Costing on Costa

Is it weird that the one thing guaranteed to make me smile when I’m in a funk is to listen to other people sing along with music in the car?  We were on the way back from the beach and Thom had mad mad skillz.  Unlike Rocco, he DOES have both a sense or rhythm and an ear for pitch.  That doesn’t make it any less hysterical to hear him screaming at the top of his longs along with his musical selections.  First he started with the frantic “nah-nah-nah” of Me First and the Gimme Gimmes rendition of Rocket Man.  Then I had to join in as we belted the Lemonheads’ cover of Frank Mills.

Thom was picking one perfect tune after another and despite the pouring rain and ridiculous traffic, he kept us in good spirits.  Granted, that was no small challenge as we were all pretty pooped.  I for one was well in a funk.  With my appointment with Dr. Doom less than twenty-four hours away, I was having a pretty hard time keeping my shit together.

Bittersweet had me bawling.  Total Eclipse of the Heart had me giggling.  Lynyrd Skynyrd had me crying softly.  Dirty Boots made me smile in reminiscence.  Hey Jealousy made me wonder what had happened to my dear old radio mentor, Marcia Gann.  Don’t Dream It’s Over had me wondering if all this cancer hell really is over.  In a matter of hours I’ll be either ecstatic or crest fallen, and nowhere in between.

And then Richard Marx.  Oh how I adored that cas-single.  I played it endlessly on my lavender boom box with its high tech double tape-deck.  Watching Thom’s face contort on the high notes sent me into spasms of laughter.  Even the inhabitants of the passing cars had to play along.

Then Nikka Costa sweetly sang from the speakers, “Mama, you can choose the rain, but I choose the sun.”  That was the best advice I’d heard in weeks.  “That’s all I need: to be myself.”  I can do that.  I can choose the sun.  Dr. Doom just better fulfill the order, damnit.


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