Part 1
He's lost, he's tired. They've been driving for miles. She's trying to have an intelligent conversation, full of nervous energy.
As usual, with 40 more miles to go. He needs to pee. All his brain energy is focused on keeping the bladder in check.
"Whatever you say, Baby,"
"Wait. Did you just call me 'Baby' ???"
LONG PAUSE. Careful and considered.
"Whatever it was I didn't mean ta!"
He hopes that by quoting a fragment from a song, he can stop her from exploding. It's the first thing that comes into his mind really, every time he finds himself dealing with a woman who is about to explode. Or a drunk guy at a bar who is eager to punch him. He knows she knows this song. The problem is that he can't remember what song it's from. This puzzles takes up much more brain space than whatever it is she is telling him.
"I can't believe I'm riding around with a guy who uses the word "Baby" in an un-ironic manner. It's like you are trying to infantalize me!"
His ears catch up with his brain: Hang on, did she just say something about an infant? Could she be pregnant?
He looks over at her, hoping to say something brilliant. Pull some great joke out of his ass. He raises an eyebrow.
"You've come a long way? Baby?"
He flashes his characteristic smile.
He breaks her.
She can't help but laugh.
Miraculously, they make it to the gig without him ruining his only clean pair of trousers. Although it was a close call when the owner wanted an autograph before giving directions to the bathroom.
Mary Mary by the Monkees
==
PART 2
Sometime during their Sound Check, she wants to get back at him. She tries teasing him, but he is all focus and frustration. He climbs off the stage to check the balance of the speakers.
She begins to sing tunelessly:
"Don't use that toilet if you have to go to the bathroom during the show. I can hear you onstage"
She manages to whisper it into the mic in a somewhat sultry manner.
He whirls around.
"KEEP SINGING! I need to hear how it sounds!"
Suddenly she's stung, staring back at his words, surprised and suddenly scared, as if he's asked her to strip.
He thinks: She's so stuck up about things. Such a prude. How am I even on tour with someone like her, so uptight all the time?
"Wait, wait, wait. What-what should I sing? You usually . . . "
All her bravado is gone. She's lost without him and his guitar. He knows she HATES singing acapella, and he's being slightly cruel. But he likes it somehow. Maybe he'll throw her a note.
"SHUT UP AND SING!"
Or maybe he'll just yell at her. Sometimes that works too.
With lasers of hatred beaming from her eyes, she begins.
"I'll buy you Rogaine
When you start losing all your hair/
I'll sew on patches/
To all your underwear"
Her eyes. They look so mean, but she has twisted the lyrics out of shape. It's some random hit song on the radio. "Underwear" is clearly her own invention.
"Keep going!' He yells over his shoulder as he walks into the shadows, trying to hide a smirk. But it's too late. They were making fun of the real lines in the song while they were in the car, randomly and not nearly this cleverly. She keeps going until he falls on the floor laughing. And nearly ruins his pants a second time.
==
PART 3
It's a small crowd, but after a full set, he decides it's a perfect time to do an encore. As usual, she has no idea where's he's going with this.
"We have a tradition. MUSICIANS, that is, have a tradition. Of carrying on a great song, of carrying on the tradition." He's very serious. She looks over at him, dubiously. Wondering where her part comes in. If he has decided to include her at all.
"Are WE serious musicians?" She asks, both to him and to the crowd, neither of which takes any of this patter seriously.
But he plows forward. "We, of course, being SERIOUS musicians, WE have followed in the tradition of hearing a song and wanting to make it our own. Excuse me, we take it, make it our own, and thereby-we ruin it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen! We, in particular, LOVE to ruin songs!"
"I have no idea where this is going, but I like it!" She interjects. The audience laughs. They are with them, wherever they are going.
"So here is a song, I'm not even sure what it is called or who sings it, but we heard it on the radio, one of the 'commercial' stations, so it must be a hit,"
"So therefore, we hate it!" Gleefully, she can't let him alone.
"No, no, no. We DON'T hate it. We only ruin songs we LOVE! The songs we hate don't get played at all!"
