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Friday night, on the way to Maine, I noticed that my throat hurt a little bit. Not a huge amount, and it was overshadowed by the fact that my bladder was about to burst, but I was conscious of a hurty spot on the right side of my throat.
When we got to the cabin, I made myself some tea and figured a good night�s sleep would help. Unfortunately, the hurty feeling was still there on Saturday morning. And Saturday afternoon. And Saturday night.
It hasn�t gone away yet.
Last night, while I was brushing my teeth, I poked the back of my throat accidentally with my toothbrush (don�t ask me how�I couldn�t really tell you. I�m not entirely certain myself), and it hurt. The throat pain isn�t exactly an ache, but an actual pain. When I press on that spot, it hurts, like when you push on a bruise.
I get low-grade sore throats a lot. Mostly, I just ignore them. This is maybe not the best course of action, but I have big fear that if I go to the doctor and complain, I will suddenly find myself lined up for a tonsillectomy.
I�ve had my tonsils for 30 years. I don�t see why I should have to part with them now. My mom says I�m being silly. She reminds me that I�d get to eat ice cream. Images of the Brady Bunch tonsil episode flash in my head. It�s not the surgery that I�m uncomfortable with. I just have no desire to use my hard-earned time off to have my tonsils removed. I�d much rather use those days for things like our Toronto trip next week.
But man, this is no fun.
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There are certain periods in my life that develop their own soundtrack, places in my memories where the music is completely inseparable from the events. My time with Brian was all about the Red Hot Chili Peppers� Blood Sugar Sex Magic. The Amanda Incident has the Refreshments� "Banditos" running in the background. My first date with the Artboy is accompanied by the sounds of Machinery Hall. When I imagine Friday nights at Roll Land, I hear Van Halen�s "Jump," Katrina and the Waves� "Walking on Sunshine" and all sorts of Prince.
When I look back on the time I spent living in my apartment with Chris, I�ll talk about the Beastie Boys Years. That�s almost all he listens to. And in any given situation, if you say something to him, he comes back with a Beastie Boys lyric appropriate to the situation. Well, at least borderline appropriate.
I like having a soundtrack to my life. It�s going to make it much easier to write the screenplay.
A few years ago, I bought a book called Fast Sofa by Bruce Cravin. It�s out of print now, which is too bad. The book came with its own soundtrack, a 45 rpm record attached to the back sleeve, bright pink, that would really play if you put it on a turntable. I never did try, though�I didn�t want to take the record out of the book. The songs were by a band called the Flesh Eaters (wonder what ever happened to them?). Even though I never heard the song, I loved the fact that the record was there. Why shouldn�t a book have a soundtrack?
Why doesn�t life have a soundtrack?
I�ve often thought it would be a lot more interesting if our lives were like old musicals. It�s like that scene in Singing in the Rain, where they�ve been up all night and are finally about to go home, and one character says, "well, goodnight," and the other says, "Goodnight? You mean good morning!" and they break out into a huge musical number, singing the "good morning" song and dancing around the apartment. Then, just as quickly as it started, the music ends and the characters go back to their normal conversation like nothing ever happened.
Don�t you think it would be fun if that happened in our day-to-days? I can just picture it�we�d be sitting in our Friday afternoon meeting, discussing what the department will look like in 2004, arguing the merits of a single reading room over several smaller ones, when one of the radiologists would stand up on the table, shout something about working better together, and then the whole room would get out of their seats, dance around the conference room and sing some catchy Radiology song.
Or not.
I think I�m still tired.
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