99 Luftballoons (Jah, Baby! Rock Und Roll!)

In the Eighties, Germany was Korea...

I say this because, as I realized during a conversation recently, Psy's massively stupid hit song bears more than a passing resemblance to the German-only pop hits of the Eighties (Falco's "Rock Me Amadeus" and Nena's "99 Luftballoons"). I can explain the popularity of those songs back then (everyone was on cocaine), not so much "Gangnam Style" today (do people still do cocaine?)

It makes sense that we as Americans would embrace the more stupid aspects of foreign cultures, in the mistaken belief that what becomes popular here is exactly what the people in France or Germany are getting down to. I can remember when a rapping French baby had a hit song over here, and this was in the grunge-laden Nineties. Jordy, where have you gone?

It's all part of our inherent lack of self-esteem as a country, because we're still relatively young compared to some ancient civilizations and so we make the mistake of thinking that something with a weird accent to it must be more sophisticated than anything we can produce. That helps explain the brief moment of Roberto Benigni over here, for one thing.

But we have plenty of stupid pop music over here. Take Rihanna's new song "Diamonds," for example (take it far, far away). We don't need Gotye's Australian-electronic shitstorm "Somebody That I Used to Know," though you wouldn't think that from all the times I heard that on the radio this year (recently it started cropping back up on radio after a brief hiatus. I still want to punch the guy in the face, but less violently so).

Psy (or PSY, because I'm guessing he's super-excited and thus renders his own name in capitals, though I draw the line at adding an exclamation mark at the end) is Korea's answer to Gotye, I guess; in fifteen years, both of them will be on yet another VH1 "where are they now" marathon (if the latest season of "Basketball Mob Wives LA of Atlanta Love And/or Hip-Hop" takes a breather over the Christmas break to let those horrible, horrible people get on with their horrible, horrible lives), and we'll all laugh at the time we thought they'd have a longer lasting career. Because honestly, no one listens to Falco without a large dose of irony, and that's the way it should be.

The Year (World?) in Review, Gangum Style

It occurs to me that, as ancient Mayan prophecies foretold, we are in an age which is perilously balanced between the known and unknown, the waxed and Kardashian-hirsute. Doomsday is supposed to be next Friday (or Next Friday, I think), so just in case this really is the end of the world as we know it, I feel fine in saying that 2012 was a banner year for yours truly.

Think about it: I got to try out for "Jeopardy" (and travel to one of the most beautiful cities on earth, New Orleans, to do it), and whatever happens with that (which, assuming the world ends on the 21st, is nothing), I still came out pretty far ahead of where I'd come out before when I did the online test. I remained gainfully employed (always a plus since the two-for-one job losses of '10), and I continued to humbly be the best gosh-darn Uncle Bubba to my lil sweet niece.

I didn't write that novel, not yet anyway. Kinda hurt that my computer died in late June (or that I murdered it...you know, it's a matter of semantics). But I read a lot of really good ones, after steering clear of novels more or less as an after-effect of reading so much of them in college. Michael Chabon hit one out of the park with Telegraph Avenue, and I started really getting into Graham Greene and Walker Percy. If 2013 comes to pass, I might just tackle the Great White Whale of American literature...David Lee Roth's Crazy From the Heat. Or Moby Dick, one of the two.

Non-fiction was also heavy on my reading list, with this-year-specific shout-outs to David Byrne's How Music Works in particular (also, Pete Townshend's memoir, long-delayed, was worth the wait). Music played a big role in this year, just in the sense that I made a lot of mix CDs (including two for a girl who said quite rightly that my taste in music is awesome), but I lost that ability when my computer died (or was murdered...you know, it's not like Matlock is on the case. Let it go). But I still get to listen to a lot of it, via these things they call "CDs" and "radio programming of popular-music varieties."

We lost some good folks this year, famous ones that I miss will be Adam Yauch and Levon Helm. Also expiring this year: Mitt Romney's political career and the overall chances that the Republican Party will be relevant any time soon. I had to go there.

The Giants won big, both of them (New York in football, San Fran in baseball), I hope the New York ones repeat as Super Bowl champs. I spent thirty-five dollars on an Eli Manning shirt in New Orleans, high off the buzz of my Jeopardy audition. I don't regret it, nor do I regret buying Tom Sancton's Song for My Fathers, which educated me about New Orleans jazz.

So yeah, it wasn't all rainbows and unicorns, but it wasn't all doom and gloom, either. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. If the world is still around on December 22, I'll be even happier, because I feel like I'm actually starting on something as opposed to coming to the end of something. What that is is still up in the air, but I'm hopeful. Unless the Mayans (who couldn't predict their own damn future) get it right...

Take Five

A friend of mine on Facebook recently caused a storm by saying bad things about On the Road and The Catcher in the Rye. I say she caused a storm even though she was being sarcastic (mostly about guys who say such books are their favorites being emotionally stunted morons). There is much truth to this.

When I was about fifteen or so, Rye was my favorite book because it "spoke to" me. Nowadays, if I tried to read it I'd likely get pissed five pages into it and wonder how the hell this Holden Caulfield manages to tie his own shoes in the morning, much less conduct himself with anything approaching lyrical resonance in his monologues. I love Salinger, I revere his work, but I don't think the book works as well when you're grown up and dealing with all the real-world problems that come with it. Besides, most of Nine Stories is better.

Now, On the Road: Jesus Christ, really? I understand what Kerouac was going for, but talk about making something out of nothing. Maybe I wasn't the right age to read it (I was about thirty), but this book was annoying, especially the Neal Cassady stand-in. I have never wanted to punch a literary character repeatedly in the throat more than him.

No, books like that don't move me, or move me anymore. As I get older I'm getting into other stuff. Mostly this has meant Graham Greene, who lived through the bulk of the twentieth century and described more of the weird, sad, and depressing aspects of it better than anyone who's ever lived. It also means Walker Percy, whose work sometimes goes over my head but the overall atmosphere of it (laughing at the absurdity of modern life) I totally dig. I'm even working my way through Jane Austen; I've got Northanger Abbey now, and Sense and Sensibility I'm saving for last. I also love non-fiction: George Plimpton, A.J. Jacobs, and the like. Plenty of good stuff besides that atrocious On the Road.

Well, I find it atrocious, anyway. I love how there's a version out "based on the original scroll" that doesn't feature chapter breaks or paragraph breaks. Oh goody, I can immerse myself in Sal Paradise's bizarre and rambling worldview. Whoopee!

In the end, my opinion is about as valid as anyone's, and I doubt I'll sway too many minds with this. Read On the Road for yourself, if you must. If you get any enjoyment out of it, you're a better person than I. I'll take The Power and the Glory or Love In the Ruins any day over that.