beefeater stares

Well. That explains that.

That whole bit below, the one where I was wondering what was up with how sluggish I was feeling? Well it wasn't the Mondays, it was my body reacting accordingly to having some sort of viral throat cold thing strapped to its back. Balls. I fought something like this off a few weeks ago when I saw my soon-to-be-four-year-old neice, a little germ factory if there ever was one (no, I kid. She's fantastic. Don't believe me? Look at this.)

ANYway, her inarguable cuteness aside, she had a certain laryngitusian strep throat THING lingering in her, and I almost caught it (my sister-in-law did, and as such was incapacitated for a week), and then I saw said sister-in-law (and child) Saturday night and what happened? Inbetween the booze that is? That's right, the kissing and the hugging, so here I am.

Actually it's not that bad. I ratcheted up the irritation with it because, well, I could get sick, but I'm not, not yet at least. Not that this stopped me from calling into work in the name of not getting sick. I had a nice little prickly pear of a thing crawl into my throat as soon as I stepped out of the office last night, and there it sits even now. Strangest sore throat I've encountered in awhile, not just because it's painful, but because it's not ALWAYS painful. Just when I swallow, or yawn, or inhale wrong. It could turn into something, but hasn't yet.

It also hasn't gone away, despite the fact I stayed at home and in my pajamas until 4 p.m., probably because I was still working on my laptop thanks to several software programs I can't explain. I have to say, telecommuting? A nice deal. Work is better when you don't have to actually go anywhere for it.

So I spent today trying to drink liquids, do more work than I aught've and watch dvds of "The West Wing." Another nice thing about being sick is you can pretty much take in whatever form of entertainment you wish and not be concerned about "being productive." This is something I seem to have a problem with.

'Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby," by Islands

Most of the music I listen to is what you might call 'roughage,' that is, things that take a little bit of work to enjoy. That's not he right way to put it--I don't have to work at all, really. Most of what I listen to isn't simple, bright, shiny, sunny or poppy. Very little of it--apart from the earlier described fondness for heavy metal and the Ramones--is stupid.

This song, by the impossibly indie-pedigreed Islands, is very stupid.

Sure, there's something clever in the title up there, and yeah, this isn't Justin Timberlake or Xristina dumb, but it is a very bright, very happy, and very very harmless little pop song. About as difficult to enjoy as a lollipop. And I hate those.

I don't know why that isn't something I go for more often, or, more germaine to the topic, why I do go for this song. The chorus burrows into you head faster than a Butterfinger commercial, and twice as nonsensical. "Bones, bones, brittle little bones?" What the &%$@! is that? And then you're going to follow that with a bunch of lazy little 'doot-doots'? What's the matter with you?

Islands are Canadian. I think that's relevant, somehow.

Anyway, the song's willfully quirky, weird, joyful and not just a little bit cute. You can imagine little animated creatures singing it in a forest as a crying little baby deer complains about its sprained ankle. "What can you do, little deer? You're imperfect, and you'll get better. Doot-doot!" And the little caramel-colored deer with its Hershey-kissed spots across its back wipes away its tears and sings right along because it's sunny, and there's a chipmonk with a fife dancing alongside a goose in a kilt. How bad can it be, really?

Doot-doot.