I feel so damn old.
This week I celebrated my fifty-fourth birthday. I can't believe I'm typing that out. I am now FIFTY. FOUR. YEARS. OLD. How did that happen? Where did the last couple of decades go? Hell, where did April of this year go?
This aging thing is so weird. In my mind, I'm a fourteen year old doofus. I'm thin. My skin is blemish-free. I'm so thin. I've got a horrible bowl haircut. I'm incredibly thin. (Did I mention how thin I am?)
But then I make the mistake of passing by a mirror, and the horrifying reality of my physical state hits me full force. I'm not a sort-of cute teenager. I'm the middle picture in one of those meth mugshot-progression collages. I've got the presence of an older, less kempt Nick Nolte. Calling me a "mess" would be a polite way of sparing my feelings. And with each revolution around the sun, it just becomes worse and worse. Getting older sucks. It's demoralizing. What could possibly take the sting out of this slow decay?
Birthday presents, that's what!
Don't worry, I'm not going to get all morbidly-obese-ginger on you and pitch a temper tantrum for "PWESENTS!!!" I'm really not very materialistic. But even the most jaded person out there has to admit that it puts a bit of sunshine in your life when someone thinks enough of you to get you something for your special day. I don't even care if it's wrapped all fancy... stuffed in a plastic grocery bag is fine. For me, it really is the thought that counts.
I've been lucky enough over the years to have some very generous friends and family in my life. People who have helped make several of my birthdays "totes swag-a-licious", as the kids say. (Who are these kids? And can I legally beat them about the face and neck?) My wife has a special spot in non-Christian heaven waiting for her thanks to the amazing party she threw for my fiftieth birthday. I've gotten rare books. Expensive shirts. Vintage watches. And music, of course. Many people have gifted me with records, CDs, and iTunes gift cards. And it's funny, because my favorite musical present ever, was something I had to tell my Mom to get me. Something I almost had to beg her to buy. But she refused, because she didn't see the appeal of...
“WEIRD AL” YANKOVIC.
(A note for my readers: I am an old school Al fan, so I normally refer to Weird Al in the written form as "Weird Al", with the quotation marks intact. That's how he was known originally, and since I was there from the beginning, that's how I like to spell his name. I also refer to the Star Wars movies by their full "Episode Whatever - Blah Blah Blah" titles no matter who I'm talking to. Yes, I'm that guy. However, to spare you - and my poor editor Brandon - the headache of seeing all those punctuation marks littered throughout the column, I'm going to drop them. Just this once.)
Because where I lived didn't have a lot of cool radio stations, I never got to hear Dr. Demento's syndicated show, in which he'd spin all sorts of bizarre novelty songs. So I have no idea how I discovered Weird Al's first tune to get any real national airplay: a parody of the Knack's "My Sharona", titled "My Bologna". But his next song, "Another One Rides The Bus", was all over the radio even in my neck of the woods, a market choked with Southern rock and country stations. By this time I had my own crappy little cassette player, and I taped it off the only Top 40 station I could pick up. I listened to that song over and over, marveling at how gut-bustingly funny an accordion could be.
I was so enamored with Weird Al, and the idea that you could make up goofy lyrics for a real pop song, that he inspired what I consider to be my first real stab at creative writing. In a fit of fervid fandom, I put pencil to paper and produced my first opus: a rework of the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold" called "Mangled Corpse". Unfortunately, my original lyrics are lost to the mists of time. The only bit I can recall is the chorus: "My baby is a mangled corpse". (And yes, while the subject matter seems a bit outré for a high school student, I'll have you know that the hottest girl in my class thought it was really funny. So there.)
Accompanied by a fan letter, I sent Mr. Yankovic the fruits of my creative endeavors, asking him if he'd like to record it. Imagine my stunned surprise when, a few weeks later, a letter from Weird Al himself arrived in my mailbox! The enclosed letter was what I now realize is a form letter, but back then, it was as if Moses had come down from the mountain and handed me one of his tablets. Weird Al thanked me for writing him, but, unfortunately, for legal reasons, he could only record his own compositions. My first rejection letter!
You'd think I'd be crushed, but I wasn't. Being turned down by my idol didn't sting as bad as you'd think it would, because he also sent me what is still my favorite geeky nerdy treasure: a personalized photo, complete with autograph.
My most prized celebrity memento.
So a couple of years later, when I saw on MTV that Weird Al was releasing his first full album... I wanted it! And it was hitting the shelves right before my seventeenth birthday! Perfect! Like I said earlier, I'm not some materialistic monster. Especially back then. I didn't want a car. I didn't want fancy clothes. I only wanted one thing: a record.
