The Name's Al, Weird Al

Too long it’s been since a generous muse has set its sweet voice upon my listening ears. Those that long ago visited Sir William, C.S. and the great Mr. Larson have at whiles found greener pastures than those upon which my brain doth graze. But yet it seems, perhaps, others have taken their place, stirring my vain imagination towards its work.

Of late, inspiring words have been far and few between, as Wednesday after Wednesday I find myself staring down the barrel of a self-imposed deadline. The outpouring of my mind has taken other forms beside the written word. Thus, I have a partially completed spreadsheet, dotted with formulas, buttons and Microsoft Visual Basic language; a concoction that exists for no more grand reason than the challenge of its creation.

For those who haven’t heard, I have found employment in the good graces of the state. My quiet days spent tending a tiny flock have been exchanged for conversations about vehicle tax returns, penalties for late filing and the unending struggle with the ultimate question, “Do I have to pay tax on this?”

In case you haven’t figured the answer to that one out yet, the answer is usually a resounding ‘Yes.’ Unless, of course, you make a purchase from an out of state supplier who is not registered with Illinois and you have them ship the item to your brother’s aunt’s sister’s grandmother’s first boyfriend from high school. In that instance, Old-Romeo has to pay the tax.

But I digress . . .

No I haven’t! I never did find a true tune to which my fingers could waltz upon these keys. Instead, they have rather taken flight to an obscure Weird Al Yankovic Polka Party cut. (Editor’s note: all sense and sensibility has taken leave of Mike for the next paragraph. They may return somewhere in the final verse. Pirates, be ye warned.)

Now there’s a topic. Nothing entertains the masses like a long-haired misfit harping out overly fast music from his accordion, (Do accordions harp? If not, what do they do . . . accord??? So when an accordion plays music, does everybody get along with everybody else?) All while his squeaky voice chimes along, (So you can enjoy life as much as I, I have included a link to the song on last.fm. Just find and click the tiny black circle under ‘Top Tracks.’) ‘Yo I tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell us what you want, what you really really want . . . I wanna, I wanna I wanna zuba zuba aah . . . If you wanna be my . . . Everybody. Ye-ah. Rock your body. Yea-ah . . . might as well be walking on the sun’ . . . . accordion solo!!! . . . . ‘I get knocked down but I get up again’ . . . some song I don’t know . . . but my body keeps bouncing in my chair. There’s something about this . . . ‘semi-charmed kind of life Baby Baby’ . . . that lifts my spirits. Even though I cannot stand the original Mmm Bop by those kids who nobody know what ever became of them, I find no shame in singing it loudly when accompanied by a polka beat.

As WinAmp sings about being ‘Pretty fly for a Rabbi,’ I find it hard to continue any coherent thought. Perhaps that is for the best. After all, who among you really wants to hear about how my little girl climbed upon a walker/rider thingey at church tonight and waddled around the nursery for a while before successfully dismounting without cracking her noggin upon the hard floor? I often wonder about my still-tiny girl. She has given voice to a few words and now moves about upon unsteady feet so long as her hands find a sturdy support. But there is an ever nagging fear that her tiny size hides some deeper malady. But then she unexpectedly mounts the walker and casts a glance my way. A broad smile graces her face, boldly proclaiming, “Look at me, Daddy. I’m doing something amazing and I sure do know it!”