So for reasons too boring to get into (I know, you’re stunned to find that there’s anything remotely related to my life I’d consider too boring to post on Left of the Dial), I pretty much always write my Left of the Dial pieces down here in the office, but am unable to actually post them from this here computer. So I have to email them upstairs and post from there.
But as happens about ten percent of the time, the act of emailing the piece causes Outlook Express to quit, which means I have to restart the computer. Interestingly (or perhaps not), it happens far more often with Left of the Dial pieces than any other email. Coincidence? You make the call.
So whilst I’m waiting for the computer to restart, I pick up the acoustic guitar I keep in the office for just such all-too-frequent occasions. It was pal Dave’s but he wanted to sell it so Top Management surprised me with it for Father’s Day. She’s good like that. Very, very good. Far better at acquiring guitars for me than I am at actually playing them.
So I just sorta fiddle around and then find myself playing Green Day's "Basket Case." That’s the one that starts: "Do you have the time to listen to me whine about nothing and everything all at once?"
I know. How inappropriate for me.
So I finish the song shortly after the computer finishes starting up and I put the guitar away. And I’m starting to write a defense of the Bee Gees’ work on the Saturday Night Live soundtrack to my Miles Davis email list when I realize Top Management is right above my head. From the sounds The Boy is making, it’s pretty clear that she’s changing his diaper. Also that’s just about the only time she’s right in that exact spot. Sherlock Holmes got nothin’ on me.
And then I notice that she’s singing "Basket Case."
Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I’m cracking up
Am I just paranoid? Oh no no no
My sweet, adorable wife, mother to a house chock full o’ younguns, happily singing punk in her beautifully clear country-tinged and conservatory-trained voice. While changing a diaper.
What does that mean? Is that punk? Or does that automatically shift the song itself, not just the performance, into the Not Punk category?
I think about this for a while. And there’s really only one conclusion to be reached.
There's feces involved.
But if Top Management’s thinking it’s time for a nose ring, eyebrow ring and tongue stud, well….yeah, that’d be pretty cool, actually. They’d match her tattoo that no one but me knows about.