Latest Posts

Another Person’s Treasure.

What is a 012work of art worth? How is its value determined? That’s a question that intrigued me as a kid when my friends and I played a board game called “Masterpiece“. You acquired works by bidding against other players. A separate set of cards would give the “actual” value of each work. Since the decks were shuffled the prices for each work would change from one game to the next. The idea was to buy as much art as you could. The player whose collection was worth the most at the end of the game won. Go figure. That bugged me because it was really the art that I liked: reproductions of famous works on little cards. There was a Picasso, a Thomas Hart Benton, a van Gogh. The first time I saw Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks was on one of those cards.

Hidden in the amounts deck were a few cards that said “FORGERY”. This made whatever work you’d purchased worthless. That bugged me too. If it looked exactly like the original why did it make such a huge difference? It was my first exposure to the economics of art, that a Monet is big money while a copy, no matter how accurate, might as well be Monopoly Monet.

Is there value just in the name? There are stories of Dali and Picasso paying for meals with doodles, and Basquiat–who started as a graffiti artist–did occasionally buy cigarettes or make other small purchases with scribbles, only to see them pop up in galleries selling for hundreds of dollars a few days later. If a work of art speaks to us, though, does it matter who painted it?

008Is there even any real value in art? That’s a big question and one I’m not prepared to even begin to answer, mainly because I only understand economics just well enough to know that value is arbitrary, but I believe that a work of art, no matter who the artist is or where it’s located, any work that makes us feel something, makes us think, has value.

IMG_3056

 

Repost: The Year That Was.

tarotLast year my friend Allen Walker allowed me to publish his story “The Year That Was”. It’s that time of year again so I thought I’d re-share it.

It was in that brief lull between Christmas and New Year’’s that I decided to see the psychic. I’’d been by the business, a small former home perched on a hill between a small car dealer and a strip mall, every day on my way to and from work. In the evenings the red neon hand with a blue neon eye in its palm would be lit, and I’’d think, I should try that just for fun. I called and made an appointment. I wasn’’t sure what to expect—; incense and scarf-covered lamps and candles, crystal balls and skulls, chimes made of strange gewgaws all seemed too cliché to be real. When I stepped in I found that, if not for the Zodiac poster and framed papyri of Egyptian gods, it could have been a small tax accountant’s office. I wondered if she also did a booming business from early January through early April.

When Hilary, the owner and resident psychic, introduced herself, I wasn’’t surprised to have my semi-serious image of a dark-eyed woman in a bandana with hanging gold bangles draped in a long, flowing dress completely dashed. She wore a long sweater, black jeans, and her eyes twinkled behind wire-framed glasses.

“Most people just go for the basic reading,”” she explained. That was the $10 one I’’d seen advertised outside. “”It’’s a numerological reading based on your name and birth date, to give you an idea of where you are and where you’re going. It’’ll say a little about what’’s to come, but it’’s pretty general.”” I bet it is, I thought skeptically. There’’s a reason you’re doing this and not winning the lottery every week. But then I chided myself. Keep an open mind. This was supposed to be fun, and I had neither the skills nor the desire to do an exposé. I wasn’’t even entirely convinced she was a fraud. As I looked over the list of services she offered–card readings, past life regression, romantic advice, reiki healing, business and home cleansing and protection— I thought most of her customers just wanted a sympathetic ear and to be told they were all right. She probably wasn’’t that different from degreed therapists, and at least as helpful.

“This time of year I offer a big special, an overview of the year to come. It’’s a cast of the cards that goes month-by-month, highlighting big events to come in your life.””

I decided to spring for that. There’’s no time like the present to think about the future. And if I could sell an article about it I could write it off as a business expense. Hilary took my name, birth date, and credit card. Then she took a purple velvet pouch and produced a deck of oversized cards. ““Hold these with both hands, close your eyes, let your fears and desires infuse the cards. Think about the future.””

I wasn’’t sure how long I was supposed to hold them, and had a little trouble focusing on the future since she was also charging by the hour. I let about thirty seconds of the future tick into the present then the past then handed the cards over. She began dealing them across the table in pairs, twenty-four cards in all. Once that was done she began turning them over. She let out a low whistle.

““What is it?””

Hilary gave me a very serious look. ““You have Major Arcana in every month. You’’re going to have an interesting year.””

