Digging in the archives, once again…
Okay, this one is a bit loopy, even for me, but I swear it’s not the result of my over-imbibing this evening, despite a recent run of posts that chronicled an endless cautionary tale about my fondness for libations. I will admit to possibly over-consuming a startling amount of mixed-berry cheesecake, so it’s entirely possible that I’m in the midst of a glucose reaction. We may never know. In any case, the challenge with this ditty is to see how many song references you can identify. (My apologies to the more youthful readers, as said references are definitely dated.) Enjoy.
I went to a garden party…
Well, it wasn’t really a garden party, per se, but it was a party and we walked through a nicely-landscaped front lawn in order to reach the door wherein the party was being held. There were plants and birds and rocks and things, but it felt good to be out of the rain once we got to that door. (Yes, it’s been a rainy night in Georgia, I mean Dallas, and no one really wants to arrive at a party in the midst of such. Yes, people of my age appreciate the opportunity to appear dewy and fresh, but not to the point of looking like a toothless, bearded hag in a cross-fire hurricane.)
Once inside the domicile, I was no longer all by myself, but was instead surrounded by people who wanted to teach the world to sing. (Truth be told, my partner was with me throughout the ordeal, but he’s always there, many seasons in the sun, and I’ve never been to me, or so it seems, it’s been such a long time.) There were a few folks in the kitchen attempting to prep barbecue for the impending repast (they stabbed it with their steely knives, but they just couldn’t kill the beast), but most of the crowd was going their own way and trying to get back to where they once belonged.
“Welcome,” said one of our hosts, surprisingly teary-eyed at our arrival. “So glad you could come, despite this wretched weather, girls.”
Me: “Well, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, but I never expected someone to play misty for me.” I brandished one of the things we had brought with us. “To sir, with love.”
Host: “Oh, an American pie. How thoughtful of you.” (I thought it unnecessary to mention that we had snatched up said pie at Costco a mere hour before our arrival. Signed, sealed, delivered, it’s yours.)
Other Host wanders in, slightly flushed. “Everybody’s talking at me, I can’t hear a word they’re saying. Something’s happening here.”
First Host: “Well, maybe if you weren’t sucking down the White Rabbit Beaujolais like a Rhinestone Cowboy you might remember the morning after.”
Other Host: “I don’t know how to love him.”
First Host: “You and me and a dog named Boo. Players only love you when they’re playing.”
Me, despite the fact that I was born to run, tried to stop this calliope from crashing to the ground: “So anyway, who else tied a ribbon around this old oak tree of a party?”
First Host: “Well, Beth is here.”
From another room, Beth: “I hear you calling, but I can’t come home to the kitchen right now.”
Other Host: “And Beulah is here.”
First Host: “Her name is Julie. Are you sailing away to Key Largo again?”
Other Host: “Oh, right. Sorry, I’ve been smoking in the boy’s room.”
First Host: “I knew it! It’s always all about you and the head games. You can leave me now, and you won’t take away the biggest part of me.”
Other Host: “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody, baby.”
Me: “Seriously, guys, let’s talk about something else, like all the lonely people who showed up at your YMCA and just want to rock the Casbah.”
My Partner: “Tiny Dancer, that is perhaps the most wretched line you have ever contemplated including in one of your inane blog posts. Stop, in the name of love, before you break my heart.”
Not Julie, wandering in from that other room where people are presumably having more adult conversations: “I don’t mean to make the earth move under your feet, but we’re not sure what that dip is on the coffee table. We don’t know if it’s green or it’s blue, although there’s something in the way it moves me. Still, it’s a tragedy and the feeling’s gone.”
Other Host: “Well, you’re just one hot child in the city.”
Not Julie: “That’s a completely inappropriate response, although I do feel like I’m looking wild and looking pretty. Still, can you fat-bottomed girls start lookin’ for some hot stuff, maybe tonight? We’re hungry and we won’t stop believing that real food is more than just a misty, water-colored memory in our minds.”
Me: “I don’t even know where to take this story now. I’ve worked myself into a hole.”
Partner: “And that’s why your blog is known as the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
Me: “You mean Ella Fitzgerald, right?”
Partner: “Oh, honey. No.”
There are 50 song references in this mess, unless I accidentally created additional tributes. How many did you get?
Previously published, slight modifications made. And yes, at the time I originally cobbled this mess together, I had recently attended a garden party, wherein our friend Beth DID show up, and my always-writing-stories-in-my-head mind certainly took notes. Oftentimes, it’s the tiny, obscure seed that eventually proffers the best fruit.
And I suppose I should mention that I added a few more song references, bringing us to 53. Should I add another one, so we can get to Studio 54?
Okay, I’ll stop now.
Maybe. I can’t drive 55.
See? It’s a loop that never ends, Mobius…