Hand me the crayons instructions, please

I had presumed that the highlight of last week would be the arrival of Baby Zeigler since it's not too often we get additions to our family. I'd like to think that's more to do with being the perfect size for global domination. Of course, we may be such awful people no can stand to be around us for very long. That's probably a judgement others ultimately will have to make.

Anyway, while the whole Zeigler episode was quite grand, I was pleasantly surprised to get back to work and find that it was time for a little sprucing up around here. Not sure if the powers-that-be found some extra scratch in the sofa cushions or it was just a touch of spring fever, but upon my return, I found approximately 32 painters gathered around the windows, doors and overhangs doing some touching up.

Ordinarily this is not really the type of thing I pay much attention to. I appreciate the building looking nice and take pride in gleaming columns and such. How it gets/stays in such condition is not given much thought. Sort of like hot dogs. I enjoy them and am grateful for the workers who provide that frank goodness but I need not see what's behind the curtain. I think I have sufficiently mixed enough metaphors to move on.

So these painters did their thing and seemed to do it quite well. Trimming, etc. is indeed much brighter than it was this time last year. I've no idea how much we paid them but I suppose we tossed in a little extra to get the deluxe treatment. That additional spending bringing all manner of song and conversation in addition to stellar painting.

Not really expecting a breakdown of the new Lars Von Trier flick, I can't say I was entirely surprised when the topics ranged from women/men and sex to men/women and sex. Unfortunately for me our painters seemed to forget that the window that separated them from me wasn't soundproof so I got some fo the good suff. On a Friday night, such talk is no doubt hot, hot, hot and somewhat important to the hard-working man/woman painter (yes, they were co-ed), but unless you're beautiful/famous I'm fairly certain no one really cares about your particular situation as much as you. Certainly not me on a Thursday afternoon.

Madeline across the hall got it even worse since, unlike me, she actually keeps her window blinds open. In addition to the bawdiness, she also got an eyeful of butt crack and the physique only the old lady of a painter can love. She was smitten.

Riveting though such discussions were, they were lacking something. Some ineffable quality that would push my enjoyment over the Zeigler peak. In short, a song. My unsent prayers were answered when suddenly I hear "She's My Cherry Pie" from outside. And then again, "She's My Cherry Pie". And then once more, "She's My Cherry Pie" Those of a certain age will recognize the lyrics as part of the chorus to Cherry Pie, a song by the thoroughly unnecessary hair metal band Warrant. For those lucky enough never to have heard the song in question, imagine the worst song you've ever heard, move up six notches on that list and pretend you're in a strip club.

20 years ago when this passed for popular, I didn't need to hear the version that was honed to a radio-friendly sheen by allegedly professional and somewhat competent musicians. Today, I certainly do not need to be bombarded with an off key holler of it by a dude, cancer stick dangling from his lip, painting outside my window. I take my work seriously, you know. I'm not one to crush anybody's dream so if my singing painter envisions a world on which he sits atop Mt. Rockulus I wish him godspeed.

But.

I would advise him to learn the lyrics. For you see although it's pretty hard to top the all-around simplistic genius of "She's My Cherry Pie", there are in fact, more lines to the song. Warrant were a lot of things--shitty, worthless, lame, kitten haters--but wordsmiths they weren't. Nevertheless, they were capable of stringing several words together to form lines, lines to form verses, etc. just to make sure the point got driven home with a suitably rollicking backbeat. The point being, as you've no doubt surmised, beloved all-American dessert as metaphor for 'lady part'; Shakespeare this ain't.

Now one might argue that the was the proper venue, version and performance for such a meisterwerk. That it deserved nothing less than to be mangled some 20 years gone by a fellow passing the time until his smoke break. But Warrant, like me, was proud of their cleverness and repartee. The writer in me found it heartbreaking. I almost wept. To see all that hard work and verbosity reduced to a bare bones hook seemed as criminal as it was annoying. Much like the crimes against music Warrant themselves had committed some 20 years previous. In fairness, I suppose that any still remember them 20 years on is some consolation. I can't imagine any readers hereof remember anything I write even 20 minutes after the fact.

Of course, people still remember Jack the Ripper.

Am I comparing Warrant to Jack the Ripper? Indeed I am.