It was one of those marathon melange dreams that I tend to have, and as too often happens, it involved my being overextended professionally — that is, I had left a client waiting “a few minutes” while I did something which turned out to be touring the whole floor of a factory or warehouse operation in which a foreman or union leader was working to organize the employees at great personal risk: a pleasant, nebbishy guy who wouldn’t have looked out of place as a section manager at Target or Best Buy. I was so impressed by what he was doing that I offered him a free session. Then I thought of the freeway trip (as it seemed) that now stood between me and the client that was back at my office waiting for me and told him we should schedule a time at our earliest mutual convenience rather than do it then and there.
At which point I found I was settling into an upper-floor apartment in a medium-old building, one in which a heating duct common with the unit next door was conveying my neighbor’s crappy pop radio station like a purpose-built speaking tube. I was about to go bang on the wall when the DJ spun an old-fashioned crooner number, the sort you used to hear on evening variety shows in the Fifties and Sixties, all about the gross things guys can do that turn women off and therefore spare those women the pain that would follow falling in love with them. In Perry Como-like tones the lyric ran: “If it’s really true that beans are a girl’s best friend…”
I woke up so determined to capture the melody, which seems to be another Sleeping Sled Original, that I surfed up and downloaded a thing I should have hunted down ages ago, called MuseScore 2.0, and figured out at least how to inscribe the notes on a piece of virtual choral scorepaper.(The word “beans” is on the high D natural.)
Oh, I’m going to be having some fun now. New toy, and no one from Porlock has called yet.