The Diary of Destiny

 Knowing Your Destiny

Part 6 of 30

Cue the eerie music, an accusatory drone. Our man of destiny, Joe Mattuck, knows in an instant the hottest spotlight shines on him, a guilty man so very used to the shadows. He’s heard of spotlights, like everyone, but it’s not until you stand in the full beam that you know how utterly stark it is, especially at this close proximity. The heat, so very toasty, unpleasantly so, compounds the intensity with his own burning guilt. "Why'd I steal that doughnut when I was 5?"

The voice of Destiny then, in every way a menacing, all-knowing presence, speaks from somewhere, as though the voice of every man's conscience. It calls him by name and Joe feels himself getting hot, very hot under the collar, with the first signs of a sweaty downpour beading-up on his forehead, becoming within seconds a literal spillway of self-incrimination and guilt. Joe thinks, "I'll be sloshing my way out of here, if I don't drown first."

It's always the same on Destiny's arrival, offering its calling card and standing on ceremony. There's no preliminaries, no warm-up act, no pussyfooting around, no perfunctory Miranda rights, no excuses of mistaken identity, no DNA check. It doesn’t matter if you’ve burnt off your fingerprints with acid, or if you’ve somehow fooled Santa Claus, or if Father Murphy’s carried you on his back, or if you’ve been knighted a saint of the Church. If you’re guilty, Destiny knows. And closes in on you, as close as your own swampy breath, your confused DNA, and your throbbing boom-chicka heartbeat, which becomes progressively, steadily louder, thump, thump, thump, boom-chicka until the querying porch lights of neighboring homes as far as 10 miles away twinkle on and off in wonderment, a kind of hush all over the world.

Only then does Destiny speak, its voice disembodied, an ethereal patient monotone, completely under control and persistent, knowing you're cornered with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every hiding place, down to the minute space between the wallpaper and the wall, is closed to you. Destiny speaks your name again -- "Joe Mattuck." Maybe the FBI couldn’t find you, the CIA, the KGB, insurance salesmen, junk calls. Even mosquitoes on hot summer nights wondered where the hell you went. Your own sweat didn’t know where to look, pooling up in vain near a neighbor’s basement door, in a desperate struggle to find donor pores in which to maintain its survival.

“Joe Mattuck,” Destiny says. Again, there’s no rush, it drones on, recounting from its own enormous Diary of your life, your great guilt. (cf. Diary of Destiny, Vol. 894, page 1249ff.) It’s a horrible recounting and you remember every lascivious moment right down to that supposedly cleansing ritual of you and the guys burning their underwear on that camping trip when you were 12. And telling one another, “We’re free and clear, guys, the evidence is gone!”

Remember, Destiny plays no favorites. It could happen to you!

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Based on the old radio drama “Diary of Fate.” Its 25 episodes are available free online.

Pa Went A Little Nuts

Part 5 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Live and learn. In this post you'll see one of my treasures, the pinnacle of counseling techniques, blue ribbon stuff, makes you wilt. It's not really a technique, just nature, shooting an arrow of realization into a troubled soul. Pa Butler's a good man, only confused for a bunch of reasons. Like old age, confusion, worries, truckers sleeping around, getting divorced, losing their reputation. The cops don't put a guy like that up against the wall. They know he means well.

The Butlers were lovely neighbors of my grandparents. They've known me since the day I was born, and over the years we got old together, them with a huge head start. They got into radio with the CB radio craze. And being close to the interstate they made a lot of trucker friends. That’s a joy but there's also a tragic side; those guys get old and die like everyone else. Or crazy, wrecking their trucks. And all that takes a toll on good people like the Butlers. To sum up their diagnosis, Pa went crazy and threatened to kill Ma for the insurance money, and she might’ve had similar ideas; she was getting a lot of catalogs in the mail.

I tried to feel them out when I was in the neighborhood. “Ma Butler, how you feeling up here, mentally OK or a little dingy?” She tried to act innocent, while sweating it out, sliding the catalogs back into the drawer. And as for Pa, it seemed suspicious when three of Ma’s chairs were put on the curb for the garbage, each one blown to bits. But Ma never suspected, chalking it up to gas pains.

