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Don't Rush Me


They're coming to take me away, ha-ha, hee-hee


Or as Elvis said, 'Without a song, the day would never end; without a song, a man ain't got a friend; without a song, the road would never bend - without a song.'



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July 23, 2014 - "Without a song, the day would never end; without a song, a man ain't got a friend; without a song, the road would never bend - without a song." -- Elvis Presely

* * *

I think something is terribly wrong with me. This revelation started to show itself this past winter (you remember, the one with all the vortexes).

As I was shoveling my back yard (and, no, that act in itself wasn't the crumb-of-a-clue that started my introspectional investigation), I stopped in mid shovel. What got my attention on this cold, end of February day, was the song playing inside my head.

Well, it wasn't really a song at all. It was just one line of a song -- played by over and over again, like the phonograph between my ears was playing a broken record. (For those born after 1990, let me put it this way. It was like a single line from a song, digitally remastered and strung together as an endless loop, on a computer.)

As I shoveled the snow, up to my knees then up to my chest, my mind's ear listened to the stupid Brothers Gibb singing their stupid hit from 1977, Stayin' Alive. I've never seen the movie that the song was a part of (Saturday Night Fever, with John Travolta) and I don't even know any of the words, except for , "Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." and, "You can tell by the way I use my walk, I a woman's man, no time for talk."

But, my head only played the "ah, ah, ah" part. Over and over and over and over, the shrill, supertenor, Isle of Man voices of the BG's shrieking, "ah, ah, ah, staying alive."

I may have asked the Big Kahoona in the sky to give me a heart attack and end my misery. He didn't, I was staying alive . . . ha, ha, ha, hearin' that line, hearin' that line.

Flash Forward!

God did grant me (at least) one favor that day. He let me forget my mental torment from the Brothers Gibb. Blocked out. Gone. Until this past weekend. I hadn't thought of my crazy-lady, mindless repetitive singing voices in my head until about 15 minutes into pushing my lawn mower.

Up and down, back and forth over the green, green, grass and clover of home. And, in my head, over and over another broken record. I caught myself once again listening to my mind's ear.

"The most sensantional, Inspirational, Celebrational, Muppet-ational . . . This is what we call The Muppet Show!"

What the hell?!

What's wrong with me?

I used to think I was the most logical, most in-touch with myself and sane person in town. My insights, profound. My words, wisdom laced. Thought I, my mind is a well oiled and finely tuned machine; a veritable steel trap to collect and store data. Info in, profundities out.

Like clockwork, baby!

(These days all that wants to come out are profanities. Thank goodness, my decency filters are still working.)

Has a wire inside my noggin' come undone? A synaptic connection unconnected? Has there been an internal short circuit of sorts? Have I blown my head gasket?

What has happened inside my melon that has caused me to hear, repeatedly, the same lines of these songs whilst doing repetitive, mind-numbing tasks? And, more importantly, what has condemned me to hear something from the Disco-age or the theme song to a stupid television show about stupid (although lovable) puppets?

I know lots of different songs from lots of different artists from lots of different times periods and all I get is:

"The most sensantional, Inspirational, Celebrational, Muppet-ational . . . This is what we call The Muppet Show!"

Come on, what's a "muppet-ational" anyway?

* * *

All I hear now is another line from another song from the late 1960s, "They're coming to take me away, ha-ha, hee-hee . . ." That's a line of a song not by Alice Cooper, as some believe, but Napoleon XIV (whomever he is?).

Maybe it's time to up my intake of fish oil to boost my Omega 3 levels. Fish is brain food, ain't it?

Comments, concerns or questions for Rush can be e-mailed to Don@ShermanPublications.org

Don is Assistant Publisher for Sherman Publications, Inc. He has worked for the company since 1985. He has won numerous awards for column, editorial and feature writing as well as for photography. He has two, sons Shamus and Sean and resides in the area. To read archived copies of his columns, click on his name, just under his picture up top . . . He can be e-mailed at: don@dontrushmedon.com
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