You know what an earworm is. It’s that tune, that lyric, that harmony that runs through your mind, over and over and over again.

I have been accused of manufacturing earworms. I used to start each blog with a lyric or two from a popular song. Then one of my associates complained that after reading my posts she could never clear her mind of the song. Not wanting to put a barricade in her working day I stopped those lyrical openings.

A few days ago I received my delayed comeuppance.  An earworm invaded my brain, nibbling away at the frontal cortex on the way to my memory centers. I was vaguely familiar with the song. The melody was bright in my mind, but the lyrics were a bit muddy–I couldn’t quite recall a single coherent line. I was convinced I could clear the earworm, if only I could remember the name of the song.

Although I knew that I had heard the song a few times on the radio, I was sure that it was not on my regular iPhone rotation. I doubted I had ever heard it on my self-curated Pandora station. There was just one clue that might help me identify the song. I had a vague certainty that the band performing the song was Phish.

I know almost nothing about Phish. I know they are a jam band with a following somewhat resembling the Grateful Dead (Phish Heads?) and that their lead singer sometimes performs with the remnants of the Dead. But have I ever heard any of their music? What made me convinced this fragment of a tune was their song? And how was that going to help me solve the mystery?

As usual, when stumped I turned to Google. I begged my brain to remember a few words from the lyrics. I Googled those lyrics along with “Phish.” No hits. I queried “Best Phish songs” but still no luck. I reviewed my Shazam history–nope, no record of a Phish song there. I even tweeted Lin Brehmer, morning tune-spinner at WXRT, begging for the name of the one Phish song I thought the station played. No response from him or his listeners.

And then–inspiration. Alexa. Lately, the old gal has been limited to responding to the granddaughters’ requests to play “Baby Shark.”  But maybe she could help me. I asked her to play Phish songs.

“Shuffling Phish songs,” she replied.

The first few notes of a song I had never heard played.

“Next,” I requested. Another mishit.

“Next, next, next.”

Finally, on hearing the sixth or seventh song, “Eureka!”

The Phish tune was “Heavy Things.” A sense of relief, and the knowledge that my persistent earworm could be laid to rest. Only to be replaced by “Baby Shark.” That one will live in my head forever.

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Missing politics? Here’s a link to last week’s blog: http://www.chicagonow.com/downsize-maybe/2019/07/democratic-letter/

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The results are in and there is a significant change near the top. According to Forbes, while Jeff Bezos is still the richest person in the world ($124 BILLION) someone has passed Bill Gates ($102.9 BILLION) for the #2 spot. The second richest person in the world isn’t another technology baron or royalty of any kind. It’s not a mega-entertainer or mega-jock. It is Bernard Arnault!

Bernard Arnault? Um, have I been sleeping under a rock? Who the heck is Bernard Arnault and how dare the man be richer than Gates, or Warren Buffet or Mark Zuckerberg, or the feisty ole’ Queen of England?

The answer? Mr. Arnault is a businessman. To be precise he is Chairman and CEO of LVMH a French luxury goods conglomerate. That didn’t mean much to me until I realized that if we are talking French luxury goods LV must stand for Louis Vuitton. And I raised a toast to him–Moet and Chandon of course, the famous Champagne is another brick in the LVMH wall. Louis and I go back quite a way.

Like most kids growing up in the East Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago, I spent my youth blissfully ignorant of the brand. Maybe I recognized the trademarked logos of Gucci or Chanel, but the brown-tan pattern with the funky LV insignia was beyond me. If I had lived on campus during my years at Northwestern University I might have come across an east coast coed with a Louis evening bag, but alas I spent those years living with my parents and bagging groceries “at the Jewels.” No designer goods at either place!

Then came Medical School at the University of Illinois, Chicago with its enormous class of over 400 middle-class kids like me. And into this bluish-collar mix marched three young men who didn’t quite fit in. With a strut, silk shirts open to their navels and University of Michigan emblems on their backpacks, the Disco Boys had arrived. Arrived to learn to be doctors, just like the rest of us. Donna Summer was on the radio, the Hustle was the hit in New Town, and the Disco Boys were learning anatomy with me at Harrison and Polk.

