Tell Us A Made Up Story

Almost every night, for about the past six months, as my sons are having their evening snack, my six-year-old says, “Dad, tell us a made up story.” At first I enjoyed the nightly request—even looked forward to it—but somewhere around month two it started to become increasingly difficult for me to come up with a new story every night. At this point, it’s darn near impossible.

One of the issues is that my kids are ridiculously attentive to my stories, so I can’t just recycle stories I’ve already told them, because they’ll call me out on it. If I swap out a bear for a lion and tell a similar story to one I came up with a month earlier they’ll stop me three sentences in and practically boo me out of the room.

They want something new every time so, in an effort to come up with spontaneously new material every night, my stories have become increasingly bizarre—squirrels playing miniature golf, grapes that want to leave the produce aisle behind and see what it’s like in the cereal aisle, a superhero whose only power is that he could literally eat anything (guns, cars, houses, etc.).

About a week ago they specifically requested a scary made up story. I started to tell them a story about an evil wizard. I wanted to make him sound ominous, so I called him “The Evil Wizard of the Manu Ginobili Forest.” Since they know nothing about basketball and had never heard of the longtime San Antonio Spurs player, his name struck fear in their hearts. Every time I mentioned it (and I mentioned it dozens of times, because let’s face it, it’s just fun to say “Manu Ginobilli”) they seemed to shudder. It clearly left an impression, because the following morning I observed my four-year-old playing with his action figures and saying, “Manu Ginobili” over and over again whenever referring to the bad guys.

Most of the stories I come up with are completely plotless. It’s just me free associating without any shred of a story arc. Eventually I peter out after five or ten minutes and say, “And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.”

Really, the stories are not very good at all and yet they keep on asking for them. In fact, they prefer to hear a ridiculous, rambling story from me than one of the hundreds of children’s books sitting on their shelves. (By the way, stealing the plot from one of their books doesn’t work either. They call me out on that as well. “Wait a second dad, that’s just Curious George with a kangaroo instead of a monkey!”)

Oftentimes I wish I had my own dad’s ability to spontaneously tell great stories. More than that, I wish he were still alive to tell stories to his grandkids, because he was truly a master storyteller. I can’t honestly say that I remember any of his stories since it has been decades since I heard one of them, but I do remember the joy I felt listening to him tell them. His stories never failed to make me laugh.

And as I write this it makes me wonder if he had the same thoughts back then as I do now. Maybe he also thought it was a chore to constantly come up with new stories at the spur of the moment. Maybe he also thought his stories weren’t very good. And maybe his stories were every bit as ridiculous and rambling as mine.

But maybe none of this really matters. Maybe all that matters is that kids simply like to hear their dad’s telling stories even if their dads aren’t Dr. Seuss. So I’ll keep on telling them, and I’ll comfort myself in the knowledge that one day, years from now, my sons will find themselves in the exact same predicament as me.

Dodging a Pizza Bullet

For the most part, I don’t think that I’m a jerk. Then again, most jerks probably don’t think they’re jerks, so who knows? Point is, in my everyday dealings with people I am generally congenial and polite and usually go out of my way not to be offensive. This is why on the rare occasion when I do act like a jerk, I catch myself off guard.

Today I took the day off from work and caught a movie. (“Argo.” Very good. See it.) Prior to the movie I was looking for something to eat when I spied a pizzeria a few doors down from the movie theater. Originating as I do from Bensonhurst, I’m generally skeptical of pizzerias in Arizona. In the 18 years that I’ve lived in the desert I’ve managed to find a couple of good ones and I generally stick to those. But today, I was nowhere near my regular pizzerias so I figured I’d roll the dice on the one in front of me.

I went in, strolled up to the counter, and took a gander at the various pies on display under the glass. Most of the pies looked like they had been sitting out for a while. I was about to leave when I noticed that at the end of the counter was a Sicilian pie that looked pretty fresh.

“How can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter, who had a good eight inches and 150 pounds on me.

“Let me get one of your squares,” said I.

“It’s called Sicilian pizza,” he said.

(At this point it’s very important for me to point out that the above statement was said in the friendliest, most polite tone imaginable. He was clearly saying this simply to inform, not to enrage. Somehow my brain didn’t catch that significant difference.)

“Yeah, I know that’s what it’s called,” I said, barely able to contain my snarkiness.The man looked at me, mildly bemused, and asked which piece I wanted. (Again, nothing but friendly on his part.)

“I’ll have a corner,” I said.

