Cathleen Turner Overdrive

So I was driving home this evening (in my mother's Maxima, not the Lincoln, as my sister had the latter at work. I was particularly disappointed not the have the Lincoln because I had only earlier today created a playlist, entitled "Funkadelic," designed soley to provide appropriatly funky driving music for the Lincoln. A little Bowie, some Sly Stone, and a generous portion of Parliment Funkadelic...a solid mix. Lacking the Lincoln's functional tape deck, however, I was reduced to pacing my drive by that crusty standby, the Power Loon.) listening to the Power Loon, when Dire Straits' "Money For Nothing" starts up.

I'd just been playing Guitar Hero so I was thirsty for some air-guitar action. Money For Nothing didn't disappoing; the first 40 seconds is all just a huge building intro to the massive guitar riff--

Ba-wap! Ba-de-ne-nung, ba-da-na-na Ba-Wap! Ba-de-ne-nung!

Yeah! Fuck yeah! I rolled down all the windows, then threw open the sunroof for maximum sound leakage. No, fuck leakage. This is sound flow, high pressure and high volume; I'm moving more cubic feet of sound than the mighty fucking Mississippi.

But once we got past that initial solo guitar rampage and the words started to come, they seemed all wrong. This song was supposed to be about the Beverly Hillbillies, not...moving microwaves? Refrigirators? Color TVs? What had happened to the lyrics I remembered? Then I realized that the version of this song that I knew and treasured was not the original but rather "Weird" Al Yankcovic's kooky cover. Betrayed once again by Weird Al's consumate muscianship, I was reduced to belting out the guitar part a capella.

The preceding was written in the style of David Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius. I wanted a change.

One more item of note: I saw Robyn Werberg tonight and she informed me that she is an extra in the audience in A Prarie Home Companion (the movie, not the radio show. Do radio shows have extras?). When I asked how she got the spot, she offhandedly mentioned something about how her cousin's step-dad was the director. That's right, there are now merely THREE degrees of seperation between myself and Robert Altman, FOUR to Woody Harrelson, and FIVE to Wesley Snipes. Damn it feels good to be a gangster...