Regardless of age and normal allowances, the time came to take Pa in at the very least, since Ma deserved better than that. Dearest people on the block. But how do you swoop in and bust down the doors, gang-tackle the perps, and pull them out while simultaneously hog-tying them? And if you need a stretcher, with their narrow stairway, forget it. We had to lure them out. Using a girl up the block everyone thought was white trash. Ma and Pa were on their radio and knew we were coming for her.

I radioed them and told Pa, “She’s got that idiot Billy by the nuts and is threatening to make him a soprano!” He radioed me, "10-4," which, quickly looking up the code, is a type of acknowledgement denoting understanding, message received, uh, er, Roger. When the noose was tight, I beckoned Pa and Ma to come out so the girl could see friendly faces and not be afraid. Which worked. They stood on the curb -- charred easy chairs flanking them -- waiting to see dark purple bruises on Billy, perhaps blood streaming down his leg, and didn’t know what hit them when they were suddenly tangled in knots.

They were crying, a sad deal. Ma was collateral damage, and unfortunately she got a little nicked when they tried to cut her free. Then I told Pa bluntly, “It ain’t Billy, Pa... You’ve gone a little nuts, and these nice men want to make sure you don’t pose a danger to yourself or Ma.” He was straining, cussing, giving me the full force of his anger. I told him man to man, “Pa, it’s your turn, pipe down... You’ll be back, better than ever... I’ll check on Ma till you're home and wash the car if you think it needs it.” He melted in the team’s grasp and they carted him off for service. He fingered in everyone’s general direction except mine.

The NSA and Baby Monitors

Welcome to the true nanny state, as our National Security Agency (NSA), with their great success at surveillance on all other fronts, turns its attention to the last frontier, baby monitors. These limited communication devices, usually with such innocent messages -- "Good baby," "Baby wet," and "Hey, Mom, get your butt in here!" -- can also be channels of deceit and intrigue, detrimental to national and international security.

They say kids are growing up faster all the time. We've all seen that's true. Kids shooting one another, kids blowing up schools, and of course, kid entrepreneurs buying up multinational companies and burning them to the ground for the insurance. With schools -- this is no laughing matter -- kids are developing a war mentality: "If I'm old enough to go to school, I'm old enough to vote and drink." It's a lot different from when I was a kid. If the teacher saw you with a knife, let's say, she gave you a thumbs up and we continued our mumblypeg game. But the downside was we couldn't vote or drink.

Now it appears, we're facing an even more insidious enemy, the innocent baby. Think of Vladimir Putin. Is there a bigger babyface than him on the international scene? There actually is, Kim Jong Un, but we've got him contained. That leaves Putin, who, with his KGB background has brought the old Soviet mindset to our shores in the most despicable manner possible, in our freshly-minted youngsters, fresh out of the womb, fresh into the party! Communists!

Look at the way they do it in hospitals. The babies are in a little commune behind glass, one big happy family, sharing and sharing alike, identifying themselves by party colors, pink and blue. I think I've got that right. Pink field, blue sickle in the corner. It's only right that the NSA would do their best to protect the homeland, gathering and massaging all the intelligence they can get. I know they even have a number of my calls by now, checking around as I have with various baby stores about monitors in researching this article. Some creeps google pressure cookers -- and not just Grandma -- I google baby devices. Both dangerous to do.

Anyway, we've always looked at these monitors as completely innocent, because Mom, and to a more limited degree Dad, thought they needed them to keep Junior or Princess protected. God forbid they soil themselves and they miss their immediate cry! They might have to lay in their own filth a few seconds. Seriously, my opinion, we've been babying babies far too long. We should let them experience life as it really is, tough. Lie in it, kid! Learn what Desitin's for! Of course we wouldn't let them suffer to the point of demanding the vote and liquor, just give them moderate toughness, of the right kind, American toughness.

