[Note: This post will make more sense if you FIRST read "Bratty Behavior" in the Learn category.]
Hypothetical: Suppose you were diagnosed with a bizarre brain disease that was ravaging your brain and eating your brain cells faster than a PacMan on speed. You have about a week left before you are re-categorized as a vegetable—either cauliflower or cabbage.
A world-renown neurologist (the best that pharmaceutical companies can buy) says to you:
“I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I can fix your brain with surgery. The bad news is that I have to remove one of two portions of it—either the gizmo part that controls your sight or the thingamajig that controls your hearing.”
And as you look around the plush consultation office for the nearest wastebasket to puke in (Is that a Picasso on the wall?), the super-duper doctor continues:
“So which is it? Do you wanna be blind or deaf? And make up your mind pronto. I’ve got a tee time in thirty minutes.”
The doc clicks a button on a remote control device. A Candy Striper prances into the room. (When did Candy Stripers start wearing Plexiglas shoes?) Candy hands you an appointment card and the doc his golf bag. She smiles at the doc. You didn’t get a smile.
The doc dons a shamrock green jacket with Augusta something on the lapel. “I hope you own a bank,” he said. “You know how stingy insurance companies are. Well, what’s your answer?”
What would your answer be?
For me I wouldn’t even have to think about it. I’d keep my hearing. Why? Because music can save your life.
1967 was the infamous Summer of Love. For me it was another summer of hate—hating every minute of the six weeks of forced visitation with my Dad (who was working or playing golf) and being supervised/tortured by The Black Haired Spaghetti—who still held a grudge against me for the “She Kills with Pills” episode. I still held a grudge against her for being the most despicable person I had ever encountered.
My solace was at night—alone in the “guest room”—listening to my boyfriend John and his pals Paul, George, and Ringo—serenading me with Sgt. Pepper song, imaging them dancing in their amazing day-glo colored costumes. (“I get by with a little help from my friends…”)
My Dad and the Black Haired Spaghetti had moved to an unincorporated area outside of Palm Springs called Indian Wells—on the 8th fairway of Indian Wells Golf Course. Why? Because The Black Haired Spaghetti wanted to hang out with Frank and Mia. As in Sinatra and Farrow. The Black Haired Spaghetti HAD to be part of the Bob Hope Desert Classic.
That meant my Dad had to commute from Indian Wells to his dental office in Garden Grove, over a two-hour drive each way. He made the trip in his goofy Karman Ghia six days a week as he worked a half-day on Saturday. (Note: The Black Haired Spaghetti had three cars: a Camaro, a Cadillac, and a Corvette. Yeesh. My Dad was such a patsy.)
That also meant too much alone time with She Who Needed to Ingest Rat Poison. Add that to:
- the years of putting up with this hideous arrangement;
- the adolescent hormone fluctuations in general;
- the housework;
- the desert heat;
- the lousy food;
- the Black Haired Spaghetti’s pet ocelot who clawed me all the time. (Did she say ocelot, as in a wild cat like a leopard? Yes I did. The Black Haired Spaghetti imported one from South America. Its name was Ozzie.)
- and last but not least, the Black Haired Spaghetti’s Dastardly Son who was always bugging me.
Add it all up and what do you get? A recipe for disaster. A perfect storm in the making. An imminent explosion of biblical proportions.
And explode I did—one long hot summer day.
The Black Haired Spaghetti said she would drive me to Palm Springs so I could walk around and look at the cool shops. I set my hair in those funky pink spongy rollers, put on cute shorts and a top, and sat on the edge of the pool in the backyard to wait until my ride was available.
Dastardly Son (who was about five years younger than I) was paddling around the pool. He liked to taunt me—stupid stuff like, “My Dad is not your Dad.” “You don’t have a Dad.” “My Mommy says your Mommy is insane.” Whatever. I could have pounded that little punk into the ground any time I wanted.
He splashed me. Over and over. I told him to cut it out. But he didn’t. And when he splashed my hair, that did it. I jumped in the pool and went after him. Before I could catch him he leapt out and ran into the house screaming for help. I ran after him—screaming I was going to clobber him. The Black Haired Spaghetti stepped into my path. She looked petrified.
I yelled at her and stormed off sopping wet. I went to the guest bedroom and once again for the umpteenth time put on my favorite album, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. I lay on the floor with my ear up to the speaker of my portable stereo and listened to it over and over.
When my Dad got home from work, he got an earful from The Black Haired Spaghetti and Dastardly Son. By then I had had an earful of the Beatles and they had calmed me down. I had been picturing myself on a boat in a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
My Dad realized that this blended family thing was not blending. He offered to turn right around and drive me back home to Garden Grove—weeks ahead of schedule. I saw The Black Haired Spaghetti and Dastardly Son and Ozzie in the background, down the hall, licking their chops, jubilantly waiting for me to pack my bags.
But I thought, why give them the satisfaction? As badly as I wanted to go home, I wanted to bug them more. I said, “No, I’ll stick it out.” The creatures down the hall went nuts.
I smiled and went back to John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
Yes indeed, music can save your life.
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Check out this video:
http://www.amazon.com/Sgt-Peppers-Lonely-Hearts-Remastered/dp/B0025KVLTM/ref=pd_cp_m_2/
One of the soundtracks for the Baby Boomer Generation. Did we have the best music, or what?
