Hey, hobo man, hey Dapper Dan,
You both got your style,
but brother,
You’re never fully dressed without a smile!
You’re clothes may be “Beau Brumelly,”
They stand out a mile,
but brother!
You’re never fully dressed without a smile!
Who cares what they’re wearing
On Main Street or Saville Row?
It’s what you wear from ear to ear,
And not from head to toe
(that matters)
So, Senator, so, janitor, so long for awhile,
You’re never fully dressed,
Though you may wear the best,
You’re never fully dressed without a smile.
Because if I have to have it stuck in my head, YOU DO TOO!
I’m a cruel Diaryland mistress. I know.
Esteban and I always have a song stuck in our head. It’s one of those things that we never realized about each other until just recently. Now we play a little game with each other. One of us will ask: “What song right now?” and the other answers. If you can infect the other person with your song, you win and then the game is over. It’s a little game, not very complex but totally sadistic. We enjoy it. Every now and then, we stalemate. For instance, he had “Iko Iko” stuck in his head and I had the theme song from the early 90’s commercial “Mr. Bucket” (“I’m Mister Bucket… the balls pop out of my mouth… I’m Mister Bucket!”). Then we even tried singing the songs to each other, trying to force it. Didn’t help. We were both puzzled, uncertain what this new power struggle meant to our relationship and slept fitfully that night, each dreaming to the soundtrack of our songs. Such are the little dramas in our lives.
I like having the songs from musicals in my head, but it’s usually never the GOOD songs from the musicals. No. It’s the horrifyingly annoying songs. I get the Ethel Merman version of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” quite often. Or that damn Jellicle song from Cats. Blech.
I once read a hypothesis about smart people…. wait, not that I’m saying that I’m intelligent or anything.. this isn’t a big bragfest, I want to make that quite clear right now… that said that an intelligent brain is always thinking. It needs to grind on something, the way beavers need to chew or their teeth will grow into their skulls and kill them. And sometimes, in order to function, it sullies itself in order to concentrate upon the task at hand. If I’m not outright singing the song to myself, I never really notice the songs, honestly. I couldn’t tell you what the LAST song was. I suspect something from Cabaret. I know that I had “Wilkommen” stuck in my head yesterday morning as I was putting gas in my car. I know this because I was making up words to go with the song, words about how damn sexy Alan Cumming is and how I’d like to dance around in silk bloomers and garter belt for him.
Sometimes I think I share too much.
A little back story on the “Mr. Bucket” song: One of the reasons I fell madly forever deeply in love with Esteban was due to the Mr. Bucket song.
Once upon a time, I was living with a psycho roommate from hell and had a mofo ear infection. If you’ve never had a mofo ear infection, you probably don’t realize what misery that is but trust me, it’s nasty. It has your complete and full attention. It feels exactly as though you’ve got a red hot dagger being driven into the side of your head. And I was a poor college student with no medical insurance and only a part time job making pizzas and shredding pound after pound of mozzarella cheese for paltry wages, so I was hoping that it would go away on its own. Thus, I was feeling poorly so Esteban sang me the “Mr. Bucket” song, in a perfect imitation of Mr. Bucket’s snuffy congested voice. And it made me smile. And that little thing locked him in my heart forever.
God, that’s so sappy, but who knows? If he hadn’t sung me the “Mr. Bucket” song, I might have broken up with him a few months later when we moved in together and the computer store he was working for was purchased by someone and he was fired and replaced with someone who was paid half as much. And he became a raging asshole for about six months. Six months of hell. So if it weren’t for “Mr. Bucket”, I might have broken up with him and then who knows what would have happened.
But I didn’t. And there it is. Thank you, Milton Bradley.
“I had a song stuck in my head, but now it’s all Annie, thank you very much!”
