Those of you following me on Twitter know that I've been in a bit of a musical time warp lately, humming Barry Manilow tunes under my breath and thanking God I work at home where no one else can hear me. Mock all you want, but the guy knows how to pen a catchy tune, and in these gray days of March I'm all about anyone singing about Daybreak and letting the sun shine, shine, shine all around the world.
I received flowers on Saturday night--completely out of the blue--and I'm amazed by how much they've sustained me after spring hinted at it's arrival and then dove back under three days of weather than only the U.S. Postal Service enjoys. I don't know much about flowers; I can't identify many beyond a basic rose or tulip. But I'm really surprised by how happy this bouquet on my desk has made me over the past few days. It's like a visual reminder that this is just a gloomy season--it's not forever, spring ALWAYS comes--and that color like this will soon burst out all over the place. Let's just say that I'm ready for a burst of color.
The flowers are starting to get that musty smell now, so I think today is the last day of their reign in my office. But it's been nice having this pick-me-up to, well, pick me up.
In the midst of this, I'm reading a collection of essays by David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide last September. It reminds me that none of our pick-me-ups last forever, that we all need to find that thing that keeps us going long-term. I wish DFW had stuck around. I would have worked hard to finagle some sort of conversation with him--I mean, he conducted press interviews with big-name publicity outlets at his local KMart after one of his books came out. That's just funny. Instead, I'm reading everything he put to paper, and thinking about how capturing thoughts like this creates a legacy, no matter when or how your life ends. Grim, but strangely encouraging. Especially when I'm humming, Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl...
Okay, let's end on a happy note: What's your favorite Barry Manilow tune?