“Here, let me give you the biggest one,” he said, turning the tray to get to an iPad-sized piece.As he walked over to the oven to warm my slice, I stood by the counter and found myself getting more and more agitated that this guy thought I didn’t know what Sicilian pizza was. I could not let it go.

He came back to ring me up and suddenly I found myself talking.

“I’m from Brooklyn,” I tell this guy who looks like he receives a pension from the NFL. “I know what Sicilian pizza is. I only called it a square because out here I assume that most people on the other side of the counter don’t know what it’s called.”

It was toward the end of my statement that I had a minor out-of-body experience. It was as though I was looking at myself mouthing off to this man who could easily reach across the counter and pound me into pixie dust, and I was helpless to stop myself.

He smiled at me, and for a split second I thought to myself, “So I guess the end comes in a pizzeria. That seems fitting.”

“Would you like something to drink with that?” he asked, as pleasantly as one can imagine.

“Um…uh…I’ll have a small lemonade,” I stammered.

Then he gave me my drink, I paid, and I sat down to wait for my slice. He brought it out to me a few minutes later and I took a bite. To my utter delight it was absolutely delicious. One of the best Sicilian pizzas I’ve ever had. I was overjoyed. But the truth is I’ll never know if it really was that delicious, or if it simply seemed that delicious because everything tastes better after you’ve cheated death.

The Funniest Movie of Each Decade: Yeah, It's My Opinion

I haven’t blogged in a couple of weeks, because I just have not felt very funny. Not sure if it’s my diet or some sort of humor-suppressing virus I might have caught while standing in line at the post office, but the upshot is, whenever I sit down to write, I feel about as amusing as an in-grown toenail. So, rather than trying to be funny myself, I’m going to write about funny movies. Here now, for your perusal, is a list of what I consider to be the single funniest movie in each of the last ten decades.

But, wait—before I give you the list, a bit of clarification may be needed. The list that you are about to see is not what I consider to be the best comedy of each decade, but rather the funniest movie. I’m talking about laugh quotient here, not necessarily quality. This is why “The Graduate,” one of my favorite movies of all time, did not make the list. Very funny movie. Not the funniest movie of its decade, though. So now, really, here’s the list.

1920s

“The Gold Rush” (Directed by Charlie Chaplin) -1925: To be fair, I’ve only seen about half a dozen comedies from the 1920s, and all of them were actually pretty funny. I gave some consideration to Harold Lloyd’s “Safety Last!” and Buster Keaton’s “The General,” but in the end I had to go with Chaplin. The classic scene in which he’s eating the shoe remains hysterical to this day. It’s not so much that he’s eating a shoe that’s funny, but the expressions on his face while he’s doing it.

1930s

“Duck Soup” (Directed by Leo McCarey) -1933: This decade was a no-brainer for me. “Duck Soup” is the Marx Brothers at the height of their glorious zaniness. Groucho, as Rufus T. Firefly, ruler of the fictitious European nation Fredonia, reels off an endless array of one-liners (“I'm in a hurry! To the House of Representatives! Ride like fury! If you run out of gas, get ethyl. If Ethel runs out, get Mabel! Now step on it!”)while Harpo reels off an endless array of sight gags (cutting people’s jackets with a scissor when they’re not looking, making people inadvertently hold his leg, putting his feet in freshly squeezed lemonade, etc.)and Chico constantly gives them both fodder for their shtick. The movie also contains what I consider to be the funniest movie moment of all time…the mirror scene. If you’ve seen it, you know what I mean; if not, I won’t give it away.

1940s

“Arsenic and Old Lace” (Directed by Frank Capra) -1944: I thought a bit about Chaplin’s “The Great Dictator” here, but going by my own criteria of sheer amount of laughs, I have to go with Arsenic. This film, based on the play by Joseph Kesselring and penned for the screen by the Epstein brothers, who also happen to have written “Casablanca,” is comedy farce at its best. The plot, about two wealthy old sisters who live together and have made a hobby out of murdering men, is funny enough. But then bring Cary Grant into the picture as their nephew who just got married and is slowly figuring out that something is amiss in his aunts’ house and you have one hysterical flick. Watching Grant’s impeccable comic timing and perfectly executed double-takes leaves me giddy.

1950s

“Some Like It Hot” (Directed by Billy Wilder) -1959: I love “Harvey” and “Mister Roberts,” but no film from the 1950s is as funny as “Some Like It Hot.” You have Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in drag being chased by the mafia, you add Marilyn Monroe in what I consider to be far and away her best role, and then you put the whole project in the very capable hands of Billy Wilder, and really you just can’t go wrong. And while I mentioned how great Cary Grant’s double-takes were above, Jack Lemmon has the single best double-take in the history of film at the very end of this movie.

