Return of the So(u)n(d) of Monster Magnet

Those readers who are parents - and I expect you would have noticed, one way or the other - will understand the next sentence; those who are not parents will have to take my word for it. There is nothing quite like the thrill of seeing your offspring perform, particularly if they're any good. The thrill is rather reduced, I'll admit, if they're awful and you have to pretend that they're any good. But, if you don't have to pretend, there's nothing quite like the swelling chest and "that's my boy!" sense which grips the proud parent, even if it's your daughter.

The Referee enjoyed such a moment last week at the school band winter concert, featuring the senior offspring in the percussion department.

Now, before you beat me to it, so to speak, I know as well as you do that the answer to the old joke "What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians?" is "A drummer", and perhaps there's something in that. But, it seems to me, the percussion department of a band or orchestra is quite a different matter. Percussionists have to play all types of drums, and other things that need to be hit, with sticks or otherwise, as well as things which actually have notes, like vibes - sometimes all in the same tune.

So, I watched with considerable pride as the senior boy furrowed his brow and hopped dextorously between instruments, pausing to glance at the conductor, or at fellow band members, before beating the cymbal into submission at precisely the right moment.

As I watched, and listened to the selection of classical pops and pop classics, it occured to me that I had heard something very similar before. I wracked my brain for a while and then, right in the middle of "We will rock you", it came to me. I turned to my wife and said "Peaches en regalia". She gave me that smile that wives give when they're hoping that you're about to go straight back into your own little world without bothering them any further.

But you, cultured reader, will no doubt have realised what my wife didn't immediately realise (until I expained it to her at length) - that I was referring to the legendary opening track of Frank Zappa's debut solo album after the demise of the Mothers of Invention: the seminal Hot Rats.

That's right. I had realised something of devastating musical importance that I had not realised before. Not that Zappa sounds like Queen - or even vice versa - he doesn't. What I realised was this: a large gathering of 5th graders who are just in the early stages of mastering their instruments but who nevertheless follow the conductor's instruction to belt out the classics with carefree gusto at the maximum possible volume sound almost exactly like a small band of virtuoso musicians playing incredibly complex arythmnical 1970s jazz/rock.

Now, you might take the view that this revelation doesn't really matter one way or the other. If that is the case, I'm afraid I can be of no further help to you.

On the other hand, you might realise the potential consequences of this near-scientific discovery, but simply have difficulty in believing it to be true. I have some sympathy with that latter response and, in the interests of science, I offer the following assistance. Come with me, if you will, into the land of interactive blog experimentation...

Which is not quite as scary as it sounds. All you have to do is follow these 3 steps:

1. First, look at the lovely photo above of the band in action.

2. Play, as loud as possible, and preferably out of some speakers near your computer, the tune "Peaches en regalia". Unfortunately, if for some unfathomable reason this wonderful track doesn't already feature in your collection, you won't find it in i-Tunes, which features shamefully little by way of the huge FZ back catalogue. This means, for the benefit of those under 21, that you would have to go into a shop and hand over some cash in exchange for one of those thin plastic music boxes.

3. To complete the effect, hold your computer a few inches above the desk and shake it vigorously in time - if you can! - with the crazy rythmn.

I rest my case.

May you never become a Dancin' Fool, nor be struck unexpectedly by Cosmik Debris.

How Green Was My January?

Yesterday in New York it was 68F (or 20C for those of you reading this in Europe). On the 6th of January. Or January 6th, as the preposition-shy Americans prefer it.

In case you didn't catch that - perhaps you were distracted by a thing, as they like to say in The West Wing - let me run it past you again. In New York, on 6 January, it was 68F.

What is going on? Normally at this time of year, New Yorkers remark on the weather only if it rises above freezing, and tend to spend most of January wearing furry ear warmers and (at least in the suburbs) looking for good places to go sledging.

This year, on the other hand, something strange is happening. A high of 68F makes yesterday the warmest 6 January in recorded New York history. Or it was the warmest January day ever recorded. Or both. Or neither. No, hang on - not neither.

