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--Dave Fox

Weird Vibrations

It's the biggest breakthrough in sexual pleasure technology since the invention of the tetanus shot! If you've been feeling understimulated lately, perhaps it's time to treat yourself to an iBuzz.

The way the iBuzz works is you plug it into your iPod. Then, you put the iPod earbuds into your ears, and you put the iBuzz into any other part of your body is craving vibrational stimulation, such as your left nostril, or that space between your big toe and your toe next to your big toe. Then you crank up some Barry Manilow, and the iBuzz buzzes to the rhythm, in time with "Can't Smile Without You," causing your left nostril to convulse with sensual waves of Barry-Manilow-induced ecstasy.

If Barry Manilow isn't your cup of vibrational tea, fret not. The iBuzz also works with Pearl Jam, Cyndi Lauper, Luciano Pavarotti, or any other music with a hip and happening beat. I am also thinking it might be quite arousing whilst listening to one of those Tony Robbins motivational speaker tapes, or perhaps the audiobook version of... no. Never mind. Harry Potter would be just plain wrong. The point is the iBuzz works with any digitally recorded sound. Even podcasts by Andy Rooney, which is scary.

I have yet to purchase an iBuzz of my own. I considered it, but at a price of $59.95, I think I will just continue to stimulate my left nostril manually.

A Harmonius Protest

Oslo, Norway

Karl Johansgate is Oslo's spinal cord. The street connects the train station at one end of town with the Royal Palace at the other.

The street has long been a favorite spot for musicians and other street performers. On this particular day, something unusual is happening. Dozens -- maybe a hundred -- musicians in black tuxedos or gowns have taken over a four-block stretch of sidewalk. There are French horns and flutes, violins and clarinets, even an electric cello. The musicians are standing only a couple of feet apart from each other, but each one is playing a different tune -- everything from Beethoven to the Beatles.

The Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra is on strike.

They want more money, and that is fine. But their slogan strikes me as ineffective. "Do we really need more street musicians?" it says on signs that hang from every music stand.

In my opinion, yes. These guys are good, and far less annoying than the statue people.

When sanitation workers, or airline pilots, or teachers go on strike, society suffers and we hope for a quick resolution. But free classical music as I stroll through Oslo is hardly a hardship.

Inappropriate Behavior: Gregorian Drinking Chants

And the First Annual  Award for the Goofiest Event at the Seattle Folklife Festival goes to...

"Pub Singing in the Beer Garden: Drinking Songs from Around the World."

Before I go any further, I must confess I personally do not sing in pubs. This is because I sing like a dying rhinocerous, and if I did attempt to sing in a pub, somebody -- probably several people -- would attempt to kill me.

And rightfully so.

Nevertheless, I have visited many a pub in many a country for the purpose of collecting important anthropological data, so I know a thing or two about proper pub singing etiquette. And some of the people at Folklife were not following said etiquette.

There was a big blob of eager singers, which fragmented into three smaller blobs. One of those blobs had their pub singing down pretty well. They were boisterous. They were rowdy. They got it that in the world of pub singing, "in tune" is only a rough guideline. But the group I was standing closest to was clearly a bunch of rookies.

That's fine. We all have to start somewhere. Nevertheless, as a generous public service to the pub singing rookies, I would like to offer the following helpful advice for future reference:

• Drinking songs are called "drinking songs" because they involve drinking. I couldn't help but notice that many of you took an entire hour to sip three and a half ounces of your malt beverage. This, in and of itself, is fine. If boorish guzzling is not your style, good for you. My mother wishes I would be more like you. But in a pub, your tea party behavior is highly inappropriate. One should hold one's pint glass like a pint glass -- even if it is made of plastic. Sticking your pinky out and sipping daintily like it's a steaming cup of Earl Grey is just plain offensive.
• Lose the solemn harmonizing, people! These are drinking songs, not Gregorian chants! Smile! Make noise! Let out a little belch, even!
• Numbered song sheets with all the lyrics? Those are for Christmas carolers. If you're singing a drinking song and you don't know the words, make something up. Better yet, slur unintelligibly. I know; it's tough to slur when you're sipping daintily, but next time, maybe you can come with some pre-rehearsed slurs. Here... repeat after me: "Shlurdish bargle gerb shrolerdge! One, two, three, cheers!"

I shouldn't be so critical, I realize. The Folklife Festival is about discovering new cultures, and for some people, pub culture is foreign. But in a real pub, taking your singing so seriously is as dangerous as singing seriously out of tune, and I don't want anybody to get hurt. When in doubt, slurp without singing and observe the rowdy people until you learn to be one of them.

