Argh!

Forgive me if I sound a trifle aggrieved. I’ve got “Escape” on my mind.

Or to put it another, perhaps more accurately, I’ve got “The Piña Colada Song” running through my head.

Yes, as you may have gathered from last week’s post, I’ve been listening to the Seventies Pop channel on SiriusXM recently. I appreciate the sheer variety satellite radio offers, and for the most part I like hearing an occasional track that’s not in my own record* collection (I won’t go into just how often “occasional” is; just keep in mind that I grew up listening to the radio in the seventies.)

* Okay, yes, these days it’s an mp3-with-intrusions-of-flac collection, but that doesn’t exactly fall trippingly** off the tongue. And much of my accumulated music does exist on rarely-played Lps.

** The spell-checker wants to change “trippingly” to “cripplingly”. Which may be an appropriate word for the way that phrase does cross the lips, but would rather change the meaning of the sentence.

I mean, I’ve got no Ike and Tina Turner in my collection, but their version of “Proud Mary” is nice–and rough. Chicago, The Who, Elvin Bishop, and Fleetwood Mac in the span of an hour? Sure.

Curiously, I’ve yet to hear “Stairway to Heaven”. Is it too “rock” and not sufficiently “pop”? Or do I just have bad timing?

But anyway, doesn’t SiriusXM have some moral responsibility to keep tripe like “Escape” off the airwaves? Haven’t we suffered enough?

Apparently not.

Who decided this was a love song, anyway? She’s cheating on him, he’s cheating on her, and they coincidentally discover they’ve got complementary kinks.

This is not a revitalized relationship. It’s a poisonous hellpit that’s bound to end in tears, murder, or both. Thank all the gods they’re not inflicting their inability to communicate on anyone else. Though Rupert Holmes has a hell of a lot to answer for.

But I digress.

I’ve had three different people tell me the disinfectant we use at work smells like margaritas.

Seriously? It just smells like bleach to me. Which is what the stuff actually is.

Are three people having identical COVID-19 olfactory distortions? Nasal hallucinations? Or am I the only person in the world who doesn’t think margaritas smell like bleach?

Maybe I just don’t drink enough margaritas.

Maybe I should ask someone if I should be salting the rim of the disinfectant bottle.

Maybe I’m thinking about this too much. Rest assured, I’m not planning a taste test. It’s just one of those ideas I can’t quite get out of my head.

Like “The Piña Colada Song”.

Damn.

I think I want a martini.