Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Spoiled Music Memories

1. Attaching Beloved Song to OBJECTS:

You sold your souls, Queen, when you allowed “Toothbrush- Tune” manufacturers to use “We Will Rock You.” Now, whenever a child applies pressure to their toothbrush, a gnarled version of your PRIMO 70’s classic literally plays in their head. My daughter, Krista has heard that song 2 gazillion times over the past year, and still can’t understand the words. In the car recently, she sang, “Buddy you’re a mingsti borboy mmskmsioasoi sposdi…We will, we will, brush you.”

Tragic.

I can understand, Mr. MC Hammer, you needed to bail yourself out of some tax trouble, but when you put a “Hammertime” sound chip on a greeting card, you might as well be on an infomercial for George Forman zit cream.

2. Letting your children listen to your 80s favorites:

Just don’t do it! Preserve your precious memories and play those songs privately, with someone your own age! I once made a CD of my old favorites which included a Jeffrey Osborne song. The actual line, “You give me special joy oooooo, make me feel just like a school boy ooooo” cracked-up my sons, Dave and Jon, who said it sounded like something a pedophile might say.

Then there’s Duran Duran’s, “Hungry Like the Wolves,” which contains a verse that Dave claimed sounds like “Mouse’s Alive.”

Finally, I played the Styx tune, "Mr. Roboto" to my daughter and she asked me what the funny lyrics meant, so I looked up dōmo arigatō misutā Roboto, which I always thought sounded so cool. It means "Thank you very much, Mr. Roboto" in Japanese. That's just stupid.

3. Attaching Beloved Music to Presidential Campaigns:

Fleetwood Mac crept out of a cave to help Bill Clinton get elected by letting him use “Don’t Stop.” Now, any previous “F-Mac” Republicans fans will liken that song to a mosquito buzzing in their ears. Last year, Barrack Obama wisely contracted a composer to write his OWN song to lure voters, “pied-piper-like” to the ways of the Democratic party. If we happen to hear that song--we will think of Obama and not dancing “back-in-the-day” with some sweaty 7th grader in a gymnasium (no offense to sweaty 7th graders).

Note: Wouldn’t it be NICE to have our own theme song. Possible titles for mine: “Raiders of the Lost Reading Glasses” or “March of the Kangaroo Pouched Woman”

4. Commercials:

“Anticipation” by Carly Simon will forever more remind me of a glass ketchup bottle. Ozzy Osbourne supposedly licensed “Crazy Train” to Mitsubishi for some 1999 car. Although I wouldn't want to buy a car that reminded me of a crazy train.

5. Choreographing:

Throw me in “music-abuse” jail for this one. I choreograph water aerobics to popular music. Every Wednesday I see the lifeguard at the YMCA cringe as a new Nickleback song plays—the image of 30+ senior citizen ladies leaping to it, burned in his memory like a Sharpie doodle on linoleum.



Sorry about that.



Tuesday, March 2, 2010

“The Elusive Nights Sleep” Motel

My husband, Fred, our daughter, Krista and I stayed at a nearby motel for a weekend getaway. Our room was equipped with 2 lovely queen-sized beds, which were piled high with lots of pillows in a variety of shapes and sizes. After a pizza, pop and some television, we pulled back the covers and anticipated a comfortable slumber.

Right away, Fred and I realized our bodies were touching. That may not seem unusual, but Fred and I share a king-sized bed and after 17 years together, some nights there’s so much space between us a Billy goat could climb in with us and I’d never notice.

“Move over!”

“I can’t--I’ve got one leg over the edge already,” Fred replied.

We also quickly realized that the “blanket” was not the right size for the bed. That didn’t REALLY matter because it was furry an
d scratchy like “The Wookie Chewbacca” from Star Wars and neither of us wanted it touching us so we pushed it onto the floor. This made us cold, so we reluctantly pulled up “The Bedspread of Many Germs.”

Fred was really tired and managed to fall asleep before I did. All 8 of my pillows were WAY too hard and forced my neck into the “V” position. I punched them down and tossed. I became hot, turned on the air conditioner, which blew artic air directly at my backside. I reached for “The Wookie” and fell off the bed.

Fred woke up and grumbled and tossed. So I grumbled and tossed. “If you turn over one more time...” I hissed, “I’m going to sleep with Krista.” That was a flaccid threat, since Krista, in the next bed, was rolled up in the sheets like a burrito. Fred and I held each other for a while, not to ignite passion, but to keep each other still. It was
more like pinning each other down.
There was no noise, except the bi-hourly roar of the cold air fan. When it was on, it was freezing. When it turned off, the room felt like the Bahamas. I played a little bed “Hokey-Pokey” and put my right foot out, and then I put my right foot in...and so on, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and went into the bathroom and turned on the lights. I did what all uncomfortable writers do in the middle of the night...I got ou
t my pen and notebook and wrote a love note to my previously pliable spine and neck.

I had no idea what time it was with the vampire curtains blocking out even the brightest sunlight. I went back to the bed, and realized the entire mattress had shifted slightly off the base and my corner of the mattress hung over the edge like a flap. I pulled the sheet off of Fred and finally fell asleep for 2 hours, until Krista bound
ed up and announced it was time to go swimming.

“You were thrashing around like a tuna on a boat deck,” Fred said the next morning, “I liked it!”