What. The. Hell?
So I had the radio on in the car again, and they were having one of those little trivia questions things that they always ask, so you won’t change stations during the commercials, because you want to know if you got the answer to the question right?
The question went something like he’s written more Billboard hits than McCartney and Lennon, or Elton John and Bernie Taupin, and some other clues that I wasn’t really listening to.
The point is, it was about 9:30 am, and I told my brain, “Ooh! I bet it was that guy!”
“What guy?” my brain asks.
"That guy! That black guy who wrote all that funky soul stuff in the seventies! What was his name? He wrote all those songs for those movies…you know, Let’s Do It Again, Car Wash… That guy! What was his name?
“How should I know?” my brain complains, “Shut-up, I’m trying to drive.”
“Tell me the name of that guy!! C’mon! You used to know it right off!”
“I’m not telling you shit. Goddammit, I wish these old coots would stay on the sidewalks with their power scooters. I swear I’m gonna flatten one of 'em one of these days, and it’ll fuck the car up, and we just spent a thousand bucks fixing it!”
“Awww, c’mon please???” says I to my brain, “If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna bug you all day.”
“Ah shit. Okay, you take the wheel. I’ll go see what’s in the file room.”
“And change the Muzak,” I yell after my brain after the door slams behind it, “I’m sick of Meatloaf…hmm-hmmm-hmmm…I would do anything for love…but I won’t do……Dammit brain! Hurry up!”
Ten hours later, while I’m watching a rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show:
My brain shows up sweaty and dusty: “It was Curtis Mayfield.”
I look blank, “What?”
“The songwriter name you wanted. It was Curtis Mayfield. But he didn’t write anything for Car Wash. That’s what took me so long. You sent me to the wrong spot.”
“That took you ten hours to look up?” I ask, looking incredulous.
Brain starts looking pissed, “Do you know how much useless fucking shit is in there? I was moving bank boxes around like a fucking steveador!”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I watch Rob Petrie unsuccessfully trying to write a novel.
There’s a short pause before my brain speaks again. “Was that the answer?”
“Huh?”
“Was that the answer to the trivia question on the radio?”
“Oh that,” I shrugged, “I changed the channel. The commercials were boring me.”
“You suck, you know that?” My brain stomps back to the file room and blasts Meatloaf’s I Would Do Anything for Love through the Muzak speakers.
