We Can Work It Out

In the 1980s, my mother was a huge Michael Bolton fan. She tortured my sisters and I for unspeakable hours by forcing us to listen to his music. I wasn't a fan then, and am still not a fan now.

Hearing his music on the radio, though, brings back memories of being about 13 and Mum blasting the music on a stereo that only played cassette tapes, and my mother and babysis singing at the top of their lungs. Me, I can sing. Decently well. Middlesis too. Mum and babysis? Not so much. I remember trying to suggest gently that maybe they ought to let Michael sing it himself, or better yet, that I had Def Leppard's "Hysteria" right here, really, I could pop it in the second cassette deck and play it right now, wouldn't everyone like that better? I knew I sure would.

As both sisters and I cruised around in an old Jeep that my dad has purchased as a summertime toy, babysis plugged her iPod in to the radio and announced that she was going to play her favorite song on the iPod, her mostest favoritest song on the whole 30-gig hard drive. Wait for it, she said, wait! Beginning a few seconds later were the first few cords of "How Can We Be Lovers If We Can't Be Friends." I am not at all surprised to find that I still remember every word. Nor am I surprised that babysis's singing skills haven't improved in California.


Babysis's poor friend B. He was with us, and subjected to all three of us singing along to the delightful Mr. Bolton at top volume. In case you've forgotten (and I am SO SORRY if you truly had for giving the dreadful song back to your memory) there's a quick 4-5 seconds in the song where the music stops and Bolton sings a cappella for just a second in that horrible voice that sounds like he's straining for every single note (seriously, dude, it is called breath control. Look in to it.) where he screeches, "We can work it out!"

That line, indeed the song's entire lyric, provide endless hours of fun for us, where we'll say the words to one another in very serious tones of voice, before we end up breaking down and rolling on the floor.

Again I say poor B. He watched this circus of his own free will for about 4 hours on Sunday. When he left, I asked if they thought we'd tortured him unfairly.

"Whatever, dude, we're more entertaining than any other three people I could name. Fuck, no," middlesis declared.

I love it that she's even more foul-mouthed than I am, and that both parents roll their eyes at her for such vulgarity rather than attempt to get her to clean up her act. And she's right. We are pretty darn funny. We entertain ourselves, anyway.