Travel Journal, Day Eleven:
I am at the end of my rope. I have had Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good" ringing in my head for six straight hours now, and I know that my period of suffering is only beginning. Another week's battery of The World's Second Most Recognized Tune (so sez
Chuck himself, anyway) lies ahead of me, and over that time I expect to be pushed to the brink of self-immolation a half dozen times or more.
The song comes from nowhere. I don't even have to hear it to get it started: in fact, in this case, I don't believe it was played anywhere within earshot. One minute I'm sunbathing, and the next I'm humming that catchy and delicious melody, round and round, over and again . . . to the point of madness. The swift, inexplicable onset of symptoms has me convinced that the disease is systemic — that I am able to beat it back into latency for long stretches of time while it gathers its strength. Then it plunges headlong into my psychic defenses once more and overruns my consciousness. Acute chronic Mangionitis, you might call it — the flareups come once or twice a year after prolonged sun exposure or when I've eaten rich foods.
My susceptibility to relapse is, I suspect, a result of early and frequent exposure to the pathogen: "Feels So Good" played steadily over the restroom PA in my
family's restaurant since 1979, so often in fact that my uncle does not pay licensing fees to ASCAP for the restaurant's Muzak. He instead sends monthly checks directly to Chuck himself. Restaurateurs of the Midwest, you have so much to answer for . . .
Back on the ship now, I've mobilized the 6,000 songs on my iPod against the disease. But I fear it still won't be enough: armed with only a trumpet and a wimp-ass jazz backing band, Chuck stands fast in the citadel of my consciousness. He fends off all comers, as Bruce Lee serially dispatches his archenemy's generic henchmen: first the reggae backbeaters in the English Beat ("Mirror in the Bathroom" catchy, but not nearly enough), now Black Sabbath and its world class axman — "Iron Man" sent packing. Talking Heads is next on the block:
This ain't no party. This ain't no disco. This ain't no foolin' around. One strategy is to send something decidely
uncatchy after it: nine minutes of "Get Out of My Face" by Cabaret Voltaire bear down on Chuck from behind. No dice — Richard Kirk, well-armored in guitar feedback, nonetheless stumbles off like Saint Sebastian, his chest peppered with
staccato trumpet bleats, instead of the arrows of early Christian iconography.
Pity me, good readers, as it appears I am in this for the duration. I suppose I should go now and have the Wife tie me to the bed before I do something drastic. Bummer that this should happen on a once-in-a-lifetime cruise, but if I don't go into lockdown straightaway, you'll be hearing about how your Phutatorius leaped overboard into the Amazon River somewhere between Santarem and Parintins, crying
The trumpets! The trumpets! as the piranhas devoured him.
Wish me luck.