Sing Along with the Bouncing Dictator

Remember, back in the 20th century, they used to have those televised sing-alongs where you were supposed to "follow the bouncing ball?" We were all supposed to sing along as a digitized blob, similar to the ball in a game of video Pong, bounced atop the lyrics to a song.

When I was a kid, on a scale of 1 to 10 for dorkishness, I ranked about a 38. But even I thought anyone who was uncool enough to sing along with the bouncing ball deserved a wedgie. Then, somewhere along the line, the bouncing ball just kind of went away. For years, I assumed Pac-Man had eaten it.

It turns out that's not the case. I have just discovered the bouncing ball still exists. It has been kidnapped by the North Koreans.

Yes, friends, just when you thought the Internet couldn't get any weirder, you can now log onto the official website of the government of North Korea and watch a music video of the North Korean Defense Anthem. And the Great Leader, Kim Jong Il, wants you to follow the bouncing ball and sing along.

Don't speak Korean? No problem! The lyrics are written in our alphabet and subtitled in English.

I used to try not to make fun of the North Korean dictator, no matter how geeky he looked. His hair and glasses are so 1970s, but I thought, such is life in a nation where MTV is banned. This bouncing ball thing proves, however, he is a total nerd. Somebody needs to give Kim Jong Il a wedgie.

Pepper On My Brain

Copenhagen, Denmark

I'm in the garden at Rosenborg Castle. The Copenhagen Jazz Festival is in full swing. A sax-drum-bass trio is rattling out some tunes. I'm sitting on the grass, reading a book, enjoying a rare 30 minutes when my tour group is off with a local guide, and I am all caught up on my phone calls and paperwork.

Usually when I'm not with my group, I am in what I call "the treadmill," scrambling to keep up with the behind-the-scenes tour logistics. I experience a fleeting moment of guilt as I pay for my beer.

"Is this okay?" I wonder. "What would the group think if they knew I was lounging in the garden, drinking a beer, while they were in the castle learning about King Christian IV?"

But then I remember -- Christian IV really liked beer. I am experiencing his castle garden as he would want it to be experienced.

I look up from my book and spot a boy of about 15, wearing a very retro T-shirt from America. "I'm a Pepper," it says.

I can't help but wonder: How and why has a Danish teenager acquired a T-shirt with a 20-year-old slogan for a soft drink that has never been sold in Europe?

I am now oblivious to the jazz trio. Instead, the old Dr. Pepper jingle is bouncing in my brain.

"I'm a Pepper, you're a Pepper, he's a Pepper, she's a Pepper, wouldn't you like to be a Pepper too?"

Is that how the words go? That doesn't make sense. Why were they singing, "You're a Pepper," but then asking, "Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper too?"

I get so worried that later in the evening, I rush to my computer to look up the lyrics online. I had them a bit wrong. In the real commercial, they make more sense.

But I'm in Denmark, trying to lead a tour. Why am I worrying about things like this? When you start editing advertising jingles that haven't graced the airwaves in more than a decade, you know your penchant for writing has morphed into a full-blown mental illness.

Copenhagencabana

Copenhagen, Denmark

Outside of Britain and Ireland, I have yet to discover a country with a better pub culture than Denmark. Pubs here, like those in the aforementioned islands southwest of me, are more than just places to drink. They are extensions of people's living rooms. Even in big city Denmark, everyone seems to have his or her local watering hole where everybody knows their name (cue "Cheers" theme music), unless you happen to be a foreign tour guide with a week off.

When I walk into such neighborhood pubs, people stare. I'm not one of them. Then I open my mouth and words come out in Norwegian -- which is intelligible to the Danes -- just not the proper way to speak here. I received one of the biggest compliments of my life a couple of weeks ago when a Danish bartender informed me that people at the bar had been placing bets as to whether I was Norwegian or Swedish.

"I'm speaking Norwegian," I told him. "But you all lose."

This afternoon, I wandered into Falcon, a local pub in Christianshavn, a distinctly non-touristy neighborhood in Copenhagen, where my friend Britta rents a few rooms out in her home. I ordered a Tuborg Classic (a maltier, tastier rendition of generic Tuborg) to wash down my shot of licorice-flavored liquor, another traditional Scandinavian booze.

Falcon is a smokey place with front pages of Danish tabloids shellacked to the ceiling. (By the way, does anybody know the proper spelling of "shellack?") I sat at a corner table and watched the scene around me.

"Mads!" a middle-aged lady with a beer and a cordial glass filled with whiskey shouted to a man across the bar. "You look so deep in thought! What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking of you!" Mads answered.