And I had my exposure to true class.  Dion, the shortest and swarthiest of the three, firmly grasped a binder with a brown-tan pattern. He seemed so proud, so I asked a classmate or two why that binder was so special. One of my more upscale dissection partners (Highland Park, perhaps?) filled me in on Louis Vuitton, the status and the cost. I was appropriately impressed.

And since then? Well, I have gotten to know the LV brand. Barb has owned…a few Louis bags. Some of them have been gifts from me, but never without careful instructions from the giftee on just what to buy from the company boutique in Northbrook Court. Knock-offs? Get behind me Satan! Even in Bangkok, Thailand, the knock-off capital of the world, we couldn’t find one that had the look or feel of the real thing.

As a salute to her favorite brand Barb is even working on a new needlepoint with an LV bag jostling on the canvas with gift bags from Hermes, Tiffany’s and the like. We have a perfect to hang the finished product–our Louis will always be within sight.

So Mr. Arnault, thank you and your company for keeping the Louis name alive and available. You never know when I might need to go out and buy Barb a special gift. And next time I might not even ask her advice! And maybe I can use a new binder…

 

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I know it’s Monday, but still…

I bought my last car in Naperville. That’s a long way from home, but only about a 20-minute drive from the lab. Even that drive can get extended during rush hour. So it is a nice feature that as long as I schedule my routine service far enough in advance, the dealership will send a car jockey to the lab with a loaner to leave for me. The service jockey  then drives my car to Naperville for the work. The system works well, and I have never actually had to drive back to the dealership since I purchased the car 18 months ago. It’s a good deal.

Two weeks ago my cars dashboard warning let me know an oil change was due as I approached 40,000 miles. I called the service department, let them know I wanted the car pick up service and arranged an appointment for today. I parked at the lab, cleared all my paraphernalia (tollway e-pass, sunglasses, book on CD) from the car and waited for the car exchange.

Fifteen minutes before the designated time my phone rang, an unknown caller showing up on the display. Acting on instinct (I usually don’t answer the phone for unknown numbers)  I picked up, only to have a scratchy voice on a poor quality phone ask for Jeff. “You’ve got the wrong number,” I told the caller. He seemed a bit perturbed but hung up. Moments later the phone rang again, the same number on the display. I answered (Why? you ask.) and said hello. This time the caller hung up.

Eventually, the lab doorbell rang and I heard a very confused man trying to find someone, although he didn’t seem to know who he was looking for. A hunch told me this was my pick-up man. Sure enough, when I came out to check, he was waving a clipboard with the dealership name on it. I introduced myself and told him it was my car he was here to pick up.

“You’re hard to find,” he said. “I called the number they gave me from the dealership, but it was the wrong number.”

He waved a piece of paper in my face upon which a phone number was written. Yes, it was my correct phone number, and of course, this was my unknown caller.

“That is my number, but when you called, you asked for Jeff!”

“Oh, that’s my name. I guess I got confused.”

Anyway, I signed three or four documents, gave him the key to my car, and took the keys he gave me. The loaner was a sharp looking car, this year’s version of the same model as my own car. As mine was driven away, I popped into the loaner to pull it into the deserted parking spot. I pushed the Start button, but the engine didn’t turn over. A message came on the dash, telling me the remote control had failed and I should hold the key against the “designated spot.”

I pulled the key ring the car jockey had given me out of my pocket. The first thing I noticed was the Mariano’s loyalty tag on the ring. Next to it was what looked like a house key. “That’s strange.” I thought. Finally, I saw the Hyundai insignia on the key fob. Neither my car nor the loaner is a Hyundai. Yup, the somewhat addled car jock had given me the key to his own car, as well as his home.

When I called and explained the situation to the service scheduler at the dealership she didn’t miss a beat. “Was it an older, confused looking, white guy named Jeff?” she asked. I’m guessing this wasn’t the first time she has dealt with a situation like this.

She must have gotten a hold of Jeff quickly because within 20 minutes he was back with the keys for the loaner. No harm, no foul.

But still, it’s only Monday. It’s gonna be a long week!
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