But no, instead, by babying them various party apparatchiks have taken advantage and infiltrated the nursery, knowing the little buggers would reveal information via the monitor. "What's your father up to?" "Burning flags in the basement." "What's your mom doing?" "Something with a breast pump, sending milk to Russia and Red China, hoping to develop super warriors, that America be destroyed from within and without." God, that's insidious! Who was it who rued "The Enemy Within"? One of the Kennedys, Churchill, or some bigwig like that? They didn't expect the enemy within to be so young ... and apparently so helpless!

Then there's kids who aren't merely passive and accepting of outside schemes. There's the ones with brains -- probably reincarnated Cold Warriors -- who know where the grids are and what grids do and can be made to do. They're the ones who immediately know how to communicate via these obscure radio frequencies -- baby monitors -- the plans of a mastermind: "We'll meet at the docks. The soldiers are hiding in tuna barrels. You'll know them by their breath, smelling of fish. Get there by 8:00 p.m. Bring mayo."

I have to say, friends, I'm glad -- you don't know how glad! -- the NSA is on this. And patrolling neighborhoods all through our threatened land. Recording baby monitors and protecting democracy from future generations, hopefully never to be born.

Paywall Defies Time -- No More Weekly Option

My idea of a paywall for the blog has hit something of a rough spot. Of course anything worth having carries with it challenges, so obviously I haven't given up. It might sound undiplomatic, but the truth of the matter is I think I need a higher class of reader.

Please, though, dear ones, don't get me wrong. The basic run of the mill reader, Joe Average, Walt Wimp, is just fine. I have no problem with him or her. But there's always that few -- like burrs in your underpants -- who ruin it for everyone. Like right now, I have a mild headache, thanks to this one idiot, and in this condition I don't know if I can go on. I might have to postpone this post till tomorrow, or maybe even next week, till it goes away. Which isn't good for anyone.

But this clown had to jump in there! And take me to task for ending the Daily subscription option yesterday. Of course he thinks it's his business, merely because, he says, he had been "considering" a subscription at that level, $100 a day. To him, first, let me say, I might "consider" getting a pound of bacon out of my freezer. But until I actually get my fat ass up and do it, there it stays...

I don't think I made any secret of it that I wasn't all that gung ho for the Daily subscription plan in the first place. Think of the bookwork and trouble it'd be for me, handling all these paywall issues by hand, to be setting people up, only to have their subscription end tomorrow. Plus, what's 100 bucks a day? A dribble, a little bit of nothing. I need more money than that.

Anyway, the guy was "resigned" to the fact that now he would "have to go with the Weekly option," at, for him, a "torturous" $700/week. I thought this, but I didn't say it to him, I'll show you torture! I'll terminate the Weekly option, too. Then you'll go for the Monthly, Yearly, or Lifetime, or you'll be out of here. So earlier today I made that executive decision, by fiat, No more Weekly option!

I did it in anger. But on reflection, it seems only right to do away with it. Really, all it was was the Daily option x 7. If I had 100 subscribers at $700 a week, even though that's arguably still a good chunk of change, imagine how they'd keep me hopping trying to keep their subscriptions in place, up to date, and so forth. Again, with the bookwork I wouldn't even have time to sleep. Or, with me out spending their money, I wouldn't even have time for the bookwork, or to write.

So the guy did me a favor, I guess, even though he meant it for evil. That's a funny thing about evil. Right when they think they're screwing you over, they're actually creating a monster, albeit in this case a more clear-thinking monster, who will screw them over. Thanks, buddy, but you're potentially out! 

Now, I have one major problem. And it's the strangest matter of timing I've ever heard of. I should laugh, is this ever a matter of timing! It's about blowing my mind, after having tied it in knots. Because it involves guys who were at the South Pole in the 1920s, simultaneously trying to subscribe to my blog while not even existing anymore. I can't untie that one! And I'm not going to try, except to say I'll probably keep the money.

OK, here's the sequence of events as best as I can reconstruct them. The guy cheesed me off, then I ended the Weekly option, then the Radiogram from Admiral Byrd came in, along with a check from the expeditionary team in Antarctica for $1,400. The sequence doesn't shake out in any other order. If only I had not decided to end the Weekly option! Or if the Radiogram and check had come five seconds prior to that decision! But I'm like the Medes and Persians, once I decide, that's it. So Byrd's out. I won't process his two week subscription. And it breaks my heart a little, but the policy's in place.