"RIGHT!" She is all cheer and fun and games at this point, "So, what song IS this? I'm just curious."
"You want to know the song you are going to be singing?" He strums his guitar absentmindedly, like he's a cowboy loading a gun.
"I'M going to be singing?" There's that fear again, just behind her eyes.
"I hope you sing it. I certainly don't know it!" The audience laughs again, a little more uncertainly this time. "Start by singing it straight, and then do what you were doing before. When we were doing the sound check,"
"Oh that. Hmm. Okay...."
He strums a vague intro, and instead of jumping in with a brilliant line, she giggles.
"Wait, I don't think I can sing it straight!! Just play and I'll sing . . ."
"Usually I like to introduce the name of the song we're ruining, but here I'll just assume you guys will recognize this famous hit. Or if we are really lucky, maybe by the end of the night, it'll be a whole NEW song!"
He started again, and this time, miracle of miracles, she came in perfectly.
"I'll knit you Rogaine/
when you stop losing all your hair/
I'll bring you flowers/
for all your underwear"
And it just got worse. But her voice was lovely, and everyone in the audience was drunk, and happy to stay for their private joke, which expanded to include the entire roomful of drunken customers of the bar. And those people who were fed up with the music business, or the "Mucus Business" as he called it, being sold crap as their only option. But it was fun to listen to her, making up endless variations on a theme, vaguely resembling a hit song on the radio, that was too precious anyway.
From that night on, members of the audience would hear the song on the radio and be disappointed that it wasn't her perfect, Dr. Demento version of it. But they would smile anyway.
OTHER VARIATIONS
I'll sew on patches
When you start losing all your hair
I'll buy you flowers
To match your sweater!
I'll buy you flowers
When you start losing all your hair
I'll buy you Rogaine
For all your underwear
I'll buy you Rogaine
To fix your sweater
I'll buy you flowers
To make it better
I'll knit you Rogaine
When you stop losing all your hair
I'll buy you flowers
For all your underwear
Cause I-I-I Love
The way you call me patches
And you-oo-oo-oh
Take me the way I am!
The Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson
He's lost, he's tired. They've been driving for miles. She's trying to have an intelligent conversation, full of nervous energy.
As usual, with 40 more miles to go. He needs to pee. All his brain energy is focused on keeping the bladder in check.
"Whatever you say, Baby,"
"Wait. Did you just call me 'Baby' ???"
LONG PAUSE. Careful and considered.
"Whatever it was I didn't mean ta!"
He hopes that by quoting a fragment from a song, he can stop her from exploding. It's the first thing that comes into his mind really, every time he finds himself dealing with a woman who is about to explode. Or a drunk guy at a bar who is eager to punch him. He knows she knows this song. The problem is that he can't remember what song it's from. This puzzles takes up much more brain space than whatever it is she is telling him.
"I can't believe I'm riding around with a guy who uses the word "Baby" in an un-ironic manner. It's like you are trying to infantalize me!"
His ears catch up with his brain: Hang on, did she just say something about an infant? Could she be pregnant?
He looks over at her, hoping to say something brilliant. Pull some great joke out of his ass. He raises an eyebrow.
"You've come a long way? Baby?"
He flashes his characteristic smile.
He breaks her.
She can't help but laugh.
Miraculously, they make it to the gig without him ruining his only clean pair of trousers. Although it was a close call when the owner wanted an autograph before giving directions to the bathroom.
Mary Mary by the Monkees
==
PART 2
Sometime during their Sound Check, she wants to get back at him. She tries teasing him, but he is all focus and frustration. He climbs off the stage to check the balance of the speakers.
She begins to sing tunelessly:
"Don't use that toilet if you have to go to the bathroom during the show. I can hear you onstage"
She manages to whisper it into the mic in a somewhat sultry manner.
He whirls around.
"KEEP SINGING! I need to hear how it sounds!"
Suddenly she's stung, staring back at his words, surprised and suddenly scared, as if he's asked her to strip.
He thinks: She's so stuck up about things. Such a prude. How am I even on tour with someone like her, so uptight all the time?