1960s

“Take the Money and Run” (Directed by Woody Allen) -1969: While it pained me not to be able to include Mel Brooks’ “The Producers” on this list, and while it is a better movie overall than the one I picked, when it comes to the raw amount of laughter a movie creates “Take the Money and Run” is second only to one film. (We’ll get to that in two decades.) Done as a fake documentary years before Christopher Guest popularized the genre, “Take the Money and Run” follows the life of inept criminal, Virgil Starkwell (Woody Allen), as he gets caught trying to escape prison when the fake gun he whittled out of soap turns to suds in a rainstorm, falls in love with a woman whose purse he tries to steal, and gets caught robbing a bank because he misspelled the note he gave to the teller. My wife’s favorite scene is a flashback to his younger years when he played cello in a marching band. As I write this, I realize I’m not doing it any justice. If you haven’t seen it, just do it.

1970s

“Monty Python and the Holy Grail” (Directed by Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones) – 1975: This decade was far and away the toughest for me to pick because the competition is so fierce. If I made a list of the funniest movies of all time, at least half of them would be from this decade, including “Play it Again, Sam,” “Young Frankenstein,” “Life of Brian,” “The Jerk,” and of course, the winner—Holy Grail. The movie is essentially a series of sketches about Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, with each scene funnier than the one before it. The Python crew pulled out all the stops for this one—killer rabbits, Roger the Shrubber, The Castle Anthrax—the list goes on and on. And it’s one of the most quotable comedies of all time: “Bring out your dead!” “I fart in your general direction!” “Let's not bicker and argue over who killed who.” “It’s only a flesh wound.” Classic!

1980s

“Airplane!” (Directed by Jim Abrahams, David Zucker, and Jerry Zucker) – 1980: And then there was “Airplane!” Is it a great movie? No. Has any movie before or since been funnier? No. Zucker, Zucker, and Abrahams, co-writers and directors, managed to have a laugh in every moment of this movie for 88 straight minutes. Sometimes the laugh came from a deadpan pun: (“Surely you can’t be serious.” “I am serious, and don’t call me Shirley.”) Sometimes the laugh came from a visual gag: (The stewardess blowing up the automatic pilot.) Sometimes the laugh came from stereotypes: (“Would you like something to read?” “Do you have anything light?” “How about this leaflet—Famous Jewish Sports Legends?”) But always the laughs kept coming. Sorry Eddie Murphy. Sorry Steve Martin. Sorry Bill Murray. You all did some fine work in this decade, but somehow Robert Hays was the star of the funniest movie of all time.

1990s

“South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut” (Directed by Trey Parker) – 1999: With the rise in popularity of independent and art-house films in the 1990s, the knee-slapper kind of comedy gave way to more quirky fare. I love “Waiting for Guffman,” and “Being John Malkovich,” both funny in their own right, but neither are laugh-a-minute style movies. It wasn’t until the very end of the decade when “South Park” hit the big screen that I saw a movie that kept me laughing throughout. The whole arc of the movie, in which the boys discover cursing, which eventually triggers World War III and causes Satan (portrayed as an overly sensitive, neurotic gay man who just wants to be loved by Saddam Hussein) to bring his fury out to the surface is hysterical. The fact that it was done as a musical was simply inspired.

2000s

“Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan” (Directed by Larry Charles) – 2006: I knew very little about Sacha Baron Cohen prior to seeing this film. When I walked out of the film he was my favorite comic actor of the decade. The balance that was struck in the movie between being so grossly over-the-top and yet so incredibly clever was amazing. The fact that the majority of the people in the movie had no idea they were the butt of a joke was funny in and of itself. But then, the jokes that they were the butt of were funny as well. I laughed so hard in this movie tears were constantly streaming down my face. One line in particular had me laughing for weeks afterward whenever I thought about it. I refuse to type the line here because of its overall crudeness, but the final three words are “sleeve of wizard.”

2010s

“Ted” (Directed by Seth MacFarlane) – 2012: Okay, we’re not quite three years into the decade, so there’s not much of a selection yet, but “Ted” was very funny. I mean, a boy’s teddy bear comes to life and it’s got Peter Griffin’s voice. You know there are going to be a lot of laughs. I especially like the scene when the parents first discover the bear can really talk and the mom pulls a kitchen knife on him. Funny stuff. Don’t know if it’s strong enough to still be on the list at the end of the decade, but for now it will do.

Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful

A couple months back I blogged about how cold it was in Phoenix—the day that I wrote that the low was 42 degrees. (See, I was trying to be funny because I know that’s not that cold compared to other places. Ha, ha!) Well, clearly the weather gods decided to pull some sort of crazy prank on me because for the past four days the lows have been in the low 20s. Yesterday when the low was 21 here in Phoenix, the low in Anchorage was 35. And yes, I do mean Anchorage, Alaska, not the much lesser known Anchorage, Kenya.

When the temperatures stay this cold for this long in a place where a cardigan sweater usually passes for winter wear, strange things start to happen. This morning, while driving my 6-year-old son to school the following conversation ensued:

Son: Why are all those bushes covered with sheets?

Me: Because it's so cold out people are covering them to keep them warm so they don't freeze and die.

Son: Why don't they cover the trees?

Me: Because they probably don't have sheets big enough to cover the trees.

Son: But won't the trees die, too?

Me: I don't know.

Son: Didn't you go to high school and college?

Yes, it’s so cold out it’s causing my Kindergartner to question my educational attainment.

But that episode is just the tip of the iceberg. I’m pretty sure the other day a small section of my brain froze solid. When I left my house I meant to stop at the Starbucks around the corner to get a hot chocolate and I didn’t remember until I pulled into the parking lot of my office…20 miles later. The only explanation for that complete mental lapse is that the Arctic temperatures somehow shutdown my caffeine cortex.

And yet another bizarre effect of this bitterly cold weather is that it’s making me write shorter blog entries. In fact, this one just ended.

My Unintentional Exercise Routine

A few weeks ago I had my annual checkup with my cardiologist. I like my cardiologist, largely because he seems like the “Joe Cool” of doctors. He is well-tanned and well-coifed, and his gleaming white teeth can surely be used to guide home ships astray in a nighttime storm. He exudes confidence and is never at a loss for words.

At one point during my exam he asked, “Are you exercising?”

I quickly thought about how to answer this before saying, “Unintentionally, yes.”

This response ever so briefly knocked my perfect doctor off his stride. He looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Unintentionally?”

“Well, I have a six-year-old and three-year-old son at home and spend most of my time when I’m not at work trying to keep up with them.”

“Ah, I see. Say no more,” he said, smiling his blinding smile and getting on with the exam.

While my response to my doctor may have been delivered in my usual smartass fashion, it was nothing but the truth. The fact of the matter is that I have gotten more exercise in the past six years of my life than I have in the previous 37. Not that that’s saying much, because physical fitness has never really been my thing. The closest I ever got to a regular exercise routine was when I was in a Thursday night bowling league for three months in my senior year of college. Of course whatever little exercise I got from that was likely cancelled out by the free-flowing beer that accompanied this activity.

But when I had kids (although I guess technically it was my wife who had them—I shouldn’t take credit for the “having” part) daily workouts suddenly became routine. It began with weightlifting. I found myself lifting up a seven pound weight 40 to 50 times per day. Sometimes the weight would be carried over my shoulder to get it to go back to sleep; sometimes it would be repeatedly lifted high in the air to get it to smile; and sometimes it would be lifted onto a changing table where the weight would try to pee in my face, which led to some aerobic exercise while I dodged the oncoming stream. In no time at all the weight increased to eight pounds, then nine, then ten. In a couple of months’ time I noticed that my previously scrawny biceps were now thick and hard, and I could suddenly open pickle jars without my wife’s help.

After a few months of weightlifting, the speed and agility conditioning began to kick in. Once your kid starts crawling you have to be lightning quick, because within seconds of putting them down on the floor they can be on top of the entertainment center with a snow globe sticking out of their mouth. You’re sprinting, you’re diving, you’re doing moves that would make a seasoned ninja jealous. And of course, once they start walking it only increases your need to perform Matrix-like maneuvers to keep your kids out of harm’s way.

Eventually your exercise to avert danger is supplanted by more conventional exercise—running, playing catch, making believe you’re Magneto while Wolverine beats you about the face and neck with a throw pillow. It’s all fabulous fun, but it’s all very exhausting.

So when my wife and I decided to get our six-year-old a bicycle and our three-year-old a tricycle for Christmas, I mistakenly thought that this would give me a bit of a break from the exercise routine. I figured while they were riding their Radio Flyer’s I’d be lying back reading Archie Comics and sipping a chocolate malted.