I almost feel like I should make an exception for these guys. After all, they somehow managed to cross 80+ years of time and even transcended death to get their subscription in. But my decision is to hang tough. There can't be that many guys like that, but if I start making exceptions today, who will it be tomorrow? Julius Caesar, Schickelgruber himself? Once I break the rule, it'd be tough to adhere to it in the future.

I'm not going to be able to figure out the riddle of it, how they could've sent a radiogram about my blog in 1929, and a check for $1,400 drawn on Antarctica's largest bank, 20-some years before I was born, and have it all show up this week while I've been writing about my paywall. You'd almost think there was something bigger than all of us at work there. A force? Maybe ... but if so, why didn't it allow them to get it to me before I decided to end the Weekly option? As great as it all is, they missed it by a full two hours.

My suspicion is this could be just neighborhood kids, messing with me. They've seen so many science fiction movies, their heads are swimming with schemes. Rockets to the moon, harvesting dead bodies for food, two headed men, pinball machines that take over the world. Admiral Byrd back from the dead? It's ridiculous. And yet, the kids around here.... They're not smart enough to pull that off, are they? They barely know which guy's their dad.

I called Lil at the Bigelow and she said the Radiogram came in just like all the others. The ones announcing the end of World War II last month and the one in April about Lincoln being killed. I'm just going to let it go. What do I care? I looked it up online and Byrd and his team aren't even in Antarctica anymore. Haven't been for years. He died in 1957, meaning this $1,400 check is ... dare I hope? ... found money. For some reason, who cares what, the expedition decided in 1929 to send me money. They were crazy enough to go to Antarctica to live, where there's nothing worth living for, so it only stands to reason they might be nutty enough to send random money to random people yet to be born.

But whatever access to the blog they think they're owed, and their Radiogram does appear to specifically address that as their desire, shall be denied.

UPDATE: I've gotten notes from a few of you that this Radiogram was a fake, because it's signed Sydney Greason, a guy you never heard of. I'm sorry you don't know the basic facts of anything. I would've assumed that everyone knew, since it's something I learned in Kindergarten, that Sydney Greason was one of Byrd's chief underlings, for a time, before losing the post ... that same year ... 1929. Hey, what if Byrd was pissed at him for sending the money, then not getting access? After all, from their point of view all this has already happened.

The Neglected, Rejected Christmas Song

There's a song we used to hear that is never played anymore. To me it's the weirdest, oddest, and strangest Christmas song, of those apparently not meant to be weird, odd, and strange.

Remember "There's a Star in the Sky"? I know if you do your mouth just dropped in horror, and you're likely objecting to the fact that someone dared mention it again. Wasn't that song safely excluded years ago from our common memory? Swept under the rug, never to be resurrected? In that case, I'm sorry ... but I was somehow reminded of it, by some involuntary brain tick.

Now that I've ventured out, I'll go further. I remember how this song would bring entire groups of people to a standstill. They might be gathered for Christmas, frolicking, with everyone in a good mood, joyous and giving gifts. You'd think we were one big happy family in common celebration. Then this song would come on -- usually played by a pirate radio station that happened to encroach on the normal radio band -- and every smile would vanish. Fangs would grow in people's mouths. Normal eyes -- blue, brown, hazel -- would turn red, and very beady. They'd breathe fire. Children would turn to devils, more so than usual.

I can easily remember my own feelings of dread and despondency. I would suddenly go quiet, then tear up, and finally -- this happened occasionally -- I would be depressed for weeks. Even writing about it as I am now is making me physically sick, not to mention the emotional toll it's taking. I might retch on my computer; Good God, seriously, I'm falling apart!

[OK, I'm back ... that was a terrible feeling ... 10 minutes ago ... let me sit here again and try to finish.]

The lyrics of the song (here I'm attempting a chuckle), must have been written by a monster. Like I said, I'm chuckling. I'm amused that they've been hidden in my memory all this time without subliminally destroying my life. I'm obviously a lot stronger than I sometimes give myself credit for. I thought they were gone forever, that I had erected a brick wall against them. But not so!

