let me start by saying I despise telemarketers.  So when the opportunity arises to exploit their deficiencies and incompetence, I consider it both an art and a hobby to disrupt their industry as much as a single individual is able.

I have friends who smoke.  Being one who frequents Las Vegas, the smoker’s mecca, I’ve grown accustomed to being around smoke on occasion.  I’ve yet to encounter a rude smoker who deliberately wishes to offend me by smoking; smoke is just a byproduct of a nasty habit.  (Their words, not mine.)  When walking down the street, on occasion, I’ll catch a whiff of smoke from a passerby.  Mildly offensive, but tolerable, and certainly not worth the effort to dwell on the incident.  I’m guilty, on occasion, of emitting my own offensive odors.  It’s just something we all tolerate as living in a diverse society.  Now imagine walking down that street, but there’s a person facing you while walking backwards, blowing billowing smoke from a cigar directly in your face, forcing filth into your lungs.  That would be a telemarketer.

So I receive a call at work; the Caller ID denotes a toll-free number, and anyone calling my workplace from a toll-free number is going to be a telemarketer.  Instead of getting the usual monotone droid on the line, the discussion went something like this:

Me: Hello?
Droid: <long pause>
Me: Hello?
Droid: Uhh… hi.  It’s not coming up.
Me: What?
Droid: My computer is supposed to come up but it crashed.
Me: Who are you?
Droid: It won’t even tell me who I called. I’m not sure–
Me: <now panicking> Oh.  Oh no!
Droid: Can you wait for a sec–
Me: Oh no!!  This is bad.  Really bad. What do I do?
Droid: I’m sorry sir.
Me: Oh no! It’s broken?  What do we do? I don’t know what to do!
Droid: I’ll have to call back.
Me: Help!! Help!! Oh no!
<click>

I actually might have been in the mood to buy something that day, too.

It seems the more time that passes, the harder it is to pick up the pen.  I haven’t written much lately.  Make that a year.  More?  Just as it was nearly impossible for me to look forward to running the mile in gym class, I find the same hesitation to dive into my next work.  I can’t tell you why, as I really do enjoy writing.  I’m convinced I suffered some kind of literary trauma some time ago.  The kind of trauma that has me repressing memories of being beaten by a quill pen or being doused with ink and set on fire.  Or even worse… having to write a thesis paper.  But as they say, practice makes perfect, so here I try once again.

Sometimes I’ll sit in a cafe and write in my journal.  Looking through my notes, I found where I again had to force myself to write.  The topic was on turtles.  I’ve never owned a turtle, and I’ve rarely seen one in person.  But it was the first topic to enter my mind at the time.  (Which in itself was odd, as I had some kind of latte and not the turtle soup.)  So I wrote a boring page about turtles and how I knew little about them.  I then changed things up a bit, writing about how I hated them.  I don’t really hate them, but reading about my lack of familiarity with them is rather dull, so I pretended I hated them.  Oh, those blasted shell-encased losers of the sea world.  Amphibians?  AmphiJERKS!  Yes, for one half hour, I hated turtles like I was a sea rabbit, and they were eating all the good seaweed.  Yes, turtles were responsible for stealing my ideas and writing the most superb screenplay that was ever written!  Indeed, an Oscar will be given to a turtle this year — an Oscar that should have been mine.

On second thought, maybe I did have the turtle soup.

People usually laugh at me when I take my car to the dealer for an oil change instead of the ZippyDip drive-thru.  “You’re wasting your money,” they say. “They rip you off.”  It is apparent that these critics do not drive luxury vehicles, and today’s events allow me to demonstrate my position.  I type this from the cafe inside the dealership, sipping my freshly-ground mocha espresso, accessing my blog using their free wi-fi connection.

When I arrived a couple of hours ago, the power to the complex had just failed.  This was due to L.A. losing some power lines as a result of a large fire that cropped up overnight.  I was offered a free loaner vehicle (luxury model), but instead chose to hang out.  I drive about 50 miles to get to this particular dealership, and I didn’t feel like camping out at a mall.  I bode my time by chatting with others sharing my predicament, nibbling on fresh fruit, and lounging in the extra large comfy chair.  After an hour, I became hungry and started asking where I could grab a quick bite.  I was cautioned not to leave, as they had just ordered several pizzas for us.

The power is back on now, and I wait for my car as I would normally do.  The impact to my schedule was minimal, and I no longer need to find somewhere to stop for lunch.  It looks like college football is showing on one of the three HDTVs, so I will conclude this note by asking my critics if they would receive such treatment as they sit in the oil bay waiting for their oil pans to drain.  Gotta run… warm cookies have arrived!