ah, you young, misguided people born in the 1980s and beyond. you can’t imagine a world where phones have cords, where if you missed a television show, you missed it (thanks to no recording devices), where records played on record players with needles.

and you think dreamweaver is a song from wayne’s world.

i can’t begin to explain why on earth i loathe this song. but i’ll try. it could be the freaky, masturbatory overuse of synthesizers? (oh, are those sounds of nature i hear? stars colliding? unicorns chasing rainbows? dung beetles rolling around in dung?) is it the cryptic nature of the lyrics? i mean, why would a dreamweaver drive a train? was he a sub for casey jones? and how the hell does he make it to an astral plain?

wow. if i were a boomer, i’d be wildly embarrassed if i wrote poetry too awful for a high school creative writing magazine, with flowy, clichee-ridden phrases perhaps inspired by smoking marijuana — pot i’d point out which had potency of bongwater compared with the stuff the boomers’ kids are toking these days.

ah well. the song does remain with you for days. years. sometimes, it comes out at the weirdest moments. f’rinstance, eight years ago, we remodelled our house. the poor, beleagured project manager of the goat rodeo was a man named dave weaver. one day, BS pointed out something i had to bring up to dave, something that needed remediation. i don’t know what possessed me: the spirit of gary white? the exhaustion of being a mom to a non-sleeping one year old? the fact that i was on major percocet thanks to shingles?

but i looked at BS, and i burst into song:

oh-hhh, DAVE WEAVER, i believe you can fix my kitchen si-ink!

i think it was at that point that BS thought it best that he do all the communicating with the remodelling team.

i’m telling you, people. friends do not let friends listen to dreamweaver. (which i suppose means that i’m a crappy friend now that i’ve provided it to you. you’re welcome.)