Remind yourself, should you dare:

"There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky,
There's a mother's deep prayer, and a baby's low cry.
And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing,
For the manger in Bethlehem cradles a king."

There's other lyrics but these are the only ones, thank goodness, still cluttering up valuable space in my consciousness.

What makes them so objectionable? It's hard to state the reasons in a definitive way. It beggars a full description, much like trying to say definitively why we're afraid of snakes. We just are; it's primal. In the case of the song, part of it has to be the terrible tune, itself enough to curdle fresh milk. And curl toes.

As for the lyrics, to say, "There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky," it's a song speaking of a different song, then incongruously pointing randomly to the sky. It sounds like it was written with the express purpose of unsettling people. Then we're suddenly back on earth with some unspecified mother in prayer and a baby crying. They're both moving their lips, to me a disconcerting picture. But it's the third line, seriously, that really sends me over the edge, giving the full measure of revulsion, a star "raining fire" while some group of "beautiful" sing.

That's always made me nauseous, a star spitting and sputtering, raining, drenching the world with fire, and these weird "beautiful" singing. Bleh! It took me some time to realize it meant angels. If you mean angels, say angels. I got stuck on the bizarre imagery of the spewing star and the "beautiful" firebugs. It sounds devilish, demonic! Then it closes off with the line about the manger cradling a king, not itself a terrible line, but still horribly tainted by its surroundings. Plus, it's all so anonymous.

Now, lest you think this is just a hang-up of mine, ask yourself, why is this song so neglected? Why is it overlooked at Christmas, except, as I said, for fly-by-night pirate radio stations, whose only mission is to stir up trouble? "White Christmas" hasn't yet melted away. "Rudolph" every year still gets frequent flier miles. And all the rest. All except the dreaded "There's a Star in the Sky." It's kept out like a black sheep, totally excluded. No one likes it. No one wants it. It's the redheaded stepchild of music...

I'm really sorry for writing all this. Because I know it must have made you sick. Still, doesn't it seem like there should be some sort of statement, at least for the record of history, as to the place in the world of this one miserable song, so understandably neglected and rejected?

Roger, Copy? No, I'm Not!

On this day of days, if you're into radio, since it's 10-4, I want to turn to the interesting story of Roger, your typical fourth grade schoolboy, whose experiences, as it turned out, were anything but typical.

His troubles began at recess one day when a swing in motion lurched back and knocked out his front tooth. There was no way to reattach the missing mouth appendage, so the dentist had to replace it with a big shining gold tooth. So far, so good. Except for one thing, from time to time he was picking up radio signals, and if the expertise of radio technicians is to be believed, by some miracle he was also transmitting!

To make a long story as short as possible, since we know our readers can't be bothered to spend more than a few minutes on a backwater site like this, the whole thing of him receiving and transmitting radio signals caused a lot of grief.

One day, a day very much like any other day -- trees were well anchored in the park, deer frolicked in their country solitude, accountants were busy balancing checkbooks, and iTunes came out with another update -- Roger sat down at his desk and prepared to take an exam.

They had a substitute teacher that day who didn't know that Roger was an honest child who would never cheat. At the very same time, there was an unusually high level of airplane traffic in that area. And the atmospheric and solar conditions were just right for the maximum sensitivity regarding his gold tooth and its radiophonic capabilities.

Roger sat taking the test, but was bummed out at the constant chatter in his head, the pilots complaining about engines going out, propellers falling off, and so forth. Finally he had to open his mouth for relief, right when one of the pilots said, "Copy?" and the other said, "Roger." Making it sound to everyone like someone was saying Roger was copying.

The teacher came over and checked out the situation, with Roger protesting, "No, I'm not!" She separated him from the others by a few feet. Pretty soon the whole situation built up in the same way, a passenger in one of the planes had some box cutters and was trying to break into the cockpit. The pilot asked, "Copy?" with the response being, "Roger." Other students were covering their papers, while realizing this was out of character for Roger. The teacher separated him even further, moving him very close to the window.

