There are certain songs in the Rock-N-Roll Universe that are semi-famous for being semi-incomprehensible. Whether it's an issue of the vocalist being so mumble-mouthed that the words themselves can't be understood (Can you say, "Louie Louie"?), or the lyricist being so strung-out on a violation of the Controlled Substance Act, the general populace is stumped when asked what-the-farnsworth the song is about.
One such song is 25 or 6 to 4, a 1970 hit for the rock/jazz fusion band Chicago, written by band member, Robert Lamm. Is it an ode to illegal drugs? Is it a tribute to chaos theory? Is it the result of a roomful of monkeys pounding on a typewriter?
As a public service, and to impress my readers with how insightful and wise I am, allow me to definitively interpret this musical mystery...right here and right now.
Waiting for the break of day
(The sun hasn't risen yet)
Searching for something to say
(I'm trying to think of something to write)
Dancing lights against the sky
(Oh look! The aurora borealis!)
Giving up I close my eyes
Sitting cross-legged on the floor
(I can't do this. I think I'll just sit here and meditate.)
Twenty five or six to four
(It'll be 4 o'clock in 25 or 26 minutes.)
Staring blindly into space
(Looking up without really seeing anything)
Getting up to splash my face
Wanting just to stay awake
(Maybe if I get up and splash some water on my face I'll become more alert.)
Wondering how much I can take
(I'm not sure I can handle much more of this.)
Should have tried to do some more
(I should have tried harder to write something.)
Twenty five or six to four
(3:35 or 3:34 AM)
Feeling like I ought to sleep
(Maybe I should just catch some zees.)
Spinning room is sinking deep
(I'm so tired, I feel kinda dizzy.)
Searching for something to say
(But I really need to get a song written)
Waiting for the break of day
(Dude...is the sun ever going to rise?)
Twenty five or six to four
(Does anybody really know what time it is?)
Twenty five or six to four
(Does anybody really care?)
Beloved left yesterday morning for a brief visit back home again in Indiana. (A friend's son is getting married.) That means I've got plans:
- Open that last can of Skyline Chili and indulge myself.
- Twice daily, tell myself that I really ought to vacuum and dust the house.
- Watch movies in which people get chased, suspense gets built, and things get blown up.
- Pray that it rains so I won't feel guilty about not painting the deck.
- Sleep soundly...and by that I mean make as much noise while I sleep as I care to.
- Spend the last 17 minutes before Beloved's return running through the house picking up debris.
I've got some questions for you...
Does ANYbody follow the Repeat part of the Lather. Rinse. Repeat. shampoo instructions?
When a nun gets undressed, is she uninhabited?
Shouldn't there have been a live-action, big-screen adventure movie based on the 1960's animated TV show Jonny Quest by now?
Is it possible to retroactively be awarded all the naps I refused to take as a child? (Please?)
What makes a highway high? And is it really safe to drive the high way?
Why in the name of all that is decent do newspapers continue to publish unfunny dreck like Fred Basset and not realize that #FredBassetMustDie?
Word Origins: Was a case of hiccups involved in the creation of the word hickey?
Would there be any digestive difference between eating an ear of sweet corn and swallowing several tiny balls of steel wool?
Proof that the twistedness of my mind is genetic and totally not my fault:
I'm currently visiting My Old Stomping Grounds...back home again in Indiana. Sunday morning, Beloved, SweaterGal, Dave McCool (my wife, mom, and brother), and I were driving to church and passed a young deer that had lost an argument with a motor vehicle sometime during the night.
I said, "Oh, Bambi!"
My brother: "Nope. Looks more like just BAM."
I finally took the plunge into the Bowed-Head Vortex this week.
Yep. That's right. I bought an iPhone.
"This is good," thought I. "When we're visiting SweaterGal but I still need Internet access to do my work for DocumentCzar, I won't be stuck using Beloved's phone as a WiFi hotspot."
The first bump in the road: the toddler taking care of me at the wireless communication store couldn't transfer my list of contacts from my old phone. It seems he connected my old phone to his magic transferring box and it said, "Why are you trying to plug a rock into me? Bring me a phone, or go away!"
Yeah...my old phone really was that old.
"Oh well...I'll just have to put my contacts in by hand. It will be a good excuse for thinning the ranks."
Wait. There's more.
I pulled into my normal parking spot at DocumentCzar at my normal, earlier-than-98%-of-the-other-employees time, and realized that my normally-left-in-the-car access badge had been abnormally left on my bedroom dresser.
"Oh well...I'll just call my manager, who also arrives every day at dawn-thirty, and have her come to the door and let me in."
But I was proudly carrying my new phone, which did not have my manager's phone number in it yet.
"Oh well...I'll just call Beloved (waking her up, no doubt) and ask her to get the number from my old phone, if she can find it and if I can talk her through which buttons to push to find the contact list."
Then I looked across the parking lot and noticed that my manager's Cooper Mini was not in its normal, tiny spot.
"Oh well...I'll just stand around the front door and look pathetic-yet-trustworthy until someone lets me in...or has me arrested...whichever comes first."
