If ever a journalist tiger were to show her journalistic stripes, ah friends, it would be now, here. I cried at the Weird Al show last Saturday. Multiple times. I wore a Hawaiian shirt and I cried like a baby. I cried like a baby would cry if an 8-year-old girl baby saw into the future and realized, with relief, that Weird Al is alive and well and great at his job.
The formal components of a live Weird Al set are spelled out in his Wikipedia entry, and it feels strange that at some point during this article I should have to explain precisely