I remembered hearing that there was a Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.” Then I remembered that a Chinese friend of mine told me he’’d never heard any such thing. I braced myself to find out how interesting the year to come was going to be.

Hilary moved her hand along to the bottom left hand row of cards. She pointed to one of a young man in a motley blouse and tights. He looked like he was stepping off a cliff. “”Things start with The Fool. Anything could happen to you. This is a card of untapped possibilities, but also a lack of awareness. He’s paired with the Three of Pentacles, which represents coming into a small fortune through luck.””

January-Kenny, the assistant editor who, thanks to nepotism, had risen above his level of incompetence, had shelved my piece on Yellowstone for six months. Finally he exercised his right of first refusal and refused it, and asked if I could do something on local gamer culture. I’’d just heard that the last video game arcade in the area, a relic that operated more like a social club than a business, was closing. It was being forced out by the closure of the mall where it had been since the ‘80’s. I covered that. I also sent the Yellowstone piece to an editor friend at another magazine. He liked it and put the check in the mail.

She went to the next pair of cards in the row. It was turned toward me, so I could see it was a nude couple. The card was titled “The Lovers”. ““Since this card is reversed,”” said Hilary, ““it means rejection and disappointment. But the Nine of Cups with it means a gathering, like a party.””

February-Malcom and Pat invited me to join them for dinner at Marko’’s on Valentine’s Day. Then they also invited Chaz and his girlfriend, then Lydia and Rose, and they asked if Kelee could come along too. We laughed about a small crowd of us making reservations for a table on the biggest couples’ night of the year. As we were chatting over desserts I felt someone’’s arms around me and a soft, beery kiss on my cheek. I turned around. There was a handsome young man in a suit standing behind me. He took a step back. “”I’’m sorry,”” he said. ““I thought you were someone else.””

““The Plague,”” said Hilary. ““I guess you know what this one means. It’s disease, but it can also be disruption, or a sweeping change. The Two of Wands with it means futility.””

March-All winter I’’d avoided getting sick. I’’d gotten the flu shot, washed my hands regularly, kept a bottle of antibiotic in my pocket and used it until my skin cracked. Then during a wave of cold that broke the early spring I woke up with a hundred degree fever. For two days I dragged myself around my apartment in a haze. I moved back and forth between my bed and couch, barely conscious enough to even follow daytime television. Mrs. Schwarzherz from downstairs brought me some of her special soup. It smelled like feet. As I was pouring it down the sink I felt my fever break.

““Next is The Knight of Swords, who’s brave, but also reckless. He’’s paired with The Lightning Struck Tower.””

““That doesn’’t sound good.””

““It’s not always bad. Sometimes it can mean a revelation, or something unexpected.””

April-I was more than a month late getting the oil in my car changed. There were no openings on Saturday, so I made an appointment and left the car at the shop on Monday morning and took the bus to work. I picked up the car in the afternoon, and was halfway home before I realized one of the technicians was asleep in the backseat.

Hilary raised her eyebrows. ““You have the Ace of Wands paired with The Devil. You’’ll feel impulsive, but directionless. You’’ll suffer indecision and instability. If you’’ve made plans they’’ll go wrong.””

““I hope I don’t have anything big planned then.””

May-Every Friday I had the same thing for lunch: clam chowder, bread, and a large green tea. On a whim I decided to change my order.

““I’’ll have the broccoli cheese soup.””

The woman at the register looked behind her then turned back to me. “”Sorry. We’re out of broccoli cheese today. Would you like something else?””

““Ummm……”” I was suddenly overwhelmed by the menu behind her head. I looked to the left and all I could see was cherry pastries and chocolate chip cookies. There were fifteen people in line behind me, and I could feel thirty eyes burning into my skull.

““I guess I’’ll have a clam chowder.””

““Do you want chips or bread?””

The word “chips” was right on the tip of my tongue, but I stuttered. It took me a moment to recover, and I blurted out, “”Bread!””

““You want a drink?””

I looked at the drink dispenser. The bright labels blurred together, while the metal tabs hung like tongues laughing at me. What did I want? I looked at the menu. Drinks? What drinks? Starting to sweat I said, ““Green tea.””

““For here or to go?””

I could hear fifteen exasperated sighs behind me.

