THE SHOW THAT NEVER ENDS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-20-25)

     When we attended a Robert Plant-and-friends show at the Capitol Theater last Saturday I realized I hadn't been to a bona fide sit-down concert in quite a while, one that I wasn't working at as a volunteer usher, as I do at the Tarrytown Music Hall. Plant, performing a smattering of Led Zeppelin songs, evokes a bygone age of rock and roll, when it was okay to bite the heads off bats, or play so loud that blood could be seen coming out of the audience members' ears, or light your guitar in flames without first going over the fire safety exit plan. 

     When I was in high school, there was a heyday of rock and roll. This was before artists were formerly known as other artists, or people brought their kids and put ear protection on them. There was an element of danger to the whole experience. You could fall in with the wrong kind of crowd, or even become trampled by the wrong kind of crowd. You used to be able to get tickets to a show at Roosevelt Field for 8 bucks, complain about how much prices had gone up, pile into your Mom's station wagon and be on the L.I.E. before she reported it missing. If anyone remembered what exit the stadium was it was a bonus, but if you simply followed the traffic you had a 50/50 chance of getting there, unless you ended up at a hockey game. You could save your ticket stub and show it off the next day to your friends, a conquering hero, if you weren't grounded for two weeks. I tried showing off my e-wallet account history to my friends after the Robert Plant show, but it just wasn't the same.

     What is your favorite concert experience of all time? When I think back to all the concerts that I can recall, I realize that it's remarkably few. Not because I didn't attend that many, but because I was a child of the '70s. So if I tell you that I remember many of the details, I probably really wasn't there at all. But one performance does stand out in my memory: seeing Emerson, Lake and Palmer at the Garden with a 70-piece orchestra on hand to play the album, "Works." The production was an absolute gem, but once someone actually did the math, including feeding all the musicians on a daily basis, the show proved fiscally unviable, and the tour was aborted. Remember, while rock stars can subsist on a diet of cheese steaks, beer and used carburetor parts, classical musicians need to eat hummus, fresh fish and French wine in order to survive.

     There are so many bands I wished I had seen. The Beatles, obviously. I picture myself at the Ed Sullivan theater, age 12, screaming at the top of my lungs, at all the annoying girls who won't shut the hell up. The who is another group I wish I had seen. Who could write an entire rock opera about a deaf, dumb and blind kid who became famous playing pinball, and have it all make sense? Come to think of it, it did not make any sense. But I still loved the record.

     Believe it or not, I never saw the Grateful Dead in concert. But from what I understand, the Grateful Dead could play a four-hour show, using only one song, and at some point during the performance, you could drop out of school, join the army, get married, have a baby, undergo a religious awakening, denounce God and eat an entire anchovy pizza before ending up in the medical tent, where you were declared perfectly normal and therefore asked to leave.

     My niece recently traveled all the way to Germany to see Taylor Swift perform, because it was actually cheaper than seeing her in America, once all the numbers were run and every employee of Ticketmaster had received a $2000 bonus. Thus was ushered in a new era of music-Taylored tourism, and also, Swiftian irony. Just another of Taylor's many eras. 

     I'm afraid to see any artist live who was born after 1967, because I'm concerned that I may become annoyed by incessant lip-syncing, Autotune and excessive choreography. I come from a generation that just wants to you do the songs that we all remember, to see if you really know all the chords and can sing that high. And if you MUST do songs from your boring new album, don't expect a medal. And for GOD's sake, don't dance unless you absolutely have to or an insect flies into your pants.

     At the end of the concert, the band walks off with a wave, and it's up to us, through only the power of our enthusiastic applause, to coax them back onstage to continue the revelry. We carry on for a good while, because that's what we do. I steal a glimpse at my watch as I applaud. Is "Dateline" on? The intensity of my own personal clapping is based on a complicated algorithm that takes into account the quality of the performance, the length of the show, how long my car ride home is, their likelihood of returning, whether or not I have to go to the bathroom, and other data that are carefully factored in. Meanwhile, the stage crew has removed two microphones in an effort to test our resolve. What if they never come back? What if they're already at their hotel, drinking, carousing, breaking furniture and throwing fashion models out of the window into the hotel pool? Maybe that was the old Led Zeppelin, but the septuagenarian Robert Plant probably hasn't lost a step. He could be up in his room, cheating at Scrabble, or under-reporting his sodium intake to his cardiologist. BUT, just as the skin on my hands begins to wear away, the group returns to the stage and the magic continues, if only for a moment longer.