The trouble on the planes overhead seemed to be reaching a fever pitch. Air marshals were engaged in one "helluva" tussle with the terrorists, there was a lot of confusion on board, and many voices were jamming the radios. No one could seem to get a clear channel, with one air marshal now sitting on a terrorist who was trying to ignite a shoe bomb and underwear bomb both shouting into the set, "Copy?! Copy?! Copy?!" All radio decorum was out the window. The control tower wanting to emphasize their presence shouted back, "Roger! Roger! Roger!"

All eyes turned on Roger, who threw up his hands. "I'm not copying!" Can't you see that?" But the class and the teacher were an uncontrollable mob, moving in on him. Roger moved outside on to the edge of the building, on one of those ledges like you see in old movies, and started shouting, "I'm going to jump if you come at me! And I'll take you all down with me!" He shouted that and many other threats, being extremely desperate. All this was being transmitted over the same signal back to all the planes.

The pilots and air marshals believed the control tower was also taken over by terrorists and all hope was gone. But just to be sure they were crying out things that couldn't be understood, except for "Roger?!" and "Copy!" Over and and over, "Roger, copy! Roger, copy! Roger copy!" With Roger there on the ledge by now thinking God himself had condemned him.

Such confusion reigned, it was like ... insane.

So we have terrorists in the skies, desperate pilots, air marshals who were threatening to take early retirement, the control tower not knowing who was talking, and a little boy on the ledge freaking out, and a substitute teacher and a classroom of irate children lighting torches for the final showdown with innocent Roger.

Roger didn't know what to do! All life was conspiring against him and he did what had to be done, he leaped to his death. From the sky then, three planes were coming in for a crash landing, smacking into the school, destroying the facilities and destroying the teachers and other students. The only thing not burnt up were some desks that were thrown clear of the flames. And those were already so badly marked with graffiti they were barely worth saving.

I said Roger leaped to his death. I'd love to spare him somehow with a happy ending, but once you've leaped to your death, it's too late for that.

Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh

"This is the Randy Track Show, and I'm your host, Randy Track, and today we're welcoming Larry Stine to our studio, from the group Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh. They're in town, and they've got a really big show tonight at The Unmentionable. What time is it?"

"Uh, I think it's 9 o'clock. We'll be rehearsing before that, no doubt. And a couple of our 'roadies' will be setting up the speakers and all that stuff so we can put on the best show we can give for the money."

"So it's 9 o'clock, huh?"

"Something like that, yes, I believe so."

"OK, we're going to be playing a little bit of Fitzguh coming up here, since you have an album or two out."

"That's right, each of our albums has several 'cuts,' or musical selections, all played in our own distinctive style, according to the genre that comes natural to us. And if you play a few of those, whatever time allows for, it might gin up some support for us, with more people then hopefully coming out for the show."

"Sure, Larry, our listeners are very keen on your group and your music, so believe you me, I'm sure there will be quite a few warm bodies in attendance tonight, each one grooving to your great sound. You have a drummer, right? And he's well practiced?"

"We do have a drummer. Exactly how much he has to practice, that's a matter for him to decide. As for me, you probably know I play the six-string guitar."

"Of course. Anyway, Larry, welcome again. I wanted to ask you as my first question how you guys got the name Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh? It's quite a mouthful, causing a lot of us in radio -- and I think a lot of your fans do the same thing -- to shorten it to just Fitzguh."

"Ha, ha, we knew that would happen. We could've called ourselves The 3 Fs, but, I don't know, there's reasons why we went with the name we have."

"OK, that's what we want to get to..."

"OK ... A few years ago my wife -- my old lady -- and I, my old lady and me, were doing all this spittin' and sputterin', just on a lark, trying to 'one up' each other with it. Imagine it if you had Sylvester the Cat just going into this whole routine of being amazed about everything and not being able to get an actual word out. He's just moving his lips and spitting. You can't even spell what it'd sound like: "Futz, fitz, splick, etc.," like that. Now multiply that out for like an hour or something! It's hilarious!"

"I see."

"Anyway, my old lady and me, we're talking it over later, and I'm like, 'How would you spell that?' And that's how we narrowed it down, or crystallized it as a short phrase, 'Fahoup, Fahep, Fitzguh!' It's been a long time, and my old lady -- my wife -- sometimes she thinks we had an extra 'Faheep' in there, but I know we didn't."

