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| Music to Suck By |  |
But when they took my blood pressure and remarked how high it read, it took all of my grown-uppiness to not snap, “Maybe, if you played decent music, it wouldn’t BE so high.” I mean, c’mon. I was sure I had died and was in Hell. Bread? You expect me to remain calm while you play Bread? They had plugged the surgery prep area music system into some Sirius channel that, as far as I could tell, was “Music to Suck By” and given the “procedure” I was due to have, I guess it was appropriate. I tried to read and block out Jose Feliciano but it was hopeless. When Jefferson Starship started whining about “I got to know what you’re doin’, doin’ me with your love,” I started to chew my lip and sobbed quietly. There’s only so much I can take. I hadn’t eaten for two days. I hadn’t had anything to drink for four hours. They had taken away my cough syrup for 48 hours. With the prep medication I was forced to drink, I had spent most of my recent past trying to make origami out of toilet paper and memorizing the lint patterns stuck on the bathroom walls. I was nowhere near perky, chipper or happy and yes, God forgive me, I guess that showed up in my blood pressure reading. I don’t think my musical tastes are too narrow. I like classical music. You know, The Beatles. No, seriously. I really like Mozart although I prefer the non-opera pieces. The only opera music pieces I like are the ones used in Bugs Bunny cartoons. I’ve never been real comfortable listening on purpose to large people hollering at each other while wearing stupid hats with horns attached for no apparent reason. The best music for hat wearing is anything by John Williams. Because when anything by John Williams is being played, you are allowed, nay required to wear your Indiana Jones hat. And if you do not have your own personal Indiana Jones hat close by at all times, ready to be slapped on your own personal head the moment the first dramatic chords start, I just have to ask: What is wrong with you? No wonder the world is in such a sorry state. Not enough Indiana Jones hats. I’m telling you, if more people took to wearing Indiana Jones hats, they couldn’t help but be less grumpy. I know if I had thought to bring my own Indiana Jones hat to the “procedure,” I would have been a tad more chipper. I like Beethoven, Bach and Chopin but I gained a new appreciation for Edvard Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” On one of my many trips between here in Central Oregon and San Diego, I happened to chance upon a radio station playing that song as I was winding my way through the Siskiyou Mountains. It was a mostly sunny day and hearing that powerful music as I’m gazing up at Mt. Shasta was a heart-pounding amazing moment of awe. I love early Motown. The Temptations, The Four Tops, Little Eva, my dear Ray-Ray (Charles,) Her Majesty Miss Aretha Franklin and, yes, The Jackson Five. Oh, did I love Michael Jackson. Now this was back in the day when he was so adorable (if you were a little girl my age) you nearly passed out from the terminal cuteness generated when he whirled and spun around while doing his best James Brown moves and belting out “I Want You Back.” I have no idea what happened in the ‘80s that made him want to change his nose to a shape resembling a Dairy Queen cone (because it was mighty fine in its original condition) but I blame Reagan. There’s not a whole lot of stuff I can’t blame on Ronald Reagan if I set my mind to it. But the best music, of course, is classic rock. The Beatles. Yeah, you could just stop there. But we have to add Queen and The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. That takes us into the blues tangent with Stevie Ray Vaughan, Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix. And Aerosmith, for the most part. NOT the power ballads. First off, no one smokes anymore and so no one is carrying a lighter to hold during a power ballad. Secondly, I hate power ballads. When I listen to Aerosmith, I want “Dude Looks Like a Lady” not “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” Puhleeze. Just play my all-time fave-rave “Seasons of Wither” and we can call it good. So, by the time they wheeled me into surgery, I was not content. I was about as far from content as you can get while maintaining one’s sense of etiquette without the benefit of an Indiana Jones hat. I got settled into place and then, the miracle occurred. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was because God had seen my suffering and had bestowed His pity. Maybe it was the drugs. The music system in the surgery room was playing “Penny Lane.” By the Beatles. Blood pressure went down like magic. I don’t remember a whole lot after that. But I still wished I had brought my hat.
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