 Rarely is such beauty, intelligence, happiness and energy bundled into one small package, a perfect four-pawed faithful friend, who commanded attention then demanded it. Two adults became delightedly invisible at one end of a string that held an object of joy and curiosity to hundreds of perfect strangers at its other.

A bounding 45 pounds of mirthful mischief, her immersion into the study of our everyday habits made her a slave to her favorite traditions, and simply to the daily living of a well-loved life.

Missing the beaming smiles reflected back at us from others for this little creature that absorbed so much affection and gave so much back, will be the hardest part.

We love you, Gidget

 

 

UNRAVELING MEDICARE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (11-15-25)

     I'm going to be retiring at the end of this year, and I'll be moving off my company's health care plan and onto Medicare. I've been reading up on things, and as a public service, I'm going to review the different elements of Medicare with you, so you can simply concentrate on getting injured. Part A is for hospital coverage, what you'll use if I back into you with my car, because I can't get the hang of using the back-up camera. Objects in my mirror are closer than they appear, and yet objects in my rearview camera are farther than they appear. So it's not my fault that nothing is as it appears. Luckily, all your tests at the hospital come out okay, except for math. 

     Part B covers doctor visits, medical equipment and preventative checkups, the physical therapy for your foot, which I ran over when I put the car in drive after I backed into you. Part D is for drugs, in case my explanation starts to give you a headache. Part C, or "Medicare Advantage," may cover many things the other parts don't, such as vision, dental and hearing. If there is a hearing after our accident, you'll be able to hear it. 

    My wife thinks my own hearing is shot, because she says she asked me to take some crap up to the attic, and I never did it. "I probably just didn't hear you," I postulated. She said, "I asked you in a text." I told her she's just projecting her own desires onto me by telling me I can't hear, because she secretly wishes that my constant chatter might bypass her ears and go straight into outer space, where the audio waves could be picked up by inhabitants of distant planets wondering whether they should visit Earth, and it would help justify their decision not to.

     The last thing I would want to do is visit an ear, nose and throat specialist who is straight out of medical school and inexperienced. The only thing ears, noses and throats have in common is that they are all holes in my face. It would be easy for a new doctor to make a mistake. "Okay, I'm going to put this tongue depressor all the way in, and when I give the word, you say 'Ah.' Okay, NOW." "Doctor, you put the tongue depressor in my NOSE."

     When I go for the hearing test, there is a four-page form that I must sign. It describes all the things that will probably happen to me during this procedure, including dismemberment, death, and the deaths of those in my immediate family. If that doesn't do the trick, there will be torture. At the end of the form is a little check box and a place for my signature, and a sentence that says, "YES. In fact, I'm surprised I didn't think of it myself."

     If they offered a "rewards card" for my healthcare group, I would sign up for it immediately, because I'd be eligible for quantity discounts. Every time I run from the baseline to the service line on the tennis court- and it's more like a waddle than a run- the cartilage in one joint or another fails, a ligament snaps, a tendon tears, sometimes all at the same time. There appears to be no cartilage left in any part of my body except for my brain, where there are no moving parts.

     If you're shopping for part C supplemental insurance, it's easy to figure out the best plan: the higher your deductible, the lower your premiums. The fewer covered services, the higher the co-payments. The more in- network doctors, the lower the maximum benefit. If you'd like all of these things at once, your physical health will be far better than your financial health.

     I went to the orthopedist for my wrist, which has so much arthritis that he likened it to the Colorado River carving out the Grand Canyon. He said there was nothing much he could do about it. I said, I know, it's been there for thousands of years. But what about my wrist? He said, there is a surgical fix, in which he removes two bones, which he pointed out to me on the X-ray. They were about an inch long, and when I asked him what he was planning to put in there instead, he said nothing. Nothing? Can you at least put a piece of Lego, or some rubber bands in there to take up the space? Can't you graft a ligament from my butt and screw it in there? We've become spoiled by the advances in medical science.