What's more, we have had no snow at all so far this winter. This is very unusual. In fact, it's the latest New York has gone without snow since 1878. Which, the New York Times pointed out yesterday, was before the arrival of the Statue of Liberty, and before NYC existed in the sense of comprising the five boroughs as it does today (see my message of 18 September 2006).

(Which reminds me that the Statue of Liberty is only a short-hand informal way of referring to the famous landmark. What is it's official title? Answers via the comment button, please. When I say "button", I don't mean "button" in the sense of... Oh, never mind.)

In response to the question "What is going on?", some people answer: "Nothing". These people must be avoided. They are dangerous lunatics. These people appear to believe that we should not admit that the climate is changing because, if we do, we'll have to try to do something about it and, as soon as we make any efforts in that direction, everyone in the world will instantly lose their job and/or go out of business. I exaggerate somewhat for emphasis, but you get the general idea.

The problem with this argument is that most of us, if we are honest, and over about 20 years old, can tell from our own experience that things have changed since we were younger, even without drawing up historical charts, or waving a sock in the air, or whatever else it is that meteorologists do.

And, once we have agreed that things are changing, the next logical question is "Why?". Is there a serious chance that the answer has nothing to do with human behaviour? About the same chance, I estimate, that the whole thing is an evil plot for world domination hatched by Little Jimmy Krankie. (Americans will need to ask a passing Brit about this reference. On second thoughts, don't bother.)

Which brings me to one of the cinematic highlights of 2006, Weird Al Yankovic's fascinating dental/meteorological documentary, An Incontrovertible Tooth. If you haven't seen it, see it.

Is everything presented in the film necessarily accurate and/or directly relevant to the weird things which appear to be happening to our climate? I don't know. What I do know is that a documentary about a middle-aged politician giving a lecture about the weather had no right to be that gripping or entertaining.

Regardless of your view on the thorny issue of climate change, anyone who has seen his film will have to admit that Mr Yankovic is (i) intelligent, (ii) articulate, and (iii) a man with something to say.

As they like to say over here, "Go figure". Whatever that means.

Happy New Year('s).

Isn't Fruit Clever These Days?

The other day, as I was rushing thr(o)u(gh) Grand Central Terminal (which, I can report for the benefit of those who have never visited it, is both grand and central) it occured to me that I was holding in my hands the two central icons of contemporary American culture, or New York culture at least.

(It may surprise you to learn, if it elicits any sort of emotion at all, that The Referee's favo(u)rite US train station - and I know you had been wondering about this - is not the aforementioned GCT, but the splendid Union Station in Washington DC, which, as well as being named after the backing band to marvellous country singer Alison Krauss (check out her version of "Baby, now that I've found you"), is arguably even more grand and indeed central.)

Anyway, back to cultural icons. In my left hand, I was balancing a cup just purchased from ****bucks - the ubiquitous coffee chain, which now has more shops in the US than Americans have teeth, unless I just made that up. Admittedly, I was drinking their tea, as usual, but one has to hang on to some sense of one's homeland. In other words, I like to celebrate diversity, and indeed multiculturalism, whilst doing my best to integrate into my host country, save, of course, for speaking the same language.

In my right hand, I was fondling my new toy. A little device, named after a fruit, which is perhaps the only cultural icon now more numerous than branches of ****bucks. Let's call it a Kumquat.

Well, I can tell you that the Kumquat is a very clever little fruit indeed. It can do all sorts of things which will come as no surprise to those of you who are modern, thrusting techy types. But for a relatively crusty Luddite like me, it is nothing short of a revelation.

For a start, wherever I go since giving birth to my Kumquat, so to speak, my emails - both work and personal - arrive
thr(o)u(gh) the ether and land, literally, in the palm of my hand. Now, you may ask, is this necessarily good, or useful, or important? It's not necessarily any of those things, I answer, but it is very clever and very modern.