But my Mom wasn't being very receptive to my request. See, I'd driven my parents crazy by playing "Another Rides The Bus" on an infinite loop. And to make matters worse, I'd figured out how to make the weird squeaky fart-like sounds that provided the beat for the song, so I was walking around the house squeezing out naughty noises all day. When she said Weird Al's name, there was just a hint of a sneer in her tone. I had driven everyone in the house nuts with my obsession.
She eventually acquiesced, however. I was her darling son... her first born... the vessel into which she'd poured all her vicarious hopes and dreams. How could she resist me? She couldn't. I broke her. So the day before my birthday, we made the trip up to K-Mart (that place again!), where she purchased the album for me. It didn't strike me until years later just how uneventful this birthday was. There was no cake. There were no presents to tear into. There were no cards that I remember. I plucked the album from the rack, Mom handed the cashier a few bucks, and I walked out of the store with my record. That was pretty much the extent of my seventeenth birthday.
A magical music store… where you could also buy underwear and motor oil.
Whatever disappointment I may have felt concerning the non-event of my birthday didn't last, however. Once I got "Weird Al" Yankovic home, I was over the moon. I listened to it every day for weeks. It wasn't long before I'd memorized every lyric, every chord change, every pause for breath. I pored over the Jack Davis-styled album cover, admiring all the little details packed into Al's filthy room. (Trivia note: all twelve songs on the album are represented by a detail in the artwork. Find them all!)
And the tunes were just as sharp and funny as I was expecting. "Ricky" was the big single, a reworking of Toni Basil's "Mickey", accompanied by a video performed by "Ricky and Lucy Ricardo". There was also "I Love Rocky Road" to the tune of Joan Jett's "I Love Rock 'N' Roll". When that video hit MTV a couple of months later, I couldn't stop talking about it. Luckily my friend Doug in my art class loved it too, so we'd rehash it on a weekly basis. (He loved the bit where the kid bites Weird Al's ankle.)
But I was surprised to find that Weird Al didn't just do parodies... there were several original tunes on the album as well. "Gotta Boogie", "Buckingham Blues", and my personal favorite, "Mr. Frump In The Iron Lung". There was even a song about birthdays, titled, appropriately enough, "Happy Birthday", in which Weird Al advised me to celebrate my birthday by eating broccoli and drinking beer.
Every song was loaded with funny bits and clever lyrics. And the common thread, the thing that tied them all together, was that accordion! What a weird instrument to rock out with! Listening to that record was always a blast. Weird Al had made a lifelong fan out of me.
Well, "lifelong" in a sense, I suppose. I bought every new Weird Al album (on cassette, no less) up until Polka Party. Then, after that, I stepped back and became a sort of "fan emeritus". I enjoyed the parodies. I laughed at the videos. ("White And Nerdy" might be his best video ever.) I went to see his live show. I cheered when his final full album, Mandatory Fun, was his first to debut at number one. But I wasn't buying the records. I wasn't obsessing over every scene in the videos. I definitely loved Weird Al. Just from a distance.
I still consider myself a fan. But I'm not as rabid about it all as I once was. And that's okay. It's difficult to maintain a level of elevated fanhood as the years wear on. At least, that's the way I see it. As time progresses, your circumstances change. Your priorities shift. Your tastes evolve. Some stuff that you once loved, you just like. Other stuff, you may actually lose your tolerance for. It happens.
Having espoused all those deep theories , however... "Weird Al" Yankovic still maintains that initial magic, that potent, intangible whatever-it-is that makes an album an eternal favorite. It's been forty years, and I can still sing almost every song from memory. Just thinking about all the little comedic bits from the record puts a smile on my face. Mr. Frump's iron lung giving out on him. The protagonist in "Gotta Boogie" revealing his true, disgusting dilemma. And Al's hideous, rotten teeth in the "Rocky Road" video! I've seen it a zillion times, but that scene still makes me guffaw. It gets into my brain and makes me laugh off and on for days.
And all that laughter... it makes me feel young again.
BIO
Don Stroud is not the famous actor and world-class surfer of the same name. He is the non-famous California transplant who became an award-winning film editor and struggling amateur screenwriter. He loves cats, sushi, comic books, movies, music, and Cherry Coke. What's that, dear? Oh yes: and his wife. You can follow him on Twitter, where he pops up sporadically, at @DonStroud2.