Saturday, February 13, 2010


It's all La Mancha, all the time

Having veered into my mad little memory excursion, as described in the previous post, I had well and truly answered my "What ever happened to....?" question about Paul Myrvold to my complete satisfaction. (And had enjoyed the spin-off excursions into "Whatever happened to Bob Lowry and Tim Monich?", the other two Hargadine St. musketeers (with Ron Lagomarsino) in a memorable Shakespearean troika during that long ago pre-professional summer, one we shared with a talented unknown college-boy named Powers Boothe (the e-e-e-v-i-l-l-l one -- a man, if ever there was one, born to wear a black hat.)

Heady days, my friends.

Okay, so I'm minding my own business strolling down memory lane. A critique here, an interview there, and I'm quite prepared to accept that, having played him six (seven? nine?) times since he was a callow youth, Paul Myrvold simply is the Knight of the Woeful Countenance, the ur-Quixote, scourge of windmills everywhere (even Cape Cod?), and I wish him well of it.

So can I have my brain-pan back now? Can I reclaim my own cranium, wherein songs I haven't really thought about for 30 years are now ricocheting all over the place, every waking minute of my day? Can I hang up my Golden Helmet? Can I stop only thinking of HIM?

I didn't realize how well I knew these songs, though I've always posited that the number of show-tunes burnt into my gray matter accounts for the chronic shortage of memory cells to tell me why I made a trip upstairs and marched into my office to fetch......what?

Now the songs are re-emerging in torrents, albeit with gaps, slamming into bulkheads and boulders when some line or verse escapes me and I start singing around in circles.

This all came to a head yesterday, when I dove into the vinyl ar
chives, where I SWEAR I had the album in the Broadway Musical section that spans a good eight inches of shelf space. Nada. Nothing for it but to head out and do an emergency music store run. Off to the nearest HMV -- I'm S.O.L. Then Sunrise Records -- not today, dear. Then Best Buy -- bupkus. The closest thing I turned up was the film soundtrack with Sophia Loren and Peter O'Toole (NOT doing the singing, I'm guessin'). Uh, I think not.

Sometimes the suburbs completely suck.

All plans for a rousing session of car Karaoke, and a window-shaking kitchen concert, all foiled, foiled! My only comfort is that tomorrow I depart for a week in San Diego, and shall no doubt be able to walk into the nearest Borders and find exactly what I need.

need this album. 'Cause, man!, inside my head it's all La Mancha, all the time.

Curse you Paul Myrvold! And not just for lookin' good.

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