Eddie Money

So...I think all families have - by definition - a certain nebulous aspect: the outer limits are vague, and there are always mysterious step-aunts and proto-cousins a couple counties away, or in nominally familiar-sounding cities (Joliet? Las Cruces? Macon? Muncie?) in states unseen. They may or may not pop up at the occasional family reunion, or as some unannounced Thanksgiving surprise shrouded in sighs, whispers and the sort of ethereal intrigues delicately deflected from the ears of the youngest attendants (who develop - at a surprisingly early age - an uncanny knack for seeing through such machinations, without letting on that they do). The precise nature of the relationship is vague, held at a discreet distance, and the nature of that distance is likely less grand than potentially grim. And as a child, it is expected that you will assume and understand - via some mysterious process of geneological osmosis - how this obscure familiar fits into the intricate and highly local scheme of things, and that you'll refrain from asking the sorts of questions that might cause the delicately finessed social dynamics of a simple holiday dinner to crack, craze or crystallize into a melancholy, spontaneous spasm of malevolent bad vibes.

I had one of those vague variety of aunts, named Carrie, mean as a snake, who passed away after years of declining health about 25 years ago. She lived in a semi-frightening and generally unmaintained housing project in Southwest Charlotte, and my mom and varied other relatives would drop by her barracks-style abode to take her shopping or to the doctor, offer some company, or otherwise assist.
So, one volcanically hot July afternoon my mom and I have dropped by to take Aunt Carrie to a doctor's appointment, and we'd gotten her cable TV - she loved her soap operas, and she was passionately riveted to the local newscasts that rarely informed as often as they frightened or titillated. As my mom is helping to get her ready, I'm in the front room flipping channels in wild quest for something, anything interesting, and I stumble across a great, yet heretofore uncommented-upon moment in rock history: Eddie Money's hit single (not especially well-remembered at this late date) I Think I'm In Love, in heavy rotation at the time on MTV. Eddie's being very impressive, bridge-and-tunnel rock at it's most strident, hookline drilled deep into the subconscious - and he's gyrating like a big, hairy, discombobulated supercell menacing the great prairies of Kansas (perhaps the tropical-storm-force breeze, calibrated to tangle his coif in time to the song's rhythm, is forcing him to jiggle around like that), whilst filling us in on his urgent, heartfelt romantic proclivities. At some point during the middle of this calisthenic spectacle my Aunt Carrie, at last ready for her close-up, strolls a rickety old lady kind of stroll out into the living room. She stops suddenly and watches, mesmerized for all of about three seconds, before slowly pointing at the TV and laughing one of those quick, sudden and unexpected kind of laughs (gaspy and loud), exclaiming That man...is a fooool. And then she shook her head, and laughed quietly to herself most of the distance out to the car.

And with this nonchalant assessment, I shut of the TV, and held the door for Carrie, as we ventured off for an afternoon's adventures in the modern health care industry.