If you didn’t just have an Abba moment, we probably can’t be friends.
This message may or may not be approved by Abba.I’m kidding. I love having friends who don’t have Abba moments. It makes it so much more interesting when I break into “Dancing Queen” mid-conversation because something they said reminded me of being “young and sweet, only 17, oh yeah.”
I’ll stop with the Abba now. It’s considered cruel and unusual punishment in four states — maybe all of them, I’m not sure, because I made the last part up.
George has been used to my outbursts for so long, he even participates in them sometimes. We’ll be mid-conversation about my new boots giving me a blister and, without fail, we both start singing, “Lemme go oooonnn, like a blister in the sun!” And everyone at Arby’s looks at us like we’re weird, when all we’re doing is talking about a blister. Gah.
Of course, riding hundreds of thousands of miles together has contributed to our musical repertoire considerably. Hours and hours of silence to kill calls for music, but even the favorite playlist gets old after the tenth time. George introduced me to all kinds of music when he was a rock-n-roll photographer, and drug me, kicking and screaming, from listening mostly to AM Gold from the years 1968-1978 to a much wider taste and appreciation for music.
He still forces me, on occasion, to listen to Pandora stations that make me ask questions like, “What’s this? The worst playlist ever?” or “Ladies and gentlemen, the sound of whales pooping! Isn’t it lovely?” But he still has an ear for things I eventually admit to liking. I’ve said all kinds of ugly things about Frank Black, but you can bet I was delighted when we were traveling through New Mexico my first time and George cranked up, “Motorway to Roswell.” It was a perfect soundtrack for a great memory.
Having a wide variety of musical references floating around in your head is definitely distracting when you’re talking to normal human beings. No one except George understands why in the world I would respond to the news of someone’s barn burning down with, “Shuck another man’s corn and your barn burns down!” (Side note: This is why we never have any Tony Justice CDs, even though he’s given us several. We have to give them to people to distract from the fact that I’m nuts and sing inappropriate things in public. This may be a filthy lie. I lose things, too. Because I’m a joy to travel with.)
But in all seriousness, nothing is better for the soul than rolling down the highway, listening to the music, and feeding the need for that ol’ white line.
See what I did there? Oh yeah, I forgot, turn it up.