"Oh, LOL, that's very very funny! I've heard the story before, of course, and it gets to me every time. So thanks for running through the whole spiel again!"

"Ha ha, you're welcome. It cracks me up, too. I love telling the story, it's so great!"

"OK, I'm going to play one of your 'cuts,' and I'm going to say the whole name -- I hope I don't get too much spit on the mic! Here they are, Fahoup! Fahep! Fitzguh!

Live Blogging 20 on 20

My favorite radio station in the whole world is XM Radio's 20 on 20. It's like a candy store of music. The same songs in quick rotation. They have the top 20 a few times a day now, then the rest of the time it's just top songs, including of course some of the 20 that will make the top 20.

Lil Wayne - Lollipop -- I've heard this song a few times. It has a nice interplay of voices. Some of the vocals are overly filtered with effects. It mentions "Shorty" or "Shawty" a lot, like some of the other songs popular these days. There are a few drop-outs, probably censored bits. I haven't heard an uncensored version, but I have my suspicions about this "lollipop," if you know what I mean (nudge nudge). There's a real neat drum sound on this record, overly trebled, and it sounds cool. I've been thinking about it lately.

Coldplay - Viva la Vida -- This is a nice song. I got the CD the other day and I like it. I have the other Coldplay CDs and have heard them, especially X&Y, but I'm not so well versed like the gurus at All Music. com who must sit in ivory towers listening, charting, dissecting, and interacting with live hookups with every artist in the world. They know so much! I just say, cool song, cool album, etc. But I do like it. It starts off with a little tune, the same tune it ends with, so it's connected back on itself. I've noticed it's an easy CD to listen to while doing other things, not something that needs to be concentrated on or is intrusive. So, I really haven't noticed what the lyrics even are, on any of the songs, and I've heard the whole album four or five times. This song, the single, I've heard a lot more, since it's on 20 on 20 every hour or so. It has some nice strings, and a thicker sound, thanks to Eno, no doubt.

Jessie McCartney commercial -- Taking over 20 on 20 on Friday.

New Kids on the Block - Summer Time -- I've only heard this a couple times. I read about New Kids the other day, back together, doing a tour, with a CD. I myself wasn't a fan of the group. My kids liked them. We got one of their CDs at a garage sale in May, to fill in my daughter's collection. (By the way, I'm out of my Grandma Slump pathetic hayseed character for this post. So if you're worrying about continuity, don't. It's all fake.) This is a good song, affirmative, thinking about you in the summer time. The whole group's in on the vocals, of course. Sounds like a hit to me! Welcome back! I don't remember their names, Jordan, Donnie, that's all I got.

Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown - No Air -- This is a hot song. They did it together on American Idol and it was burning hot. I like it a lot. I've liked Jordin's singles, Tattoo and the other one, the name escapes me. Chris Brown always sounds good. It's a hot duet. "It's so hard for me to breathe. Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air." It's a song like this that makes 20 on 20 a candy store. If you like the colors and jars in a candy store, these songs are that. Classical music CD stores -- of which there must still be one somewhere -- are candy stores too. I used to see one at Westport at Kansas City, Missouri. Candy store.

Britney - Break the Ice -- I don't think I've heard this before. I haven't been on 20 on 20 that much lately, just in the last couple days, so I might've missed a few things. But it's time to get caught up. Less electronic effects on the vocals than on some of her recent singles. Sounds OK, but it's not engrained in me yet. Hmm, she says, "I like this part." I seem to remember that from another song. Didn't she say that in one of the other singles from the latest album? Plus I heard a song by some guys the other day where the guy says, "I like this part."

OK, we're at the top of the hour. Jessie McCartney is taking over, playing his top 20. Here he is, talking, speaking to us, updating us guys about what's going on. He's back in 2008 and hopefully it will be a great year. He's been working on a new album, has been working with a lot of R&B guys, and the album is a big step forward for him.

His first song played:

Snoop Dogg - Sensual Seduction -- Well, I have to go ... so we'll leave it there.