““Don’t worry,”” Hilary smiled. “”The Hanged Man isn’t as bad as it sounds. It’s a change in perspective, a different view. The Page of Cups with him means laughter, humor, a bright outlook. This looks like it will be a happy time for you.””

June-Chaz, Simon, and I were standing around the water cooler when Kenny came in. He looked at us. “”I see you’’re all working hard.””

““We were just talking about that freak snowstorm,”” said Chaz. ““Did you see it? Just came out of nowhere.””

Kenny looked at him then at me.

““Yeah,”” I said. ““Covered the whole area. Really dusted the trees.””

Simon cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. Please don’’t spoil this, I thought. We’’d let Simon in on it, even though he preferred to stay out of doing anything.

““I don’t get it,”” Kenny muttered, and went to his office. A minute later he stomped out again.

““You jackasses better get in there and clean every one of those styrofoam peanuts out of my office STAT. Including the ones all over my fichus plant. I shouldn’’t have to tell you never to go in there. And never open my window. Ever.””

As we were picking crushed styrofoam out of the carpet Chaz hissed, “”Or I’’ll tell my uncle!”” in perfect mimicry of Kenny’’s nasal voice. We cracked up, and Simon, who’’d come in to help us, surprised us all by laughing and throwing handfuls of packing peanuts in our faces.

Unlike most of the other cards the next one didn’’t have any figures, just a dark swirl. I could make out a tiny sailing ship just at the edge of the center.

Hilary said, “”The Maelstrom means forces of nature working against you. It could be a storm of events that shake up your life or force you to change your plans. This card may also mean that others come with you. Like you bring them along, like a crew of a ship. This is interesting. It’’s paired with the Queen of Wands. With her present you’’ll be able to come through whatever storm you’re facing.””

July-Michael and I invited Chaz and his girlfriend to join us in renting a beach house for a week, but they’’d hit a rocky spot in their relationship and didn’’t want to come. So we invited Simon along, since he’’d loosened up a lot. We also thought he needed to get away from the office. Who knew a tropical storm would arrive the same day we did? Michael had to cancel his plans to troll the beach for “babes”, and we all had to cancel our fishing trip. One day I braved the storm to visit the small aquarium at the other end of the island where I petted stingrays and watched seahorses glide about. Most days I was content to sleep late, have a bagel for breakfast, and watch the rain-spattered windows melt sea and sky together into an abstract study in gray while I worked. At night we piled into the car and went to one of the three restaurants. Michael flirted with the waitresses while we drank beer and gorged ourselves on fried pickles and oysters. The morning we left we woke to a clear, sunny sky. I stood on the patio and could see porpoises curling over the water.

““The spreading tree is life, rejuvenation, renewal, or even new growth. Putting down new roots, maybe, if you move somewhere else. The Page of Cups is reversed. That’’s loss and confusion.””

“”That sounds like a contradiction.””

““You can’’t take the cards so literally.””

August-It was time to take the glass I’d saved to the recycling center. As I emptied the box under the sink I was racking my brain. How did I go through six bottles of olives in a month?

I could read the next card, which showed an old robed man with a staff climbing a hill. “”The Hermit,”” I said. ““That sounds like me.”” Hilary nodded. ““The Hermit is isolation, loneliness, but also inner contemplation, questioning, and discovery.”” She tapped the card next to it, a hand holding a sword with a crown over its tip. “”The Ace of Swords means strength in solitude. These cards really enhance each other.””

September-I got home late and picked up the mail off the floor. Among the bills and catalogs was an envelope from my high school reunion committee. I paused, realizing how many years had simply slipped by. It wasn’’t the worst time of my life, but I didn’’t feel any nostalgia for high school either. After moving halfway across the country I’d lost touch with almost everyone I’’d been to high school with. I turned off my phone and locked it in my desk drawer, then locked the door of my apartment and went back down the steps to my car. I turned down a back road that briefly ran parallel to the interstate on-ramp, then turned off through woods, into darkness. The oldies station on the radio played songs that were new when I was in ninth grade. Soon there were black hills on one side of my and the river on the other. My headlights beamed into nothingness. Saturn was directly overhead. I could be anywhere, anywhen.

Hilary reached up to the final row. ““The Queen of Wands reversed means chaos, disorder, anger. She’’s paired with The empress who brings wisdom, generosity, and helpfulness.””

““So kind of like order out of disorder.””