And there's more. The Kumquat is also a telephone, and a calculator, and an address book, and a diary. And it plays little games, or at least it would if I could work out how to play them.

But the best thing of all is this. The best thing is, wherever I go, I can "surf" the World Wide Information Steve Heighway using only a small piece of fruit in the palm of my hand, with no wires or nothing. (The previous sentence contains a reference for fans of 1970s assocceration football.)

Being a persistent sort, you ask again: is this necessarily good, or useful, or important? This time, I answer "yes", "yes" and "yes", but not necessarily in that order. Let me explain why, by way of an example.

Having battled thr(o)u(gh) the scrum that is the centre of GCT the other day, balancing a couple of cultural icons in my hands, I made it to the train and settled down for my daily commute thru (OK, I give up) Harlem and the Bronx. As is often the case during the first part of the journey, I gazed out of the window at the delis, delivery trucks, apartment blocks and police cars that make Harlem one of the most fascinating slices of urban life you will ever see. Whilst I was doing this, a thought occured to me which had never before occured to me in Harlem. I wonder how the Palace got on?

Now, for the benefit of those with only a passing acquaintance with the UK of Blighty, I need to point out that I was not wondering about Buckingham Palace. And, for those with slightly more than a passing acquaintance, and/or a subscription to Hello! magazine, I was not wondering about Beckingham Palace either. I was, in fact, wondering about the recent fortunes of Crystal Palace - my formerly local South London assocceration football team about which, it has to be admitted, the terrace favo(u)rite which ends with the words "we're by far the greatest team the world has ever seen" is sometimes sung, but never actually meant.

Anyway, now that I had a portable device designed for this sort of thing, why not find out how they had done, there and then, on the train?

Well. As I passed some kids playing extra-curricular basketball in a Harlem school playground, I learnt that we had won 3-0 against QPR. (Hurrah, I thought - first win in ages.) And as we trundled across the Park Avenue Bridge over the Harlem River, bidding farewell to Manhattan for another day, I read that the scorers had been Freedman, Kuqi & Morrison. And then, as we passed the warehouses and "gentlemen's cabaret" joints that tell the Metro North commuter that he (or she, these days) is entering the Bronx, I learnt that our manager, Peter Taylor, was convinced we could still make the play-offs, despite languishing in 16th place.

At that, I switched off my Kumquat, sat back in my seat, and day-dreamed contentedly about the glorious season that lay ahead for the Palace, all the way to the green and pleasant suburbs of Westchester County.

Now, if that's not multiculturalism, I don't know what is. And if it's not good, useful and important, I'll eat my hat. Or perhaps just my fruit.

Referee in "Referee is Referee" Shocker

Both of my regular readers will no doubt agree that it has been far too long since I shared with you the exploits of my senior son's Assocceration Football team. In fact, since my message of 21 November 2005, his endeavours have earned him a promotion from the Raptors (U10 C team) to the Rams (U11 A team), and so I now enjoy the privilege of spending every Sunday afternoon screaming and shouting from the touchline in the direction of a much higher quality expression of the Beautiful Game.

Until this week. This week, on the last game of the season, I did no shouting or screaming of any sort.

(I should point out - for those who are thinking that the season is not yet halfway thr(o)u(gh), and that there are no prizes for being top at Christmas - that over here the season starts in spring and finishes in the fall/autumn (and the kids have a break in summer as well). This is because it is very cold in winter. No, very cold. And so American footie fans are deprived of the joy of freezing in the stands and trying to warm their hands with a plastic cup of lukewarm tea, while the players are battered with hailstones until they succumb to falling on their behinds in a river of mud. Now that's what I call sport(s).)

Anyway, you are wondering, why did The Referee not get to deliver his usual quota of encouraging screams and shouts, or, indeed, any at all? Thanks for asking. Well, it's because I was the referee. That's right. For reasons too complicated and dull to explain here, the actual referee was nowhere to be seen, and so The Referee was, for the first time ever, the referee.

