I have endless playlists, a catalogue of songs at my fingertips waiting to enrich every occasion or mood. List titles include: “Pissed Off” (think 1990’s Alanis Morrissette), “Spiritual” (to compensate for the “Pissed Off” list), and “Cry Baby” (songs guaranteed to bring on the tears). While cruising to the beach (“Toes in the Sand” list), I belt out hits from Santana, Eric Clapton, Ruthie Foster, Melissa Etheridge, Zac Brown and of course Jimmy Buffett. On the way to work (“Rise and Shine”), I start the day with encouraging lyrics from Cat Steven’s Morning Has Broken, Don Williams’ Lord, I Hope this Day is Good, Al Jarreau’s Mornin’, Rare Earth’s I Just Want to Celebrate and Bon Jovi’s It’s My Life (you can never go wrong with Bon Jovi). Given enough time, the individual songs on each playlist rotate out, and are replaced by equally fitting tunes. I question if my obsession with these lists came from watching too many movies, a joy that created my need for a personal soundtrack.
Do you remember The Mary Tyler Moore Show? My favorite episode first aired in October of 1975, “Chuckles Bites the Dust”. The plot centers on the WJM-TV staff’s humorous reaction to the absurd death of Chuckles the Clown, an often-mentioned but seldom-seen character. While attending a parade dressed as Peter Peanut, Chuckles was mortally wounded when “a rogue elephant tried to shell him.” During his funeral (Chuckles’ not the elephant’s), Mary lost all control at the reading of Chuckles’ credo, a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants. I believe Chuckles the Clown understood the power of music to lift our souls. And if there has ever been a time when our souls need lifting, it is now.
Leaving work the other day I was thinking of “Chuckles” (no need to judge me). And yes, I was repeating his mantra in my head and perhaps softly on my lips. It had been a rough day, after an unbelievable month, during a tragic year. At 5 p.m. I joined my coworkers in the zombie stroll to our cars. My soul needed lifting; I needed a little seltzer down my pants. I raised the roof on my convertible and cranked up the “Be Happy” playlist. Trying to stay in the same key as Simon and Garfunkel, we sang The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feeling Groovy). What I thought to be a trio (Paul, Art, and yours truly) soon became a quartet and eventually a small ensemble. Bow-Tie-Bob with his flat top haircut and his high waisted belted slacks leaned into my car with, Hello lamppost, what’cha knowing, I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’. Surprised by his out of character behavior, I whipped my head around only to see Barbara-Business Suit, our middle aged still-sorority girl, shoulder-shimmy as she sang Doo-ait-n-doo-doo, feeling groovy. And just like that, additional back-up singers affirmed, Feeling Groovy. I slipped my car into drive and slowly pull away. For the moment, the zombies (or in our case “Zoombies”) had disappeared.
Hollywood leads us to believe that the only way to get rid of zombies is with a silver bullet or a stake to the heart or garlic or whatever. In reality, all you need is a little song, a little dance and a little seltzer down your pants.
Right on! And, a nice stroll down memory lane.
Thank you, Kris!
Your blog brightens my day. Thank you husband for posting them on Facebook.
Ben
Thank you, Ben!
And yes, I will thank him!
Everyone should have your playlists!
Agreed!
YES I remember Chuckles. Yes I remember the laughter that was inappropriate but oh-so appropriate. It is, of course, exactly what we need at times. And what better times than these? Thank you for this Kelly. I think I’ll revisit some Mary Tyler Moore. Perhaps some Carole Burnett as well. Those gals knew how to make us laugh when we were down. (Mrs. Wiggins…)
Ha! When I read “Mrs Wiggins” I cracked up at the thought.