““Something like that. This is an obscure and difficult pairing.””

October-At first I thought it was the radio, then I remembered I hadn’’t turned it on. I strained to listen, then stuck my head out of the shower.

““Hello? Is someone there?””

Panic ran through my like an electric current as I heard movement outside the bathroom, then a knock. I grabbed the shower head. The door opened, and I heard a lilting, slightly accented voice.

““Hello. It’’s just me.””

I ducked back behind the curtain. “”I’’m in the shower, Mrs. Schwarzherz!””

““Did you have a date last night? I saw you come here with someone, and from downstairs it didn’’t sound like one of your friends.””

““This isn’t a good time!””

““I heard thumping and thought it might be your bed. I hope you used a condom.””

“I’’ll talk to you later!””

““I left you some peanut butter raisin cookies on your counter. They’re on a paper plate, so you don’t have to return it right away.””

I hit my head against the tile. ““Get out! Please get out of my bathroom!””

She’’d already left.

A bright yellow orb glowed from the upper corner of the next card. A nude figure knelt down next to a pool. It was hard to tell with the card upside down from my side of the table, but I thought the figure was scooping up water into a jug, or possibly pouring it out. ““The Star,”” Hilary said, ““means renewal, cleansing. It’’s also the myths that help us make sense of the world, that give us order and comfort. The Ace of Pentacles is reversed, meaning the status quo is reversed.””

““Sounds like I’ll be sitting at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving again.””

November-One of my six-month dental checkups was always scheduled a few days after Halloween, a mistake I’’d made years earlier and never gotten around to correcting. I blamed a succession of cavities on my weakness for leftover candy, although there might have been a conspiracy by the American Dental Association. Yet I looked forward to seeing my regular hygienist, Janet, who was bright and friendly. As I was settling into the torture chair she told me one of her earlier patients had been a hockey player. I said, ““You know, I went to a fight once and a hockey game broke out.”

““Wait, what?”” Janet stammered then laughed. “”That’’s backward. Okay, I get it. Has anything been bothering you since you were last here?””

““Well, that whole situation in Russia has me pretty concerned.””

Janet held up her pick and mirror. ““Open your mouth and shut it.”” Once the cleaning was done she patted me on the shoulder. ““All right, rinse and spit and you’’re good to go.””

“”I’’m clean?””

““Yep. Everything looks good. You’’ve got six months to come up with new jokes.””

On my way out I popped a caramel in my mouth.

““Death.”” Hilary sighed.

““I thought the Death card just meant change. Not actual death.”” I didn’’t know much about the Tarot, but I’’d heard that somewhere.

““Sometimes. It’’s all about placement. And it’’s paired with the Ten of Swords, which means being overwhelmed. Depression, darkness. I’’m sorry. There’’s just no good way to read this combination.””

She began putting away the cards, leaving the last two. I turned them around to study them. I could see what she meant about the Ten of Swords. It showed a figure lying face down, pinned to the ground by swords in his back. Blood seeped from his wounds. Overhead a black sky seemed to push down. The Death card was also intimidating. A scythe-wielding skeleton against a sickly yellow background looked up at me. Its wide round eye sockets and exposed teeth seemed to be laughing at me.

““I see what you mean,”” I said.

““Yeah,”” replied Hilary. ““Any way I look at it it’’s bad.””

December-I’’ve always prided myself on being a skeptic, and yet as the year end approached I started to feel uneasy. Things seemed to have fallen into a pattern over the previous months, or was I just imagining that? It didn’’t help that things at work, and outside of it, were going so well. I got all my holiday shopping done early, and even sent out cards for the first time in years. I also accepted every invitation I could. I helped Malcom and Lynne decorate their tree, celebrated the first night of Hanukkah with Maya and Kim, went to a Solstice party with Chaz and his girlfriend, and had tea one afternoon with Mrs. Schwarzherz. We nibbled stale ginger snaps while flurries skittered by the window. I drove back to my old home to spend Christmas with my parents, then got back in time to go to Simon’’s New Year’s Eve dinner party where we ate Cornish hens and played Trivial Pursuit. Everyone else faded out around ten o’clock. I didn’’t want to admit I was anxious. As I drove a slightly drunk Michael home I thought about getting him to spend the night on my couch, but then he played songs on his phone and sang along. Badly. At home I huddled in bed and read until I heard fireworks outside and my bedside alarm clock chimed. The next morning I slept late, and woke to streams of bright sunlight. Nothing had happened. I was still here. What a coincidence.

