Covina, CA. Exclusive to Rolling Stone, Variety, Billboard and The Spoof.
I'm fed up with Alexa. I didn't even want an Alexa, never heard of her until my son installed her in every room in my house.
"It's a safety measure," he said, "since you're living alone at 90 and you might need help in an emergency. Alexa is programmed to call any of your relatives and neighbors, or 911. We'll all feel safer that way."
I haven't fallen in months. It was almost a year ago that he had to take me to the emergency room after a fall. I don't need no damned Alexa. But she's here, and it should be more convenient to ask her to play a pop ballad from my era, the 1950s, instead of going to the computer and bringing up YouTube, It should be, but it ain't.
It turns out that half of the ballads from my era have been hijacked by more recent artists who have stolen the titles but written new music - is that stuff really music? - that bears no relationship to the song I wanted to hear. I've found that nearly a dozen songs I wanted to listen to have been pirated by modern "composers".
And when I do find that Alexa has my song, she doesn't have the songster who made the tune famous. Ask her to play "I can dream, can't I?" and you don't get Helen Forrest. Instead, an unpronounceable name sings the song in a way that I wonder why I ever liked that piece.
Ever try to tell Alexa that you don't want to listen to the vocalist she brings up? Tried telling her to switch to another artist for that song? "Hmm, I don't know about that," is her response.
In my era, which goes back nearly a century, the only female disc jockey was "Lonesome Gal", a sultry voice that all the guys fell in love with in the late hours of the night. If Alexa treats her boyfriends the way she treats me, she'll really be a lonesome gal in those late hours, and all the other hours.