I’ve spent all day more focused on what song to use for tonight than what to write about. I started the morning having seen someone on Twitter steal an Instagram joke that is only good at midnight tonight (less than an hour away as I start to write). They said it would be Ramones O’clock for the one and only time. It would be 2020 24 hours to go. (For my parents, google the song above, and you’ll get the joke.) I had more medical imaging this morning, and my frustration levels are rising because of it, so you’d think “I wanna be sedated” was still a valid sentiment.
The kids and I went to see Cats tonight. I wanted to experience the weirdness in the theater, so I could say I was there. I never actually saw it performed live, in the (does math) 38 years it’s been around, but man, I know all that music. I got the record on a class trip to London in high school, and I imprinted every note in my brain. It all came back as I watched. So I walked out of the theater thinking that people who were extra freaked out by it were just not well-versed in the source material. I was more interested in critiquing the performances of each individual song. I got excited when it was time for Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat, and wished for the ability to skip the songs I always avoided when I was a teenager. I found it weird the way Tailor Swift seemed muted, like every time she hit a big note they insisted she not hold it or let it resonate. The kids were a bit confused by the whole thing. Perhaps I should have played the soundtrack at least once while the girls were young. It was completely unfamiliar to my daughter.
My other option for a song tonight was a sad one. As soon as the movie ended and the kids grabbed their phones, my son-in-law shared bad news. He held up a link saying Neil Innes, a songwriter associated with Monty Python, had died. I’ve always been a big fan of his Protest Song that I believe appeared in one of the Secret Policemen’s Ball movies. Nearly every October I find myself singing, “So I’m going back to my little grass shack, and drink me a bottle of wine, that was mis-en-bouteille before my birthday, and have me a f—ing good time.” It makes me sad that the Pythons are starting to drop off now. Graham died many years ago. Terry Jones has dropped out of public life with dementia. Now Neil. It’s rough seeing the people who brought you joy in your youth succumb to the infirmities of old age. We all will eventually, but it’s still a downer to watch it all fade.
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