Of course, I hadn’t thought this through. You can’t just hand your Kindergartner a bike and your pre-schooler a trike and let them ride off into the sunset. You have to follow them around the block to make sure they’re safe. And wouldn’t it be my luck that within a scant 24 hours my six-year-old had become so confident on the bike that he was tooling around at a clip fast enough to qualify him for the Tour de France, forcing me to sprint after him with every ounce of speed my legs could muster?

So my unintentional exercise routine continues. I see a soccer team in my future…and karate lessons…and a basketball hoop in the driveway. I just can’t wait until they’re old enough to join a bowling league, because I could really use the beer.

I May Be Out of Touch, But I Still Have a Top Ten List

Yesterday a friend of mine posted a list of his top ten favorite albums of 2012. (It can be found here, if you would like to peruse it: http://lengutman.com/2012/12/12/lens-top-10-albums-of-2012.) I looked at the list and it was just a little bit like reading a foreign language. I knew none of the albums and only heard of five of the artists. Then I thought about what my top ten albums of 2012 might be and I realized that I could only name two albums that came out this year, which would make my top ten list very short. Somewhere along the line I became really, really out of touch.

But just because I only got two new albums this year doesn’t mean 2012 was devoid of music for me. So, since I’m eight albums short of a top ten albums list, I will instead offer this list of my Top 10 Music-Related Moments of 2012. (And I’ll go backwards for dramatic effect.)

10- Red Hot Chili Peppers Concert – My wife gave me one of the best birthday presents I ever received when she handed me a ticket to see the Chili Peppers, a band I’ve always wanted to see but just never got around to. The show was great, but it did raise two important questions: 1) Why does Anthony Kiedis bother putting on a shirt when you know it’s coming off anyway? 2) Since when did Will Ferrell get a gig as a drummer?

9- Wrecking Ball by Bruce Springsteen – This is one of the two albums I got this year. I love the first track, “We Take Care of Our Own,” and I really like the last track, “We Are Alive,” but I’m not quite sure what to make of everything that happens in the middle. It seems to depend on the day that I listen to it and/or what I had for dinner that night. Weird.

8- My son the Rush fan – (I posted this on Facebook, so my apologies to those who have already read this.) In school last week, my son’s Kindergarten teacher said to the class, "After recess we are going to see a band." This prompted my son to yell out, "I hope it's Rush!" She said, "No, it's just the school band." He’s definitely learning more at home than at school.

7- They Might Be Giants Concert – One of my favorite bands from the early 90’s, I had somehow never managed to see them live…that is until I saw them at the Marquee Theatre in Tempe in January of this year. They were very good, but I didn’t know many of the songs since the last new album of theirs that I purchased was back in 1996. (See—out of touch.) The highlight of the show by far was when they did covers of “Crazy Train” and “Paranoid” using sock puppets. (And no, I’m not making that up.)

6- My last dental cleaning – I’m not a fan of sharp instruments moving around in my mouth accompanied by high-pitched drilling sounds. At my last dental cleaning, when the hygienist was hitting a nerve near my back molar, I put every ounce of brain power into focusing on the music they were piping into the room. All I can say is thank you REO Speedwagon for providing me with the song “Can’t Fight This Feeling” in my time of need.

5- Rush Concert – I could write a lot about this concert…oh wait—I already did. You can read my previous blog entry for details.

4- Rush elected to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame – Fourteen years after their initial eligibility, Rush finally made it to the Hall. Although I’m not actually in the band, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The day I found out I got the best night’s sleep of my life. (Don’t worry, it’s okay if you think I’m pathetic right now.)

3- Kazoos – I made the mistake of getting my kids kazoos when I went on a business trip to Nashville. They played them a lot after I first gave it to them. The most amazing sound in the world is the glorious silence after they put them down.

2- Bruce Springsteen Concert – I’ve seen him twice before and I had not originally planned to see him on this tour, but then a friend had an extra ticket and he generously offered it to me. Boy, am I glad I took him up on the offer. Bruce put on an amazing show for three solid hours and while I watched this man who is 20 years older than me run around the stage, jump into the audience and crowd-surf, I realized that if I attempted to expend that kind of energy I’d be dead inside of six minutes.

1- Clockwork Angels by Rush – You may have figured out by now that I’m a Rush fan. (If you haven’t figured that out, you may want to take some basic reading comprehension classes at your local community college.) This is their best album in a good 20 years. It has a great variety of heavy, musically complex epic songs and more straightforward ballads. It’s quite possible that even if you’re not a Rush fan, you might like this album, but of course, I can’t be objective on that score. I’m not sure what else to say about it, other than, this album makes my ears very happy.

