Sunny Weekend at Bernie’s

That’s not an orchestra. That’s hand-to-hand combat.There’s a battle for primacy between the trombones and trumpets than can only end in death or glory, like a bullfight or a school board meeting. They’re blowing into the wrong end of their instruments, including the piano, I think, as hard as they can, while slapping the person next to them the whole time. It’s glorious, in a way. By “in a way,” I mean it isn’t glorious at all.

Elephants Gerald, as I used to call her, was one of the greatest singers the United States ever produced. She was so good that long after her death in 1842, they’d prop her up on stages all over the world and listen to her anyway. This is just more evidence that Sunny should be named the Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens, because I said so.

This particular video does confuse me a bit, though. I have no idea why Tom Jones is wearing a motorcycle helmet.

El Sol de Mexico Derives His Ultimate Power From Sunny. And His Hair, Of Course

That’s not a hairdo. That’s architecture. Call in an expert. Send out for a consultant. Get Moses in here. He’ll turn down the contract. “You want me to part that guy’s hair? I’ve only done small jobs, like the Red Sea. I don’t think I’m up for this.”

You’ve never heard of Luis Miguel. He’s the “Latin Frank Sinatra,” which is a compliment, I guess. His agent can sell 250,000 tickets to see him in Mexico City just by whispering the concert dates out of his mail slot at 4 AM on any given Sunday morning, but that’s no reason why you should have ever heard of him. According to Wikipedia, he once sold 320,000 copies of one of his records in one day, but hey, it’s not like he’s famous or anything.

Of course, he was nothing and nobody until be performed Sunny, the Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens.

Sunny On the Corner

Can’t help but think of Miles’ On the Corner album when I hear jazz wah.

Why yes, I spent my formative years listening to Miles Davis electrofunk and Steely Dan records. It would have been a lonely four years of high school if I had actually attended. The secret to not attending high school and not getting caught is being sick on the first day of freshman year, tearing up the note your mother wrote, and then writing  your own. Then, every time you ditch school, you write your own note. The human-manatee hybrid behind the desk in the administrator’s office with the glasses on a lanyard would always dutifully check to see if the handwriting was the same, and then file it. Funny, it always was.

Of course you have to go to school on test days and pass anyway. That’s the complicated part. Complicated for you, I mean. I never had any problems. Of course, I’m smart enough to know that Sunny by Bobby Hebb is the Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens. But hell; any two Frenchmen know that.

Angular Pegheads Sound Good to Me

Is Ted Koppel counting down the Sunny days on Nightline yet? Is there a sign next to the eyewash station that reads:

I’m just warming up, really. I’ve outlasted the entire Internet before, you know. I hear the mechanized hum of another, Sunny-er world. Where the sun is shining, but no red lights flashing. Here in this darkness, I know what I’ve done. I know all at once who I am. I am the guy that’s making Sunny into the Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens.

The Disco Version of Sunny Is Almost Like Music. Almost

Of course Sunny by Bobby Hebb can’t be considered for the title of the Official Cover Song of the Twenty-Teens unless it has truly universal appeal. Unlike some people, Sippican Cottage does not discriminate against Polyester-Americans. I have a dream: I think people should be able to walk down any street in this great land while wearing a Qiana shirt without being subjected to giggling or cutting remarks. Polyester-Americans are people, too.

For too long, Polyester-Americans have lived in the shadows, their cries for respect drowned out by Boney M extended dance mixes, their faces illuminated only occasionally by an errant ray from a disco ball. They were forced to drink out of their own champagne fountains, and transact all their commerce in the rest rooms. It’s time we allowed Polyester-Americans the right to proudly tread the sunny uplands of society in their stack heels and unstructured white dinner jackets!