All bloodcurdling symptoms are pointing towards one alarming hunch: early fogeyness.
The trigger? I actually didn’t flinch listening to the Bee Gees! Freaking Bee Gees! What’s worse, I didn’t bother flicking the clicker and idly letting How Can You Mend A Broken Heart, Run To Me, How Deep Is Your Love and Emotion stream on my eardrums without, at the very least, chuckling, and, at the extreme, erupting into a spontaneous killing spree. The thing is that the aforementioned songs are prime equivalents of a root canal in my book.
Listen. I am as shellshocked as you are.
There is no way I am going to listen to the Bee Gees unless I’ve had my fourth Strong Ice and happened to be in an unavoidable situation like being plagued to irreversible insanity with ten drunken renditions of My Way in a karaoke bar. As I deeply care about my aural well-being, I haven’t been within a ten-mile radius of a karaoke bar in the past five years. Last time I heard the current heavy karaoke rotation is undisputedly Love Hurts by Nazareth neck to neck with Wonderful Tonight (by whoever sniffed prohibited substances and croaked this loser’s anthem). Two songs favored by talentless business executives everywhere.
I’d cite resurging depressions as an excuse but that would be lazy. In the dark corners of my childhood I recall growing up with a spinster aunt who used to play Bee Gees and Neil Sadaka until our ears bled pus. This must be the reason why I am such a psycho mess. Maybe I’d sue her for imperishable mental trauma and forfeit her estate. Evil thought, but so appealing it must be good.
Barring malevolent legal plans, the whole Bee Gees incident had me thinking: am I becoming a dried plum?
Oh my Gooood! I’m ooold! I’m gooooona dieeee!!!
Excuse the unscripted bratty melodrama; I’m trying to contain my forged terror.
Let me clarify something: more than the dread of possibly occupying the geriatric ward or being snacked on by earthworms and maggots, my greatest fear is not having anything substantial to account for my measly experience. The whole random privilege of one opportunity to make a sense is squandered, wasted, irretrievably diminished into slapdashes of embarrassments, fuckups, pains, dementia, irresponsibility and horrors strung together.
This kind of quick stop in Slumpville, I usually reserve two weeks before my birthday, but this whole Bee Gees shenanigan is hurling me head on towards Valium Country.
Trust me, you’d not want a visa there.
I recall what a beloved humorist once wrote: If life is a bowl of cheeries, then what am I doing in the pits?
Answer? Listening to Bee Gees, Erma Bombeck, listening to fucking Bee Gees.