You know Barry – the big guy who sings the kind of sexy stuff you're supposed to play when you're feeling romantic? Well, he's never been a
particular favorite of mine. Didn't like him. Didn't hate him. He just was there. But not anymore. Now he's not there – he's here – inside my head. And it doesn't look like he's planning on vacating any time soon. Barry's
commandeering of my subconscious began a few days ago when my husband listened to some music over the Internet. I walked by and caught a few bars of Barry singing one of his songs and, like chewing gum left in a parking lot
in the middle of August, Barry stuck to my brain. Now I hear that song played over and over again in a never-ending concert that begins as soon as the alarm goes off and continues throughout the day on into the night, plaguing me
even as I try to fall asleep.
It wouldn't be so bad if Barry only surfaced when it was appropriate, but he doesn't. He shows up when I'm talking on the phone, when I'm grocery shopping, when I'm trying to write a note to my
kid's teacher.
He's there when I'm writing – heck, he made me write this column – and no matter what I do, he won't leave. Quite frankly, I'm growing weary of Mr. White and his music. I want him gone – but, I've discovered,
that's much easier said than done.
Have you ever noticed the harder you try not to think about something, the more you think about it? Like not smoking or not eating that last cookie, the more you attempt to purge the thought,
the more the thought creeps into your subconscious.
Yes, ever since Barry took up residence in my head, life has been one long song. But not a song with which I could live. Not Eric Clapton or the Beatles. Nor George Gershwin or
Billy Joe. A soundtrack by Elmer Bernstein or Jerry Goldsmith would be nice. And I'd love to have Smokey Robinson or Aretha Franklin as guests.
But there's no Aretha here. No Smokey. And Elmer and George don't hang around here,
either. Nope. Barry White, Mr. Hang-On-In-There-Baby, has moved in and I am trying to find a silver lining somewhere amidst all the moaning and groaning in his songs. It's not an easy thing to do.
Especially when the only nice thing I can say about him is that he sings better than Bob Dylan.