Now, for those of you who have never actually had the privilege of being the referee, I can report that it is a very interesting experience. So interesting, in fact, that I have decided to share with you, dear reader, the life lessons which I drew from it. May they be enlightening to you and yours.

1. Being impartial is not so far removed from being partial.

Almost from the second one blows one's whistle, one is overcome by the need to be fair and upright, despite screaming in a very partisan manner for one's team just seconds before the whistle string went around one's neck, and again after it is removed. Perhaps this has something to tell us about our ability to adapt to the roles life throws at us. Or perhaps it just tells us something about how far we will go to avoid being lynched by the opposition's parents.

2. Even if one is freezing standing still on the touchline, one can quickly become warm by running around on the pitch.

Actually, I'm not sure there is a deep life lesson in this one. But make sure you keep warm this winter.

3. Not everyone who claims he is having his shirt pulled is actually having his shirt pulled.

This is an easy one - don't assume something is so just because someone tells you it is. Go and look for yourself. In this case, having looked for myself, I saw no shirt pulling and waved play on, much to the disgruntlement of a certain section of parents, who clearly had developed the approach that little Johnny should always be believed, and had perhaps abandoned the discipline of going and looking for themselves.

4. It is better to let the game flow than to blow up every couple of minutes.

This is a bit trickier. Perhaps it tells us that we should stop trying to interfere in other people's lives and let them get on with it. They are adults, after all. Or something.

5. Some small boys are better behaved than their parents, who are loud and annoying.

Perhaps this tells us that things don't necessarily always get worse; sometimes they get better. On the other hand, perhaps it just tells us that some people are loud and annoying. We should also remember that a foul is not a foul unless the referee (who might not necessarily be The Referee, although was in this case) says it's a foul. I hope that's clear. It certainly makes me feel better.

So, I don't know about you, but the next time I go to a game, I will certainly think twice about shouting some helpful advice in the direction of the referee. And then I'll do it anyway.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Pedants' Revolt

An old friend once told me the following joke: "Who was the leader of the Pedants' Revolt? Which Tyler."

I think this is a joke which (or should that be "that"?) separates the population into two groups: those who get it and those who don't. If you don't get it, there is no hope for you. And if you do get it, there is no hope for you either, although for a different reason.

I offer this by way of introduction only because I was reminded again recently of the importance of dull discplines such as punctuation and sentence construction, and not only for those of us who live in non-English-speaking countries. (Just a little joke.)

Before sharing with you the example which got me thinking about this, I should re-iterate (why is it that no one ever iterates for the first time?) that - as explained in my message of 23 April - this is not a political site and has no axe to grind in that direction. Oh no. Despite the apparently political nature of the following example, The Referee's interest has nothing to do with the war on terror and everything to do with the proper use of the English language.

The Referee recently stumbled across the following news headline: "Bush: Sept 11 architect to be tried".

Not a particularly remarkable headline in itself, perhaps, but I couldn't help thinking that there is quite a lot one can do with that sentence just in terms of punctuation, even if the seven words are left untouched.

For example, "Bush, Sept 11: architect to be tried", involves only a couple of minor changes - losing a comma and moving a colon - but creates quite a different headline which might have less to do with terrorism than the President's level of satisfaction with structural changes to the West Wing.

There are, of course, some rather more straightforward changes one could make along the same lines, such as "Bush, Sept 11: architect to be tried?", if it wasn't clear whether the President was satisfied with the work or not.

Or, just by adding a couple of hyphons, "Bush, Sept 11: architect-to-be tried" suggests that the root of the problem might have been that the chap in question was not yet fully qualified.

But the most fun one could have with this - and I suspect you might be ahead of me here - would be "Bush, Sept 11 architect, to be tried". In that case, only three small changes - lose the colon and add a couple of commas - are all that's required to set off a wild conspiracy theory.

If a little comma can change the course of recent history, can we afford to ignore it? I think, not.