fug that

I was in Chiapas in January, and visited two Mayan towns during the feast of San Sebastian. In one, part of the celebration involved a guy in jaguar suit and three guys in blackface in a tree, all making that 'woooo' sound that universally signifies the least possible effort to sound scary. On the ground were more men in blackface, throwing dead squirrels up at the guys in the tree. (I have no photos; no picture taking was allowed. You have to believe me.) Anyhow, that night at the bar we discovered that you can sing 'Ardilla Muerta' (dead squirrel, natch) to the tune of 'Guantanemera.'

It works with The Armies of the Night, too!

You can sing, um, "Al Qaeda Disco" to the tune of "Sausalito Disco."

Dammit, wombat! Now it's gonna take weeks to exorcise this demon jingle from my head.

Ha. Welcome to my world. Bopping down the street to -- at best -- "Buffalo Soldier" on an endless internal loop (the words alter to form a narration of whatever I'm doing: "Walking down Carroll Street/Zipping up my raincoat/Feels a little chilly/Dreadlock Rasta..."

I can't wait until they figure out a drug therapy for this condition.

I have been having the most dreadful and randomly-dredged from whence they were sent with cement shoes long ago tunes popping into my head for a day's residence. Like 'Sex Train' by the Sex Execs, 'And the Cradle Will Rock' by Van Halen, and, in April for the love of God, 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town' as crooned by Bruce Springstein.

It has been an ugly month.

A long time ago I developed a therapy for this. When I realiazed that a song was stuck in my head (sometimes it starts subconsciously) I would immediately counteract with a few lines from the chorus of Litter River Band's "Lonesome Loser."

Problem is I just replaced my herion addiction with a morphine addiction.

I say, I say Heroin, that is.

I was addicted to herons once, now I get by on the occasional ibis.

That last would seem to invite a bad pun on "Gil-Scott Heron," but in fact does not.

Scott's perfect Guantanamera anecdote brings back fond memories of visiting Kanchanaburi in Thailand. (Why? Count the syllables, and hum. As I did for three solid days...)