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The Epiphany I woke up in the haze of an enshrouding cold along with my eyes sealed shut with infection. The vague lyrics of a song I couldn’t identify played over and over in my head. I was sure it was a revelation—a vision from God. This was going to change my life forever. I could only grasp two lines of the divine melody. I knew that somewhere here in the liminality of sleep and wakefulness the words would be lost. They were haunting. Surrounding me, filling me, but slipping away like a skiff on a misty lake in the early morning. The big brother of my conscious mind stepped in and I began to intentionally repeat the two lines over and over like some celestial chant come to earth—come to rest in my organic cranium. If I could just identify the song, I would attain THE next level. All I had were the two verses sung in that mysterious voice: “You were the first one. You were the last one.” “You were the first one. You were the last one…” I ran the water for my shower, and when I stepped into the tub, I immediately slipped like I had stepped on melted butter. The side of my knee slammed and scraped against the grout edge of the tub. I forgot that my 6 year old daughter had taken a shower the previous night. She pours the hair conditioner on her head with abandon. It had come to layer on the tub. At that moment, I was sure that it was a first grader’s plot to slyly murder me and make it look like an accident. I dismissed the conspiracy and angrily finished my lackluster shower. There’s nothing worse than a mediocre shower on a Monday morning that’s closing in on you like a screaming 16 wheeler truck bearing down the highway. As I emerged from the tub, careful not to slip again, it happened. The epiphany. The word from the mountain. The opening of heaven. It was so easy: too easy. It came to me like a lonely puppy. The song. Surely God was speaking directly to me. I was the next Moses. I sang out the title as a triumphant war cry. It was mine forever now: “Video Killed the Radio Star.” What? A cheesy pop tune visiting me not from the depths of my past, but from the shallows. The reverie vanished as I muttered, “son of a bitch…” under my breath. It was time to brush my teeth. -Drink More Ovaltine -David Currently listening to (in the bumper music of my subconscious):
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