I met up with an old high-school buddy a couple weeks ago; it was great catching up with him, meeting his partner, and generally shooting the breeze. When it came time to go home, they offered me a ride - sounds good. We hopped into the Mercedes and room-a-zoom-zoom we were off.
The radio was tuned to some '80s station. There was Faith No More, Men Without Hats (no joke)...
...and then it happened:
The radio was tuned to some '80s station. There was Faith No More, Men Without Hats (no joke)...
...and then it happened:
And so, for the next two weeks, the damn thing kept playing in my head.
It. Would. Not. Leave. I have classes to prep for, syllabi to write. It's there, too-rye-aying right between my ears. That's bad enough. But it gets worse, much worse. I go to work at some warehouse or print shop, doomed to another full day of repetitive tasks - grab bundle, put on pallet, grab bundle, put on pallet, lather rinse repeat - which means there's nothing to think about. Except for that song.
It's 3:30am. The cats are braying for their breakfast. And Dexy's Midnight Runners are too-rye-aying for the umpteen-fuckin'-zillionth time. It really was driving me crazy, almost as bad as the cats themselves.
My wife told me about a kid in her high school who, whenever you said there was a song stuck in your head, would immediately burst into "That's What Friends Are For" - fighting fire with fire.
It didn't work.
You've got to understand, this thing was taking up way too much mental space - and there's not that much to begin with. It was my arch-nemesis, the Khan to my Kirk.
Maybe you feel my pain. Or maybe you don't. And that makes me feel sad, because when you hurt, there's nothing quite like the satisfaction of spreading the pain around to everyone imaginable. You've got to understand, I want to share with you.
It. Would. Not. Leave. I have classes to prep for, syllabi to write. It's there, too-rye-aying right between my ears. That's bad enough. But it gets worse, much worse. I go to work at some warehouse or print shop, doomed to another full day of repetitive tasks - grab bundle, put on pallet, grab bundle, put on pallet, lather rinse repeat - which means there's nothing to think about. Except for that song.
It's 3:30am. The cats are braying for their breakfast. And Dexy's Midnight Runners are too-rye-aying for the umpteen-fuckin'-zillionth time. It really was driving me crazy, almost as bad as the cats themselves.
My wife told me about a kid in her high school who, whenever you said there was a song stuck in your head, would immediately burst into "That's What Friends Are For" - fighting fire with fire.
It didn't work.
You've got to understand, this thing was taking up way too much mental space - and there's not that much to begin with. It was my arch-nemesis, the Khan to my Kirk.
Maybe you feel my pain. Or maybe you don't. And that makes me feel sad, because when you hurt, there's nothing quite like the satisfaction of spreading the pain around to everyone imaginable. You've got to understand, I want to share with you.
There, y'feelin' it now? Do you feel my pain?
I can't hear you!Louder!!!
Sing it with me!
All together now!
Now don't you feel better?
That's what I had to bear for two weeks straight - morning, noon, and night.
Well, it finally happened. I got it out of my head. You know what's there now?
That's what I had to bear for two weeks straight - morning, noon, and night.
Well, it finally happened. I got it out of my head. You know what's there now?