The bar erupted in laughter.

"We need some music," another, younger guy announced from across the room. He asked the bartender to turn on the jukebox.

A minute later, some funky drumming was filling the room.

"What the hell is this guy playing?" I wondered.

Then the violins kicked in. And the horns. I recognized the song. It was "Copacabana" by Barry Manilow.

Only it wasn't Barry Manilow at all. It was a Dane, singing a Danish version of the song.

"Copacabana" is cheesy enough without being translated into Danish. "This is insane," I thought as I looked at my now-empty beer glass.

Yes. It was so insane that I had to order another beer, just so I could sit and listen to the rest of the song.

Stop Killian the Band!

I went to see the Young Dubliners play Sunday night at Fadó, an Irish pub in Seattle. The Young Dubs are a high energy Celtic folk-rock band that mixes traditional Irish fiddling with screaming guitars and drums. When the band came on stage, they all came out with bottles of Killian's Irish Red beer.

"Why," I wondered, "would such a cool band drink such a lame beer?" Killian's is brewed by the American megabrewery, Coors, and tastes like the same watered down sewage as most mass-produced American beers.

I wasn't the only person who had this thought. Halfway through the set, another worried fan bought a pint of Guinness for lead singer Keith Roberts. That's when the truth came out. Roberts confessed that he is not allowed to drink anything but Killian's on stage because the band has a sponsorship agreement with Coors.

Beergate wasn't the only problem with the show. Fadó was a lousy venue. The room where Fadó has live music was a little too cozy. There is no stage, and nothing to seperate the band from rowdy fans like me. I was standing directly in front of the fiddle player, and practically had his bow up my left nostril. (I'm sure he was more traumatized than I was.) The room contains several fake trees. Or they might be real trees, but they're dead and laquered. One such tree was right in the middle of the makeshift "stage," making it impossible for the lead singer and guitarist to see the bass and fiddle players. No matter where you stood, even in the front row, there was an obstructed view.

"Why," I wondered, "would such a cool band play in such a cramped setting?"

I think my friend Dan figured it out on the drive home. He noted that Fadó, which is part of a chain of mass-produced Irish-style pubs across America, is one of the only Irish pubs that would stoop to the level of selling Killian's "Irish" red.

The show itself was brilliant, and the band dealt with their meager venue with their usual sense of Irish humo(u)r. And standing a mere 18 inches away from one of my favorite fiddle players while he performed was a treat. I was relieved to see, after the clandestine pint of Guinness sat untouched on the stone floor for most of the show, that Roberts discreetly chugged it near the end of his set. The band's got taste. They just need better sponsors.

Recommended CDs by the Young Dubliners:

• Red
• Absolutely
• Real World
• Breathe

Black Thursday

Man, did yesterday ever suck!

First I had to say goodbye to Tabby. Tabby is my neighbor's cat. He comes and visits me on a daily basis, and was the closest thing I can have to a pet of my own, due to my insane travel schedule. Tabby's owner moved to Minneapolis yesterday and Tabby hit the road with her.

Then I had pivotal date number five with this female-type person I have been hanging out with. She informed me that I'm really cool and all, blah blah blah, but "the spark just isn't there."

So I drove home to sulk, and the second I walked in the door, there was e-mail from the band I've been playing fiddle with that they can't work with my aforementioned insane travel schedule and want to find a replacement for me.

I went to bed feeling almost amused. No cat. No girlfriend. No band. All gone. Poof! In a mere three hours!

Thank God I'm self-employed. At least I can't be fired.

---

[Create your own South Park character here. It is remarkably therapeutic!]

Yeehaw! It's Menudo!

Okay, people, you can all stop worrying now. I have, at long last, found out what happened to Miguel Cancel.

Cancel, you will all recall, was one of the singers in that sizzling pre-pubescent Latino band, Menudo. Yes, Menudo, which is the Spanish word for "tripe," which is the fancy English culinary term for "intestines." It's like calling your band Johnny and the Spleens, or The Raging Kidneys.

But I digress. I won't keep you in suspense any longer.

What happened to Miguel Cancel, after Menudo became one of those legendary supergroups that is simply too cool to perform anymore, is he became a cop in Florida.

I learned this because he and three other officers were in the news this morning after the van they were riding in overturned. Cancel injured his hand, though his intestines were okay.

The accident happened at a place called Yeehaw Junction. Yes, really. Yeehaw Junction.

Who would name a road Yeehaw Junction? They might as well call it You-Can-Drive-Recklessly-Here Boulevard. Naming a stretch of road Yeehaw Junction makes as much sense as naming a rock band Menudo.