I bought the Weeds soundtrack recently, mostly because I wanted a bright and shiny (thanks, Technology!) version of the Malvina Reynolds song “Little Boxes”, but a quick spot check revealed a few other tracks I was also interested in.
I put it on while I was assembling bookcases and was caught by an almost but not quite too sweet song redeemed by cheeky lyrics. So in the middle of the 873rd Righty Tighty, I amused myself by warbling along, “the little-ass birds sing the pretty-ass songs” (repeat, repeat, repeat).
It wasn’t until I looked at the track title that I saw it’s actually “the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs”, which is so disappointing I will carry on with my version the next time I’m tempted to sing along.
Two nights later I had the soundtrack on again, and while rushing down the hallway my foot caught on a stray bit from the giant pile of cardboard my shelves came packed in. I did one of those comedy forward flights where all four limbs are in the air before the gravitationally mandated slamming of knees and hand heels.
Then followed the adrenally mandated of moment of breathlessness during the autonomic evaluation of just how much damage has been done, which I usually find worse than than the actual damage.
I caught my breath and rolled over. I was staring at the ceiling when I noticed the track had changed and Martin Creed was moaning “I can’t moooooove” (repeat, repeat, repeat).
I’m now in the habit of skipping past the Sons and Daughters track “Blood”, just in case.
Way back in high school I was in something of a traffic accident. And after my Isuzu had spun around the second time and jarred to rest on the median, while I was staring at the oncoming traffic and the ice and the trail of parts sprinkled along the road by my recent communion with a late model toyota, the little song on my little tape player said something along the lines of “you’re dead, she said, she said you’re dead.”
So I stopped listening to that band for a while. Ahem.