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Waking with a song already in play in your head is mostly a good thing... continuity from the dream-state to the conscious. Sometimes, it's not OK. Like this morning. I'm a little superstitious, admittedly. Not excessively. I've owned many black cats, so that isn't a problem... though I will unconsciously make a cross on the windshield if one happens to stroll in front of the car. The number 13 is a worry, as is the triple sixes (but, I've gone into that, before). Plus, if I equate a tune with a bad happening, I'd prefer not to have it replaying, cranially, first thing in the morning. For instance, this German Beer Hall Thing That Has No Name... a bad sign to have oom-pah music on the brain, anyway. This one, though.... A few years back, we were on holiday on the Outer Banks... just in time for the Hurricane That Wouldn't Leave. Week-long 50 mph winds... awe-inspiring surf, mounded high on the horizon in tiers, like Neptune's stairsteps. Rather than endure another day of feeling the house sway (and I was the only male in a house of ladies... redundant, in other words), I struck out with Miss Jane in tow to the local brewpub... surely, a buzz-on in the daylight, in public, couldn't hurt. That was until I became aware of the piped-in soundtrack. The same clarinet/accordion/trumpet/tuba/yodeling tune in an endless (and I do mean endless) loop. The more I applied beer, the more the song embedded itself into my DNA. Nary a lyric was decipherable, but yet it remains. The Big Hook was a tuba riff that sounded like a fat, unwashed guy blasting a lengthy fart in a Naugahide recliner. Of Satan, simply put. A day later, my cousin died, unpleasantly... and we had to pack and leave before the week was over, for the funeral. And the song remained the same, even at the service... and thereafter. The resurfacing of this abomination, this morning, made me jam on the mental brakes and force something/anything else to body slam it before something bad happened. Or so I was convinced. Thank heaven for my mental jukebox for exorcising the foulness. Pardon me while I crank up the boom box, before it comes back. |
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