George, Al and Chad... So what?

I'm not real hip to what's hip anymore, and that's okay. I take a secret delight when I peak at some top ten list for records, I mean, CD's (see how unhip I am?) and I have no idea who any of the "singers" are. Having spent a few afternoons in various doctors' offices lately, however; (I'm fine, just normal stuff), therefore reading though too much pop culture drivel, I now know that we are in some sort of musical trend. There is always something to complain about in pop music. That never changes. And there is almost always some particularly banal bubblegum heroes or heroines who will not be back in the headlines till they overdose on heroin. But what is new is the scope of the invasion of the cradle snatchers. That is, we have more bubblegum bands topping the charts now than at any time in the history of the charts. If you count the sweet pop mixed with the tramp clothes of Brittney and Christina, we're overrun by the stuff. The only other contender for a genre du jour is rap. It seems Mr. Young was wrong not only about sweet home Alabama, but that rock and roll could never die. It's enough to make you yearn for either a return to angry Seattle bands or the teased hair rockers of the 80's.

It seems we're getting more and more immature, and less and less able to distinguish between music and noise. Soon instead of baseball caps we'll all be wearing beanies. Instead of earrings in our noses we'll have binkies in our mouths. As such, here are my thoughtful predictions for the 2010 Grammys. Best Album: Raffi's Greatest Hits. Runner-Up: Barney the Dinosaur--I Still Love You. Best R and B Album: some guy running a jackhammer. And on that part of the awards that doesn't make it on TV, Best New Folk Artist: Campbell Sproul Plays the Pipes.

Frosty the Snowmale
by Laurence Windham

"The Snowman colludes in a gendered division of social space and presents an image, however jocular, of masculine control of public space." So says Tricia Cusack, resident art historian at the University of Birmingham. Cusack builds her case by pointing out that snowmen are white, invariably male, generally adult, and since they are built outside, signify masculine dominance of the home and office. Cusack spent (uncontrolled masculine laughter) 5 years researching the cultural meaning of snowmen. And since she has a degree, well, she must be listened to.

As you can imagine, this new slant on one of winter's most familiar symbols is causing quite a stir in London, where Cusack lives. Which is fortunate since they need something to talk about over there besides the Royal prince cheating on the Royal princess while she is fornicating with a Royal naval officer. "Blimey, an' we always thought snowmen were just a fun thing to build," said one fellow from Liverpool. (If you read that last quote with your best British accent, it's really funny.) Cusack also blames 19th century prudishness for the lack of female equivalents, stating that in Victorian times the idea of sculpting a woman from snow would have suggested nudity. This deduction exposes her as the feminist that she is.

Everyone knows that snow-men are identified by the pipes in their mouths and snow-women are recognized by the shawls that they wear. Not from anatomical distinctions that are architecturally difficult to form with snow. Ice sculptures are a whole different genre. "It's no coincidence," she contends, "that the snowman is generally male and is erected in front of the home emphasizing male stewardship in the private sphere, while the woman of the house is inside toiling--cooking Christmas dinner." Official Highland Study Center response:
"Cool!"

True Confessions
by R.C. Sproul Jr.

Though my campaign for the presidency did not garner a single vote, the establishment parties are beginning to run scared. They know a potential juggernaut when they see one. Though I haven't yet determined whether I will run in 2004 I have put together an exploratory committee. As we have considered sundry strategies of our opponents, we thought it wise to get some dirt out on the table now, so that it will be old news by the time of the election. What follows then is some secret dirt about me:

• I liked the movie Purple Rain so much that I made my father watch it.
• I made my wife watch the sequel, Graffiti Bridge, before we were married. The heroine is the Christ figure.
• I own a Where's Waldo book, that was not for my children.
• In graduate school I had a kitten, Ichabod, that I kept in my apartment. Then I couldn't find it. But I didn't look that hard.
• I ate a five-gallon bucket of Y2K banana chips, all by myself.
• I liked the movie Ishtar. It made me laugh.
• I read People magazine at the doctor's office.
• When my wife is away I refuse invitations to eat with friends, so I can have my favorite bachelor meal, peanut butter and jelly on Ritz crackers and Cheetos.
• I lip-synced Prince's "Little Red Corvette" in a contest in college.
• The day I arrived here in Virginia, while my furniture and stuff were a few days away, I went to K-Mart, bought a TV, brought it home to watch the Steeler game, and took the TV back the next day. It was a preseason game.
• One time I heard Don McLean's "American Pie" on the radio, and it made me cry.

Don't you feel so much better now?