Ear Worms, But Not The RFK Jr. Kind, We Think

A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster

I am a dear soul blessed with the memory of hundreds, if not thousands, of romantic ballads from years gone by, but unfortunately I was only given the mental capacity to remember only dozens of words. As you must realize this was quite a drawback in my former career as a nightclub singer. Singing ‘Feelings ta dum dum dum’ did not go over well with the $25 a cocktail crowd in Vegas. I was booed out of several lounges and once my life was threatened.

Once in a while a beautiful song pops into my head and wanders around in the empty corridors of my mind struggling to get out and it happened again this morning. For some reason that old love-song She lived on the morning side of the mountain and he lived on the twilight side of the hill kept running through my brain as I was showering. Of course any words beyond that tantalizing introduction went out my ear and down the drain along with the Dove Soap and the Pert 2 in 1 Complete Shampoo 100+ showers. (Here I am hoping for some sort of recompense for plugging these excellent products. I believe I told you some time ago that Innis and Gunn, a fine Scottish Brewery, sent me a six-pack of beer. Mercedes-Benz sent me nothing.)

But as I was saying; I can’t remember lyrics and I was forced to Google the words to morning side on the internet. I am stunned to tell you the two lovers never met. I thought they did and lived happily ever after until the grizzly ate him while peeing in the woods, him not the grizzly, but no they never did. What could have been one of the great love songs of all time just fizzled out and died. It must remind you of the tragic ending to my affair with Sophia Loren which ended up with my nude photos being returned by some big bruiser from Chicago named Vito and a somewhat rude letter from the Pope.

The fantasy lovers never met, they never kissed and I have to assume they never got into the really good stuff which is the only reason I would ever climb a mountain or even Westmount Hill. And it is just as well they never did meet because the song was recorded by Donny and Marie Osborne and that sort of fraternization among one’s kin is frowned upon. Unless the mountain they were singing about was in the Arkansas Ozarks where a girl is no longer a virgin unless she can outrun her older brother.

True Story: Once at the Leacock Home I said the only difference between a werewolf and a girl from Arkansas was a werewolf is only covered in hair once a month and there was one in the audience (No, not a werewolf, a girl from Arkansas) I changed it later to a girl from Coldwater. I haven’t been there for 32 years.

What a disappointment and a waste of a good tune? Surely the lyricist could have arranged for them to meet someplace, even at the liquor store or Value Village, but no, not ever. Love songs, like romantic movies, all have to end happily, it’s the law. Cary Grant had to end up with Deborah Kerr in An Affair to Remember. She had already dumped The Flying Doctor (You forgot that Richard Denning was the star of that series from the late 50s early 60s didn’t you? So did everyone else, it took me an hour on the internet to find it.)

What if the old geezer running the elevator at the Empire State building in Sleepless in Seattle told Meg Ryan he was a union man and refused to take her up to meet Tom and the kid with the teddy bear unless he got time and a half, double time after midnight?

What if Meg had gone to the little park on the east side in You’ve Got Mail and Brinkley was jumping on some other chick. The dog got more action than Tom did.

What if Telly Savalas had machine-gunned that truckload of hookers in The Dirty Dozen and… I guess that isn’t a very good example.

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