So I'm sitting in our meet-and-greet line after the show in Wallingford, CT the other night, examining the fineness of my Sharpie's tip to determine whether I need to trade surreptitiously with Randy while he's not looking, and a fan approaches me and says, "So, are you just going to let Don take over blogging on the website or what?" Walt, who was sitting next to me, took advantage of the opportunity to do one of those "Ooooooooooh!" noises (you know the kind: it's the one that started low and went really high up in pitch when someone in your 3rd-grade class got called to the principal's office in the middle of class over the loudspeaker), point in my direction, and say something along the lines of "Whoa, Green just got served!"
Admittedly, her question - and Walt's caustic derision, which he lobbed my way in the 3rd-person for some reason - caught me off guard. I felt like I was back on the kickball court in 3rd grade and had just gotten tagged out in the face and, even though I got to stay in the game because (duh) you can't tag people out in the face, everyone was gawking at me to see if I was going to cry or brush my Seminoles Starter jacket off and take my base uhthankyouverymuch.
The whole experience got me thinking to myself, "Self, that blog that the new guy (you know, the redhead who has been doing yoga with you for two months...) put up about the day we were marooned in Moriarty, New Mexico was full of swell imagery and poignant references to the movie Cars, but a full week has gone by and you need to blog about something. Anything. Maybe lead with Baby Monkey. Oh, and do laundry tomorrow. Readyyyy, break."
What's that? You don't know what Baby Monkey is all about? Pardon. Baby Monkey (Going Backwards on a Pig). (Sorry, everyone.) Take it from your Uncle Ryan, I'm all about getting people to visit our website and stay put for awhile pondering DR's upside-down pictures and the like, but if you must, please leave our site momentarily and search for "Baby Monkey (Going Backwards on a Pig)" on YouTube. I'll be somewhere in the future from when you read this like a time traveler hanging out in a magical forest, evading Morlocks at night, trying to get back to 19th-century England in one piece.
(This is me giving you two minutes to pull up the hilarity on YouTube and another minute to let that H.G. Wells reference I just broke out like a secret pair of nunchucks sink in fully. Whattup free book on Amazon.)
Pretty awesome video, right? I know! The world has gone insa...
(This is me waiting in the future for those of you who didn't play along and go see the amazing home movie of a baby monkey riding backwards on a pig, with Parry Gripp's smash-hit soundtrack worming its way into your brain for the next week. Go ahead, I'll wait here in the future again with the rest of the class so we can move forward together.)
I don't know which is more amazing, the pig or the baby monkey. Right now, I'm leaning towards the baby monkey, but that little pig's got a particular awesome factor that I can't explain. And when the monkey ducks under the fence to stay on the pig, oh man, talk about suspense! I didn't think he was holding on that tightly, but he was!
And the SONG! Don't get me started on the song. Three chords (key of A, I-V-IV for you theory nerds keeping score at home). Three! That's Lennon-McCartney territory. The whole thing is in and out in under a minute like Robin Hood stealing Prince John's bags of gold while he's asleep (killer nocturnal pulley system for an animated fox, for the record). That crazy little baby monkey was probably thinking, "Yo, I'm going to ride this pig backwards for 58 seconds and someone named, I don't know, Parry Gripp, is going to write a song about my adventures and it's going to be sick."
Last I checked, that baby monkey video has pulled in 2,251,378 hits on YouTube. If Atlantic Records hears about this and signs that little guy to a record deal, I'll be the first to lobby that he (and the pig if he's available) opens for us every night on tour. All they'd have to do is run across the stage a couple times together and I'd be happy to be responsible to sing the song. Parry Gripp's probably busy anyway, swimming around Uncle Scrooge-style in his underground vault of gold coins and bullion (don't ask me how he did it; my theory is the webbed feet and magic).
In all seriousness, though, "Baby Monkey (Going Backwards on a Pig)" was the featured "Discovery Download" on the iTunes Music Store this week. Thousands of unknown artists out there, fighting for their songs to be heard, struggling in stale-beer-smell clubs night after night after night, pouring their hearts out into a microphone for people who just want to yell out "Free Bird!", waiting for that one break, that one chance, and a silly ditty about an infant homonid clowning around on a pig (backwards) that clocks in at 0:58(!) is the song that millions of people are listening to right now, maybe listlessly in their bunk while writing a blog on their a cappella group's website en route from Buffalo to New York City...maybe. If that doesn't say something about the effects of (dare I say it?) a brilliant song coupled with the undeniable power of social networking, I don't know what does. "Baby Monkey (Going Backwards on a Pig)" is my current "12 Days of Christmas."
I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.
On that note, I'm going to bed. We have a long day in the city tomorrow, but that's a whole other story. Thank you for trying to follow along with my very, very random brain. I partially blame my Dad for the elaborate stories he made up on the spot about two fascinating elephant friends named Ernie and Hobart to keep my sister and me entertained in the Ahlwardt family Vanagon camper as we trekked like The Griswolds across Europe in the early and mid-80s. I thought he had written them years prior and was recalling them from memory. I was also 5 years old, most likely sporting a knight outfit and/or striped knee socks, and incredibly impressionable.
Since I know he's reading this: Hi, Dad. I'm turning into you. See you at The Murat.
Ryan
Author's note: my sincerest apologies to the estate of H. G. Wells for bringing them into this. To the kickball fielder kid who apparently tagged me out in the face hard enough for me to repress the memory all these years, I forgive you. You were probably going for the double-play, which I respect and see clearly now.
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