"Wait, wait, wait. What-what should I sing? You usually . . . "
All her bravado is gone. She's lost without him and his guitar. He knows she HATES singing acapella, and he's being slightly cruel. But he likes it somehow. Maybe he'll throw her a note.
"SHUT UP AND SING!"
Or maybe he'll just yell at her. Sometimes that works too.
With lasers of hatred beaming from her eyes, she begins.
"I'll buy you Rogaine
When you start losing all your hair/
I'll sew on patches/
To all your underwear"
Her eyes. They look so mean, but she has twisted the lyrics out of shape. It's some random hit song on the radio. "Underwear" is clearly her own invention.
"Keep going!' He yells over his shoulder as he walks into the shadows, trying to hide a smirk. But it's too late. They were making fun of the real lines in the song while they were in the car, randomly and not nearly this cleverly. She keeps going until he falls on the floor laughing. And nearly ruins his pants a second time.
==
PART 3
It's a small crowd, but after a full set, he decides it's a perfect time to do an encore. As usual, she has no idea where's he's going with this.
"We have a tradition. MUSICIANS, that is, have a tradition. Of carrying on a great song, of carrying on the tradition." He's very serious. She looks over at him, dubiously. Wondering where her part comes in. If he has decided to include her at all.
"Are WE serious musicians?" She asks, both to him and to the crowd, neither of which takes any of this patter seriously.
But he plows forward. "We, of course, being SERIOUS musicians, WE have followed in the tradition of hearing a song and wanting to make it our own. Excuse me, we take it, make it our own, and thereby-we ruin it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen! We, in particular, LOVE to ruin songs!"
"I have no idea where this is going, but I like it!" She interjects. The audience laughs. They are with them, wherever they are going.
"So here is a song, I'm not even sure what it is called or who sings it, but we heard it on the radio, one of the 'commercial' stations, so it must be a hit,"
"So therefore, we hate it!" Gleefully, she can't let him alone.
"No, no, no. We DON'T hate it. We only ruin songs we LOVE! The songs we hate don't get played at all!"
"RIGHT!" She is all cheer and fun and games at this point, "So, what song IS this? I'm just curious."
"You want to know the song you are going to be singing?" He strums his guitar absentmindedly, like he's a cowboy loading a gun.
"I'M going to be singing?" There's that fear again, just behind her eyes.
"I hope you sing it. I certainly don't know it!" The audience laughs again, a little more uncertainly this time. "Start by singing it straight, and then do what you were doing before. When we were doing the sound check,"
"Oh that. Hmm. Okay...."
He strums a vague intro, and instead of jumping in with a brilliant line, she giggles.
"Wait, I don't think I can sing it straight!! Just play and I'll sing . . ."
"Usually I like to introduce the name of the song we're ruining, but here I'll just assume you guys will recognize this famous hit. Or if we are really lucky, maybe by the end of the night, it'll be a whole NEW song!"
He started again, and this time, miracle of miracles, she came in perfectly.
"I'll knit you Rogaine/
when you stop losing all your hair/
I'll bring you flowers/
for all your underwear"
And it just got worse. But her voice was lovely, and everyone in the audience was drunk, and happy to stay for their private joke, which expanded to include the entire roomful of drunken customers of the bar. And those people who were fed up with the music business, or the "Mucus Business" as he called it, being sold crap as their only option. But it was fun to listen to her, making up endless variations on a theme, vaguely resembling a hit song on the radio, that was too precious anyway.
From that night on, members of the audience would hear the song on the radio and be disappointed that it wasn't her perfect, Dr. Demento version of it. But they would smile anyway.
OTHER VARIATIONS
I'll sew on patches
When you start losing all your hair
I'll buy you flowers
To match your sweater!
I'll buy you flowers
When you start losing all your hair
I'll buy you Rogaine
For all your underwear
I'll buy you Rogaine
To fix your sweater
I'll buy you flowers
To make it better
I'll knit you Rogaine
When you stop losing all your hair
I'll buy you flowers
For all your underwear
Cause I-I-I Love
The way you call me patches
And you-oo-oo-oh
Take me the way I am!
The Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson
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