An important portion of my brain has been replaced by a jukebox.
Here’s my problem. In the last few months, with no advance warning, songs from my past flip on in my head.
I’ll be driving down Carson Street and, without warning, I’m humming “Wake Up Little Susie,” a terrible tune by the Everly Brothers I haven’t thought of for decades.
It gets worse. I’m in the grocery store line, putting my apples, French bread and kosher dill pickles on the conveyer belt when I whisper to sweet Molly, the checkout clerk, “I get around.” (Beach Boys) Molly replies, “I’m sure you do, and that will be 21 dollars and 60 cents.”
I can’t help it. My jukebox is on autopilot. So I’m chatting with my friend, a police officer from Reno. This is a tough guy. He has medals of honor to prove it. But a new 45 just flipped on the tray. I look him in the eyes and softly hum, “I got you, babe.”
Help! How do I unplug or run out of quarters?
Vacation time