Spouse: “I’m hungry. I know it’s early, but I want to make dinner. I need to eat something. Are you ready to eat?”
“Are you kidding? I was just about to get a snack. I’m hungry like a wife.” I laughed. “I mean, wolf.”
“Okay, then I’ll make dinner. What should we have?”
Hungry like a wolf natch invited the 1982 Duran Duran song, “Hungry Like the Wolf”, into the stream. It stayed on a loop as we made dinner and ate, continuing to eat through dessert (pumpkin pie) and watching Saturday Night Live on Hulu, and on through Letterkenny and DCI Banks.
So, here it is, your Monday theme music. Blame my wolf. I mean, wife.
Had to give my cat his L-Lysine last night. Like many receiving treatments for something, he dislikes it. The better he feels, the more he dislikes it, and the more aggressively he resists.
Not alone in this, of course. Mary Poppins taught us that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Likewise, many of us treat the situation with a carrot and stick approach – take this medicine, and I’ll reward you.
Talking helps, too. So, I was speaking with T.C., telling him that I know that it tastes bad, but this is medicine that he needs, and I’m only doing it because it makes him feel better, and I want him to feel better because I love him. That all got shortened to, yes, it’s bad medicine, but it’s given with love.
From there, it was an easy switch to Bon Jovi’s 1988 offering, “Bad Medicine”, with T.C. imagined as singing to me.
This one was another cat song, to my little ginger Papi boy.
First lines were the hook:
Is it all in that pretty little head of yours?
What goes on in that place in the dark?
The dark, for the cat, is the dark night where he disappears for a few hours in this land of cars, bears, cougars, and raccoons. I want him to stay home and safe, but he insists that he must be allowed to wander.
The Elvis Costello song, though, “Veronica” (1989), is about an older woman suffering severe memory loss, and was inspired by his grandmother. It’s a fortunate few who’ve not witnessed dementia or Alzheimer’s assaulting someone as they’ve aged, stripping away their awareness, coherency, and personality, stealing them away from you before your eyes.
Today’s song choice is straight out of thinking about the past. Ginger Baker, a musician of some renown, passed away at eighty years old last week. He was part of several groups that I enjoyed. One was Blind Faith.
Blind Faith was Steve Winwood, Eric Clapton, Richard Grech, and the previously mentioned Baker. It didn’t last long, as Clapton wasn’t satisfied with the sound and performance. The group put out some memorable songs, though. Thinking of them, I searched the net and found this video of the group performing “Presence of the Lord” (1969). Sweet flashback.
A guy who worked for me at Shaw AFB in South Carolina was a big fan of Ratt, Judas Priest, and Rush. Anniversary dates and weather impressions have kicked memories of the “I was there with <XXX> when…” variety into my stream. So I was thinking of this fellow, Bob, and wondering what happened with him. Smart guy, from Texas, but no Texan accent, he seemed like he was on a slow downward spiral. Going to college but not completing classes, and gaining weight, something we frowned on in the military.
But, thanks to Bob, I’m remembering Rush today and their song, “The Spirit of Radio” (1980). I didn’t get to Shaw until 1985, but Bob loved this song, and played it in our office on a boom box almost every morning.
I either heard this one used in some television or movie function, or in a car going by. Suddenly, Paul Young’s 1985 cover of Hall & Oates’ song, “Every Time You Go Away”, is streaming through me. I was surprised when Young’s cover arose as a hit. I knew it from a H&O album from a few years before. People liked it on the album, with one neighbor, a big H&O fan, saying that it was her favorite song. I thought it was a little too slow on the album, and do prefer the Young version, even though it has that disco-techno sound that irritates me. I don’t know how she thought about it; I knew her when I was stationed on Okinawa. She and her husband rotated to somewhere else and disappeared from our lives. By the time the Young version was out, I’d also left Okinawa and was stationed in South Carolina.
“Something”, a 1969 Beatles song written by George Harrison, has been playing a lot recently. Maybe it’s the time of year or the movie “Yesterday”, or I’m enjoying selective hearing.
I can’t say that “Something” is my favorite Beatles song, but it’s definitely on the short list. Like books and foods, my favorite shifts with mood, moment, and memory. Harrison has a couple on my short list, like “Here Comes the Sun” and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”.
I watched the first episode of the third season of Goliath last night. A lovely song, “The Rose”, was used during the episode. That triggered a stream of love songs for me…and, well, I ended up with J. Geils Band’s 1980 hit, “Love Stinks”.
Mini-rant alert. As I was walking yesterday, I was watching new home construction and started thinking about overkill. Overkill — what I mean by that is excessive use beyond what’s needed — is often our response. Overkill, or do nothing. Going through grocery stores to check out most items in America leads to discoveries of brands, sizes, and qualifiers that staggers me. Look at ice cream. Chips. Soft drinks. Coffee. Beer.
I was reminded more of this while scoping television last night. Samsung has some new phone out (don’t they all?) and was trumpeting a series of images of children playing, playing, playing, playing. And Samsung’s line after all of this was about growing or building the future.
Me, with my sixty-plus year old mind, thought, but all you showed us, Samsung, were children playing. Children obsessed with their technological toys. I thought, then, that Samsung had gone into overkill, that somewhere between where children playing obsessive with their phones (but having phone) and my idea of children playing is a balance that’s needed. Maybe it’s out there, outside of my prying eyes, and past Samsung’s spiel. After all, Samsung is trying to sell more products.
Rant down, you might be thinking, with impatience, what the hell is the song? Well, it’s “Overkill” by Men at Work” (1983), of course. As it’s sung in “Overkill”:
I worry over situations
I know will be all right
Perhaps it’s just imagination
Michael Seidel, writer 