     The majority of healthcare providers honor Medicare, but if your Part C plan supersedes Medicare's, you may have to poll your physicians to find out if they are included. I asked my doctor if he was in my network, and he was, but apparently the doctors got together and kicked ME out of the network. There are a lot more doctors from faraway places now. I was referred to a Dr. Ngflstrnqlzian, and when I asked how that was pronounced, I was told just how it's spelled. Emigrating to the United States to escape the tyranny of a regime that outlawed the use of vowels in the year 1043, his expertise will now flourish. 

     I hope this has helped you make informed decisions regarding your medical care. Remember to activate your plan during "Open Enrollment." If you do so during closed enrollment, it's considered breaking and entering, and you'll have to co-pay a fine.

NO GNUS IS GOOD NEWS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-23-25)

     We recently went to a zoo that began like most other zoos, but didn't end up that way. I'll get to that. The Wild Animal Park in upstate Chittenango starts out with a walk through the various habitats, where animals can observe the odd behavior of humans and learn what not to do. 

     We started out at the caprine introductory reception area (I made up the title), where behind the fence frolicked a herd of goats of Biblical proportions. You couldn't call it a plague because they are so cute. A plague is like when I was in Egypt and an army of frogs emerged from the Nile unto the land, and wouldn't you know, I JUST washed my car. My wife insisted that I throw the food to the scrawniest, puniest, loser-est goat, the one who was definitely not the G.O.A.T. He was probably wondering why I hit him with a food pellet so many times, and the answer is because I was not aiming at him.

     There were several different types of monkeys, and you could watch their clowning behavior all day. There were spider monkeys, capuchins, baboons, and even two medium-sized titis, and let me tell you, that was quite a pair. There were big cats of many varieties. I've heard it said that cheetahs never prosper, but after all they were wearing fur and it looked real. There were tigers, lions, and even a leopard was spotted. There was a giant anteater, a most useless creature, since at my house the ants are very small.

     There is a platform where you can walk up, face a giraffe on its own level, and feed it a carrot. Everyone knows that the best way to a giraffe's heart is through its stomach, but it's also the most time-consuming. I couldn't wait, so I just assumed that my giraffe loved me based on some eye-contact that we shared. Our trip here was in early September, and there were many baby animals in the zoo at that time, including a newborn giraffe. So plan accordingly if you like babies, and you don't mind that they might eat you when they grow up.

     You can learn all kinds of things about the animals by reading the signs. Did you know that the gibbon mates for life, and sings a special song to the female? When we were there it sang "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe," by Barry White, so monkeys are not stupid. At the sika deer exhibit I learned that "sika" is Japanese for "deer," which is as self-explanatory as saying "people person." The southern ground hornbill has a low, hooting call that it repeats over and over and can be heard for miles, prompting its Mom to say, "That's ANNOYING."

     For an extra fee you can have a personal encounter with a sloth, and learn all about him. For instance you may be wondering, what is the difference between a two-toed sloth and a three-toed sloth? You can spend two hours with a him and he'll show you, after which time you are essentially dating.

     But the craziest part of the zoo was yet to come: a safari in your own car! The fellow at the ticket counter saw the bicycle on my car rack and asked if it was going to be okay. I said, of course, but then I had a vision of a mob of emus unlatching the two-wheeler and riding around terrorizing the other animals, and all of a sudden I wasn't so sure.

     Armed with four red Solo cups filled with wild animal food, we lit off on our journey around the 14-acre grounds. We got as far as 25 feet before the road was blocked by huge cattle with horns the size of traffic cones sticking straight out from the sides of their heads. If they actually were traffic cones we might have known not to drive in that direction, so we were stuck there until they dispersed, since it's impolite to honk at wild animals, and useless to check in on Waze.

     My sister Anne lives in the area and has been to the zoo many times. She knows how to get the most amusement for her buck, so she had us open all the windows, and she would point us all in one direction to look at something harmless, say, a zebra, and when we turned back around there was a gargantuan bison head two inches away from my own inside the car window, scaring the living daylights out of me so much that they weren't living after that. 

     Then the game was on, and elk, asses, llamas and buffalo were chasing those solo cups like a foam-starved fratboy following a frothy firkin. One camel dogged me as if I owed him money, which is entirely possible. We were laughing so hard even the hyenas told us to shut up.

