I’ve been singing Paul Simon’s “Still Crazy After All These Years” in my head for about a week now. There’s nothing that I can do to get it out of my head. It’s there when I wake up in the morning and it’s my lullaby when I go to sleep at night.
The song’s staying power is really quite amazing, because I’ve been trying to knock it out with Jackson Browne (having developed a Browne fetish as of late, especially after I noticed he and I have become hair twins, though I have to say his a bit more mulletty and greyer than mine). You would think “Doctor My Eyes” or “Somebody’s Baby” could easily out earworm (which I always want to call an earwhig) Paul Simon.
If I could remember exactly how and when it got stuck in there, I would go back in time and change the channel, skip the song, do something to avoid this from happening.
It’s not that I don’t like Paul Simon. I have a special tender spot for Simon (and Garfunkel, of course) because of a tenuous connection it makes me feel with my biological father. But for some reason the song is just hitting my buttons in a weird way, most of which have to do with my birthday on Saturday.
Maybe the lyrics are bugging me. You know, sitting home watching the cars, not being the kind of (wo)man who socializes, being crazy. . . it’s never a good sign when you start seeing yourself reflected in the lyrics of pop songs.
So this is all just a very long way of telling you I was a little stunned to flip through the channels this evening to see that our local PBS station was showing a special where Paul won a medal of honor for being cool, or something like.
Now I’m not a new age hippie yoga freak by any stretch of a most-skeptical imagination, but I do believe there is magic in the world and sometimes the universe sends you signals of some sort. Of course, I’m not smart enough to decipher what all this Paul Simoness means, but I recognize. And that’s got to count for something, doesn’t it?