There’s Something In This Post I Meant To Say.

poundstoneSome comedians tell carefully crafted jokes, but Paula Poundstone, whose birthday is today, seems to just open her mouth and funny things fall out without her even realizing it. Maybe that’s why, even though some of her performances have been captured, every performance is unique. She has prepared material but it’s always her improvised interactions with the audience that are the funniest, and whenever she’s a panelist on Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me I think, oh, here we go and I tense up like a tightly coiled spring just waiting for her to point out the absurdity of a scientific study or ask a bizarre question or just offer some brilliant observation that no one else could think of.

It’s also what makes her book There Is Nothing In This Book That I Meant To Say such a fun read. It’s not a typical memoir but is instead as meandering and funny as Poundstone herself can be, but as a bonus with each chapter she takes a notable person–Joan of Arc, Abraham Lincoln, Helen Keller, Charles Dickens, The Wright Brothers, Beethoven, and Sitting Bull–and uses brief biographical bits about each one as jumping off points to talk about her own life.

Speaking of that it must be a bit of a bummer to have a birthday right after Christmas when everybody’s exhausted and the last thing they want to do is wrap and give more presents and right before but not actually on New Year’s Eve which is the biggest party of the year so no one wants to schedule anything right in the middle there, but here’s hoping it’s a happy one anyway.

We Need To Talk.

Most of the time I don’t just go for an empty seat on the bus. I go for an empty seat surrounded by empty seats. I sit as far away from other people as possible and keep my head down. It’s better that way, right? No one really wants to talk to me because we’re all strangers. It’s very rare that I see the same people, or even the same person, on the bus from one day to the next. Even the drivers change on a regular basis depending on everything from their schedules to mine. Sure there have been exceptions. I’ve had several conversations with a guy named Jerry whom I see regularly. He and a woman named Diane are sometimes talking when I get on the bus and after they’d seen me a few times we’d make eye contact and they’d both smile and say “hi”. One day I asked Jerry about a history book he was reading and we spent the entire ride discussing World War II and debating whether the Battle of Britain was a significant turning point or a minor skirmish. I argued it was a major turning point, but that’s another story. Sometimes Jerry and another man named Amit will sit and talk during their commute, and some days I’ve boarded the bus to see them sitting together, Amit reading the paper, Jerry reading a thick book, both of them surrounded by empty seats.

Even small talk with strangers makes my day better, and a study from last year by University of Chicago professor Nicholas Epley confirms that’s the case for most people. And once the small talk starts it’s usually easy. So why is it so hard to get started?

For me at least the answer is obvious: how do you start talking to a stranger? I know that’s a question, not an answer, so let me put it another way: I don’t know what to start talking to strangers about.

Maybe I can start with, “Hey, have you heard about a study done by a psychologist at the University of Chicago?”

I’ll add, though, that at least in my personal experience it isn’t necessarily me talking with somebody that brightens up my commute. Overhearing other peoples’ friendly conversations makes me happy even if I’m not taking part. So if you see me sitting in the back of the bus and you don’t know what to say to me talk amongst yourselves.

biglovebus

Real, Unreal, And Does It Matter?

Source: Google Maps

Source: Google Maps

There’s a particular spot near Elliston Place where I’ve collected quite a bit of graffiti. It’s so popular with artists in fact that in the picture above, pulled from Google Maps, you can see some graffiti. In fact the extremely astute may recognize this piece in the lower right hand corner from a previous post:

downerI’m not sure why the area is so popular. It’s also a spot with quite a bit of history. Right across the street from the picture above is the famous Exit/In where almost everybody who’s anybody in music has played and it’s even been a spot for some other performers. An older friend tells the story of the night he was walking down Elliston and met a huge crowd of people being led out of Exit/In by a man dressed in a white suit. The man was Steve Martin, and it might have been the night he took the entire audience to McDonald’s, but that’s another story.