     If you're a fan of the creatures we share the Earth with there is no better way to spend your day. My sister Diane loves animals so much that she said she helped an earthworm across the street, which I believe. She stepped on three others during this act of kindness, but it's the thought that counts. I am also a friend to all animals, and I couldn't bear to kill a spider that was in my basement. Instead, I trapped it using an internet scam, then paid for two years of group therapy, and now it works at MacDonalds.

A CONGREGATION OF CELEBRATION

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-09-25)

     Two weeks ago Gidget (The Cutest Dog in the Land) and I showed our civic appreciation by attending "Celebrate Somers" day at the Towne Center. We met some nice people, browsed the local businesses, saw some adorable little dancers and enjoyed the beautiful 80-degree weather. That's celebration enough, although I was hoping that there might be cake. Gidget did score some dog treats, which she saved till later. People often tell their kids not to accept candy from strangers, but I never subscribed to that advice, because in a candy-accepting relationship, I find it hard to believe that I would not be the stranger one.

     As we strolled around the square, we made some new friends, and ran into some old ones. And when I say "we," I am referring to Gidget, and the guy she drags around at the end of a leash (me). If she could answer questions regarding the makeup of her breed, how old she is and whether she sheds or not, she wouldn't need me around at all, and I'd have to come up with a convincing reason to hang around. 

     There were cheerleaders and dance teams of all age groups, and each group gave a little performance. There were some tiny little munchkins who were learning at a very early age that you could get people to do just about anything you wanted simply by virtue of being adorable, and whatever you couldn't get done that way, bonking them over the head with a pom-pom would probably do it. As one progressed farther up the age scale, it became apparent that if your Mom thought she could get you to clean your room by letting you join the group, it still wasn't going to happen unless they actually made it part of a dance routine.

     There were a bunch local businesses represented, and they make you realize that you really need to get out of the house once in a while and interact with other human beings. It's getting to be a lost art. There was a Pilates studio, for instance, which I'm told is a great way to stay in shape. "Wow, you do Pilates?" You ask. Well, I just did the one Pilate. If I did more, I might wake up my endorphins, which surely would make fun of me.

     Also represented were a chiropractor's office, a dentist's office, even a recruiting booth for the Somers Volunteer Fire Department, where you can save peoples' lives in your spare time. There was a booth for a day spa, so called because you can't spend the night there, even if you think that being covered head to toe in mud is preferable to hearing your husband dissect the reasons why the Giants offensive line is so offensive. Write me separately if you wish to do that. 

     There was a basketball player from the Harlem Wizards there who entertains every year. He teaches kids the finer points of ball handling and stunt dribbling, while dishing and goading them to distraction. It's fun when they do it right, and even more fun when they don't. Are these life skill you can eventually bring to the workplace? I say, YES! "Did you happen to look over my proposal?" You ask. "Yes I did, and I thought it was stupid." "Well give it back to me then, I'm going over your head." "Well, a.), I'm on the top floor, and b.), I took the proposal, passed it behind my back, through my right leg, then through my left, tossed it in the air and bounced it off my butt and out that open window." "Dude! we're on the 30th floor! Is that it down there? Didn't there used to be a hot dog guy down there? I guess he's not going anywhere for a while." "Not if he submits that proposal he's not."

     There was a whole parking lot dedicated to classic cars, and you could just wander around and check them out- I thought I recognized the back seat of one of them. Some had their hoods up, and my gear-head friends would love that. There was a Ford Taurus with its hood up that didn't look that classic, it just looked like maybe the battery was dead. But there were some nifty muscle cars, Camaros, some old Mustangs and Corvettes, and even a restored Model T. My very first car was a rusty, fusty, musty Fiat 128. I'm not saying it was a muscle car or anything, but consider that the stapedius muscle, while the smallest in the human body, is also extremely insignificant. My Dad once had a Dodge Dart "Swinger" the color of a banana that was suffering from extreme carsickness. As you might imagine, the amount of actual swinging you could do once an eligible female found out what your ride was, was minimal at best. "What you driving, Sugar?" "I roll with a Dodge Dart. It's got a slant-six engine, with a- Hey- where are you going? Did I happen to mention that I have 170 cubic inches under the hood, soaking wet?"

