Driving back from dropping the young man at his job at 4 am, which was supposed to not be a thing anymore as a condition of his return to that place, the rock stations grow dreary, I switch to classic rock and hear “Take the Money and Run,” which I’ve never been able to like, though I got the album it was on for Christmas when I was 11, but it does no good to turn on NPR at that hour; makes a person start thinking about things and then sleep is hard to reach, and I decide for the umpteenth time it isn’t just because he rhymes “what the facts is” with “the people’s taxes,” but that I don’t care about Billy Joe and Bobby Sue at all, or anyone who makes a man sing “Hoo, hoo, lord,” as a matter of course, even from back in the 70s when people had the misguided idea that was okay to do in a song.
And it’s followed up with “Sultans of Swing” by Dire Straits, so now I’m about to slip into an existential fog, something I’m always poised on the edge of anyway, when I turn onto our street to find the young rabbits just sitting in the middle of the road, and one of them swiftly exits stage left, but the other nervously bounces back and forth directly in front of me for a hundred yards, and I have to crawl behind it, even turning into the driveway in front of me in confused panic before finally heading back off to the yard and what I can only assume will be relative safety.
So now I’m awake anyway, but it isn’t a good thing for me to be, with that idiotic song rolling through my brain, the ceiling fan ticking lightly in constant rhythm against the motor casing, birds beginning to chirp outside my front windows, and if I’m not careful, thoughts about things will start creeping into my head. I don’t know how you insomniacs survive these nights with all the gloom and road kill and bad rhymes which accompany them.
Let's cancel out that tune, at least.