11-02-2022, 09:23 PM
"Take me home!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Take me home. I'm done."
"Are you sick? I'm so so....."
"Nope. I'm done. Take me home. now."
"Please."
It is maybe 8 p.m. in bright daylight savings. The temperature is in the 90s. Turning from the door shut in my face in a soaked 3-piece tan suit, I weigh my options:
1. Go stag. This wasn't some teenage movie where two people without dates find true love to '70s Speedwagon. Stag = loser. (It would have been awful, frankly.)
2. Go home.
a. Tell the truth. Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have taken the girl on the street two doors over because she is gorgeous and you've known her your entire life. Mom, she'll say no. I don't play football or wrestle. She can't say no if you are the first to ask. What world do you live in Mom?
b. Lie. She got sick and I took her home. In fact, I'm not feeling great. Going downstairs to spin angry nerd music. That would entail Mr. Costello. Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have....
I drove home, but instead of making the left off Kipling I kept going. To Interstate 70. East or West? East. Am I going to drive around town for the next several hours, avoiding the klieg lights of my Mom? I hit the Mousetrap. Interstate 25. North or South? North. By the time of probable last dance, I'm in Fort Collins. I leave Interstate 25 and guided by who knows what, take the backroad rather than go to Cheyenne. Further north across State lines. Laramie. It is now about 10:30 or 11. Pull into gas station. The 65 horses of air cooled majesty need so petrol. Wearing a sweaty tan three-piece suit, I muscle through the Cowboys and grab a coke. No smiles.
The fresh air has done me well. If I go home now, it will be like I went to Prom and had a good time. Maybe Mom will have passed out waiting. No questions. Clarity. It's just an a.m. radio and this does not belong on a.m., but the first station I pull in the prairie is playing just the right song. Maybe my lord and savior is just blue toothing it in. A miracle.
I've been run down and I've been lied to.
And I don't know why, I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecks my new car.
Now she's with one of my good time buddies,
They're drinkin' in some cross-town bar.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'
My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool.
But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done.
But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same,
And I can't run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'
"I'm sorry?"
"Take me home. I'm done."
"Are you sick? I'm so so....."
"Nope. I'm done. Take me home. now."
"Please."
It is maybe 8 p.m. in bright daylight savings. The temperature is in the 90s. Turning from the door shut in my face in a soaked 3-piece tan suit, I weigh my options:
1. Go stag. This wasn't some teenage movie where two people without dates find true love to '70s Speedwagon. Stag = loser. (It would have been awful, frankly.)
2. Go home.
a. Tell the truth. Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have taken the girl on the street two doors over because she is gorgeous and you've known her your entire life. Mom, she'll say no. I don't play football or wrestle. She can't say no if you are the first to ask. What world do you live in Mom?
b. Lie. She got sick and I took her home. In fact, I'm not feeling great. Going downstairs to spin angry nerd music. That would entail Mr. Costello. Listen to my mother tell me for the next few months I should have....
I drove home, but instead of making the left off Kipling I kept going. To Interstate 70. East or West? East. Am I going to drive around town for the next several hours, avoiding the klieg lights of my Mom? I hit the Mousetrap. Interstate 25. North or South? North. By the time of probable last dance, I'm in Fort Collins. I leave Interstate 25 and guided by who knows what, take the backroad rather than go to Cheyenne. Further north across State lines. Laramie. It is now about 10:30 or 11. Pull into gas station. The 65 horses of air cooled majesty need so petrol. Wearing a sweaty tan three-piece suit, I muscle through the Cowboys and grab a coke. No smiles.
The fresh air has done me well. If I go home now, it will be like I went to Prom and had a good time. Maybe Mom will have passed out waiting. No questions. Clarity. It's just an a.m. radio and this does not belong on a.m., but the first station I pull in the prairie is playing just the right song. Maybe my lord and savior is just blue toothing it in. A miracle.
I've been run down and I've been lied to.
And I don't know why, I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecks my new car.
Now she's with one of my good time buddies,
They're drinkin' in some cross-town bar.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'
My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool.
But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done.
But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same,
And I can't run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I've been tied to the whippin' post.
Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post.
Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'