Pictured above, though, is another music venue, The End, but what really interests me is the courtyard next to it and behind Obie’s Pizza. The walls are covered with regularly changing murals. Here’s a picture of a recent design:

005

It looks a lot like graffiti, doesn’t it? The colors may be brighter and the designs more elaborate but it still has a distinctly graffiti style. Now here’s another view:

002The ATM sign–which to me also looks like it’s copying a hip graffiti-style look–is on the bars that separate the courtyard from the alley, keeping out the riffraff. I contacted The End to ask who did their murals. I didn’t get an answer, but what matters is I’ve still drawn this conclusion: in an area with lots of graffiti the owners wanted something that looked like graffiti that isn’t actually graffiti.

It’s easy to think of graffiti as something bad, as defacing private or public property, but what does it say when people intentionally copy–and even pay for–something that looks like graffiti?

Here’s a bit of “real” graffiti from behind The End. I don’t see that much difference.

006Seen any graffiti? Email your pictures to freethinkers@nerosoft.com. All pictures will be credited to you unless you’d rather remain anonymous. I’m easy like that.

 

In Addition To The Holiday…

Source: Memory Alpha

You may not know the name but the picture of him might look familiar. Maybe you remember him from a brief appearance on Star Trek: The Next Generation as a holodeck character, or Star Trek: Deep Space Nine where he, er, also appeared as a holodeck character, but at least he was in several episodes. Or you might remember him as Murray Futterman from Gremlins and Gremlins 2: The New Batch or a doomed pawn shop owner from The Terminator. Or from more than a hundred and fifty other cameos.

Or you might recognize him as a hip vacuum cleaner salesman from the original 1957 Not Of This Earth, or the original 1960 Little Shop of Horrors as a customer with real taste in flowers. If you’re familiar with those you might also know his only starring role as Walter Paisley in A Bucket Of Blood. I’ve written previously about that film and my history with it here.

As a character actor specializing in cameos Miller tends to get overlooked and since today is Christmas Day it would be easy to overlook the fact that it’s also his birthday. I wanted to give him a special mention. Dick Miller, you’ll always be a star to me.

The Story Goes On.

image1Christmas is all about stories. Whether it’s A Christmas Carol or ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas or A Christmas Story or, well, you know, the original Christmas story the holiday is shaped by the stories we tell about it. One story I keep coming back to is Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas In Wales. I have a little copy that’s very special to me because I purchased it in Laugharne, the Welsh town where Thomas spent the last years of his life and did some of his best writing. The book was in my pocket when I stopped in Carmarthen, a Welsh town between Laugharne and Swansea, and attended the lighting of the town Christmas tree, so the story of how and why I went to Dylan Thomas’s home has, in my mind, become entwined with his Christmas story. I haven’t been back to Carmarthen since then but in the pictures I find on Google–something I couldn’t have imagined at the time–it looks very much the same. The Old Priory Guest House where I spent the night is still there, and still next to a graveyard. And when I read the story I still enjoy it as much as I did the first time, especially when young Dylan and his friends go caroling. Or maybe it’s the fire. Or the uncles. Or Auntie Hannah who has a few drinks because it’s only once a year and

So what’s your favorite Christmas story?

image2

It’s Chipmunk Season.

A few years ago Nashville finally got a bona fide public bus station. It’s not much, but it’s a building with a roof and spaces for vending machines and offices and benches all surrounding a large circular center where the buses come and go. Before that the “bus station” was really just a bunch of small shelters and benches on the sidewalk of a single block. If you wanted to buy a 7 or 30-day bus ticket or were looking for the lost-and-found there was a kiosk that was open for approximately seventeen minutes on alternate Tuesdays.

One winter night my wife and I were walking up the street to see a show at TPAC and there was a man standing in one of the shelters belting out “Beautiful Dreamer” in a lovely bass baritone so that night we really got two performances for the price of one, but that’s another story.

Homeless people would also sometimes sleep in the shelters and probably sleep in the bus station too. I’d be happier if they could get help, but I’m glad they’ve at least got someplace to go that’s out of the elements.

The Bournemouth Borough Council in the UK feels a little differently, though, so at the Bournemouth Coach Station they’ve been playing songs by The Chipmunks from midnight to 6AM as “part of a wider strategy to deter anti-social behaviour and rough sleeping”.

It’s a bit of a change from the bagpipe music they had been previously playing, but what if you like that kind of music? Okay, I know, no one really likes The Chipmunks, not even small children who only pretend to like them, but I can sleep through anything.

And there are ways to make them entertaining.