So there you have it; my 2012 musical top ten. I'm not sure what 2013 has in store, but I can guarantee one thing...the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony will be very high on my list. (And no, that has nothing to do with Public Enemy.)

RUSH!!! Now with Strings!

Last night I went to US Airways Center and saw Rush for the eleventh time in my life. While it was not the best concert of theirs that I have seen—nor was it the worst—it was certainly the most unique.

For the uninitiated, Rush (pronounced like it is spelled), is a Canadian rock trio that has been churning out albums since 1974. They reached the height of their popularity in the early 1980s, with hits like “The Spirit of Radio,” “Tom Sawyer,” and “Subdivisions.” But while many people who were only casually aware of them during the Reagan-era think they have faded into obscurity, diehard fans like me know that they never went away—they simply aged gracefully like a fine wine.

Admitting that you’re a Rush fan generally elicits one of three responses: 1) a blank stare from the 99% of people under the age of 36 who have never heard of them; 2) a roll of the eyes from the 99% of women and 92% of men over the age of 36 who immediately stereotype you as a Mountain Dew swigging, Dungeons & Dragons playing, throwback geek who was into computers 15 years before everyone else; or 3) a spontaneous and very enthusiastic air drum display from those unaccounted for above who, like you, knows that Neil Peart is the greatest drummer who ever lived, ever will live, or can ever be created by a group of the world’s top scientists working 24 hours a day, seven days a week for the next 200 years.

While we’re on the topic of Neil, I’ll make my first observation about last night’s concert. To this day I’m always amazed that with the blistering speed at which Neil plays, his hands don’t simply snap off at the wrists and continue feverishly beating upon the drums independent of his arms. I’m pretty sure this is bound to happen one day, and I hope I’m there to witness it. (I don’t think this would faze him, as nothing seems to.)

The other players in the band are Geddy Lee (singer, bassist, and keyboardist) and Alex Lifeson (guitarist, backup vocals, and comedian.) Together, Geddy, Alex, and Neil create a wall of sound at once intense and thought-provoking. They are musical masters who never cease to amaze. And last night, after having seen them on nine previous tours since 1986, they amazed yet again—this time with the inclusion of a string section!

Now in the name of full disclosure I should say that the presence of a string section came as no shock to me. In my role as diehard Rush fan I follow them on Facebook and Twitter, frequently look at their website, and read all the magazine articles about them that I can get my hands on. So I had heard long ago that there would be a string section this time around. But hearing about it and actually experiencing it are two different things. I had no idea what to expect, but in a word—Wow!

And the thing about the “Wow” is that it comes not just from the musical aspect of the string section—though the music was great. The “Wow” comes largely from the off-the-charts energy that these eight musicians brought to the stage.

The string section entered for the second set, which was composed mainly of songs from Rush’s new album, “Clockwork Angels.” (In my opinion their best album in at least 20 years, in case you were wondering.) When they first appeared they were sitting, which is what I would have expected from a string section; but the second the music started they all jumped up and played their instruments standing the entire time. But they didn’t just play—they bopped, and rocked, and head-banged the whole time they were up there. When they didn’t need to play their instruments many of them were passionately thrusting their bows in the air in time with the music. Basically, they were acting like eight rabid fans that were handed violins and cellos and such and told to hang out on the stage with the band. It was an absolute blast to watch, because they were acting exactly as I would act if I were allowed up there. (Well, not exactly as I would act. They were actually playing their instruments well, whereas any effort I made to play a stringed instrument would likely come off sounding like the tortured wails of a dying yak.)

For me, the highlight of the show was the song “Headlong Flight,” from their new album, which is seven minutes of pure adrenaline surging rock. If you can listen to this song without having your pulse rate increase you are, in all likelihood, not actually human. Clearly, the players in the string section are all human, as they were going as ballistic on the stage during this song as the rest of the audience.

The show was not perfect. Yes, I’m a diehard Rush fan, but even within their canon I have likes and dislikes. Of their 165 original songs there are probably about 10 to 15 that I don’t actually like very much. Their set list happened to include five of those. (I mean, what are the odds?)  

But that’s okay. Last night was really about hearing them play a bunch of songs from their outstanding, super-stupendous new album; and about watching a rocking string section; and about waiting with bated breath for that elusive moment when Neil’s hands finally declare their total independence from his body. One day, Neil. One day.