     There were many other dogs enjoying the day with their owners, and I tried to get Gidget to make some friends, but she prefers cats, and there were no cats that had penciled the day into their schedule . I told Gidget, you have to learn how to make friends with other dogs. Sneaking up behind somebody and sticking your pointy nose in their butt is no way to introduce yourself. It hardly ever works for humans, at least that's what I'm told.

FAIR WEATHER FRIENDS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-18-25)

     We've never been to the great New York State Fair, and this year we decided to go and check it out. If you're headed upstate, you should always plan your trip for when you're in the market for a used car. If you look on the lawn in front of most houses, just to the left of the driveway, there is a used car for sale. If there is no "For Sale" sign on it it means that whomever drove it last missed the driveway by a good margin just before the car heaved its last breath, but you might as well make an offer anyway if you're feeling lucky. Some of the more "classic" vehicles are of a vintage just before the car radio was invented, but if you know Morse code you can communicate by telegraph.

    There is also a lot of farm equipment available up there, new and used. I would love to get my hands on a tractor. WHY? My wife asks. Have you ever tried tracting by hand? Takes all day. A backhoe would be nice. My wife put her foot down on that one, but she never said no to a fronthoe, and I can just turn it backwards.

    Anyway, the Fair is a fun and kitschy slice of Americana. Later that evening at the bar I used the word "kitschy" twice, and was informed that to say it more than once is insulting. A good example of kitsch is the annual butter sculpture in the Dairy Building. This year's rendering depicted the theme of, "Dairy: Good for You, Good For the Planet." The work of art used enough butter for over 76,000 pancakes, and over 1400 full-time cardiologists.

    Our first stop was the Canine Stars Stunt Dog show, where dare-devildogs performed high jumps of up to 48 inches from a running start. All of the participants were rescue dogs, saved from a life of inert loafing, and forced to jump four feet in the air all day long to earn tiny morsels of food. One dog refused to take part in this charade, and vaulted over the fence to lick random members of the audience instead, and was universally hailed a hero.

    Other stars of this dog day afternoon could jump 26 feet into a pool of water. By contrast, I brought my dog Gidget into the pool one time to teach it how to swim, which instead turned into a lesson on how to defend yourself against a dog who, while remaining extremely cute, was apparently well versed in mixed martial arts and perfectly content not knowing how to swim.

    The Hawk Creek Birds of Prey exhibit is absolutely raptorous for any bird lover. A fun thing to do is to take someone whose company you really can't stand and, without their realizing it, position them in between the two people with the falcon glove on. When they let the hawk go it flies about two inches over their head to the other falconer, causing your friend's pacemaker to fibrillate to the approximate tempo of "Cry of the Brave" by DragonForce. If that doesn't work you're stuck with them the rest of the day, though.

     It's a great way to learn about these amazing creatures. For instance, the great horned owl, besides being totally cool, has no sense of smell. The reason this comes in handy is because it has no qualms about preying on skunks, and, I'm hoping, people who eat garlic for breakfast and then ride on the same train as me. The peregrine falcon can fly at speeds up to 240 miles per hour toward its prey, possibly a turtle moving at say, three inches per hour. When the turtle catches up, 45 days later, he is immediately eaten, but not before he has a good laugh over the whole thing.

    We attended a show starring John Stetson, The Mentalist. If I had known about mentalism when I was in college, perhaps I would have majored in it. My Dad would have been all for it, since he usually referred to me with similar-sounding adjectives. Anyway, John Stetson picks members of the audience whom he thinks are on the same intellectual wavelength as he is, and guesses what numbers they are thinking of, and so forth. There is always a deck of cards involved. I was thinking the show might be more interesting if there was money on it, and he managed to guess what your hole card was. But he never guesses anything particularly relevant like that, but he does emphasize the power of positivity. If I was a mentalist, I would pick out, maybe, the CFO of Nvidia, and mentalize whether they were planning a stock split or something, just in time for the closing bell.

     The Ferris wheel is a great place to end your day, see the entire playground from the air, and find where the nearest zeppole concession is. There was only one true Ferris wheel in history, designed by George Washington Gale Ferris Jr. and built for an 1893 expo in Chicago. It rose 250 feet into the air and was later sold for scrap before its inventor died three years later at the age of 37. The one we rode at the Fair was small in comparison, and we ended up right back where we started, proving that what goes around, comes around.

PLAYING TO TYPE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-03-25)

     I've played in bands for longer than I can remember, but that's only a guess since I can barely remember the last 48 hours or so. If it happens to come up in the course of conversation (in other words me shamelessly plugging dates, like Trillium playing at Bar 141 on the 14th, or No Options at Mohansic Grill on the 19th), someone might ask, "What kind of music do you do?" And the answer is, who the hell knows?

     There are so many bands that defy categorization that it's almost a badge of honor to have trouble defining what they do in words alone. It's a mistake to pigeonhole a group into a particular musical style. It's confining, confusing and usually misleading. The group Blondie, in the space of three albums, had hits in the styles of punk, pop, rap, reggae and disco. 

     What constitutes a genre? Sometimes its the lyrics. "Emo" music features songs about social alienation and teen angst, and generally celebrating the art of being miserable. Sometimes music is defined by the beat, like reggae music, driven by a downbeat with two upbeats, usually employing a smug bass player who for once gets to play louder than the guitarist.

     Sometimes it's in the style. "Glam rock" musicians unapologetically espoused platform shoes, tight pants, glitter and eye makeup that looked like it was airbrushed on using a leaf blower. The '80s were hard enough on women who to this day curse the fact that hair crimpers and cameras existed at the same time in history, but brutal on men. That reminds me, I thought of my retirement job: opening up a trendy boutique for undercover cops so they don't have to dress in plain clothes anymore.

     Sometimes the brand of the music has to do with where you listen to it, like "elevator music" or "yacht rock." I'm sure the label "yacht rock" was meant to convey a relaxed pop vibe. But for those of us inexperienced boatmen who regularly backed their yachts into the rocks, thereby shearing off every last blade of the propeller, the term is anything but.

     I used to listen to a lot of "progressive rock," as exemplified by the bands Yes, ELP, Genesis and Jethro Tull, bands that would play a song in a 7/4 time signature and not care AT ALL that you sprained your ankle trying to dance to it.

     Once in a while a genre of music is marked by the specific activity it's meant to inspire in the listener, like "thrash metal." "Mom, I've been asked to join a band." "But Bobby, you don't play anything, do you?" "No, but I've been thrashing fairly often, and it hasn't gone unnoticed. By the way, we'll need a new living room lamp." Thrash metal is a young man's game, because sooner or later your orthopedist will put the kibosh on any further thrashing, and you'll have to be the first to invent "360-degree swiveling massage recliner-chair metal."

     Sometimes just the hair alone will do it, as in "hair metal." It's a real commitment, so if you cut it all off into a bob, don't expect the other members of the band to coo, "OOOH! It looks great! I bet it's SUPER low maintenance!"

     I'm pretty open-minded about music, which is certainly a change of pace for me. But there are a few musical genres that I have some fundamental problems with. "Rap music," or "hip-hop" feels like street poetry, recited over a manufactured beat. Some street poetry isn't that bad, but a lot of it isn't very good, and the fact that they need to use Autotune just to SAY the words on key is not a great selling point. And without a decent melody to help you, all you have is your word. However, there is some talent in being able to use a rhyming dictionary, and in the ability to talk that fast without a lawyer present. In the case of "electronic dance music," there really is no redeeming musical value, just repetitive notes strung together by binary code. 

     I was in a nightclub where it was playing, bad music that inspired worse dancing, when bales of confetti were released from the ceiling, like I was in a ticker-tape parade. Everyone else seemed elated by it, but when a few of them landed in my drink I wondered what it was made of? It probably wasn't toxic, but was it Coors Light-soluble? At least with actual ticker-tape I could check my stock prices. There was so much on the floor afterwards that a family of gerbils could nest there undisturbed.

     These days, an algorithm working for a music streaming service will try to figure out the genre of the songs you like, and play other songs for you that it thinks are like the ones you like. Which is, like, a great way to keep your tastes from ever expanding. What happens if your hand slips and you click on "Kung Fu Fighting?" You've opened up Pandora's box, and Pandora is going to try to play to your taste, which is obviously, goofy fad disco songs about martial arts sung by Jamaican singers. I wish both you and Pandora all the luck in the world.