Funk lifted

“Oww, we want the funk, give up the funk
Oww, we need the funk, we gotta have that funk
Oww, we want the funk, give up the funk
Oww, we need the funk, we gotta have that funk”

– “Give Up the Funk” by George Clinton and his band, Parliament-Funkadelic, 1975

Five months into this pandemic, I’m feeling the effects of COVID-19. Not literally, thank goodness. Figuratively. Emotionally. Spiritually.

I’m just not myself. I don’t read anymore. Is there such a thing as reader’s block? Same for my writing, which has become, well, flat. Not completely blocked, just in need of Drano. Do plumbers get plumber’s block? Doubtful.

Besides, as a former newspaper reporter I understand that no one tolerates you if your writing becomes completely cold. It’s not professional. You make your deadline and turn in the story. Artists be damned.

I once heard a famous author say that time not spent writing should be put to good use. Like rolling cigarettes. Or learning to differentiate between scotch and bourbon. Sign me up!

I’m getting enough sleep, yet I feel exhausted. I’m unfocused, scattered, forgetful, even sad sometimes. Commercials make me cry. Not just the political ones. At my age, I can’t blame PMS.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to be alive and healthy. Knowing that those close to me are OK answers all of my prayers. Our family had a couple of recent “near-misses,” as they say, waiting for COVID-19 test results. It was unsettling, at best, despite all of the positive energy thrown at it from every corner. The mind plays tricks sometimes. One of my adult nieces tested positive for the virus. She’s better now but was pretty sick for about a week.

I know it’s not just the quarantine or the horrific stories of loss, death, hypocrisy and social unrest leading the nightly news. Honestly, I’ve cut back on viewing, which is shocking for me, a lifelong “news junkie.” I’ve even switched networks (buh-bye, Nora O’Donnell), hoping Lester Holt of “NBC Nightly News” could help lift me out of my funk. He hasn’t.

As Michelle Obama recently said on her Spotify podcast: “These are not … fulfilling times, spiritually. I know that I’m dealing with some sort of low-grade depression.”

That’s it. “Low-grade depression.” Malaise simmering just beneath the surface. Bubbling and waiting to mess up your stove top at any minute. Or that queasy, cotton-mouth feeling you get after drinking too much toasted coconut rum with pineapple juice. Not that I’d know.

Until yesterday morning when things changed.

Driving to my hair appointment in Royal Oak on this lovely Thursday, the sun was shining with temperatures in the 70s. Perfect topless weather – for Mustang Sal, not me. Ever.

The first time, it happened while I was stopped at a light on Main and Street 13 Mile Road. I heard it clear as a bell over my right shoulder, in my good ear.

“Nice, niice, niiiice …”

Smiling and happily shaking his head, an older gentleman in a gray monster GMC pickup nearly hurt himself straining his neck to take in all of Sal’s eye-catching Rangoon red finish. I grinned, nodded and gave him a “thumbs up.”

“I used to have a blaaack onnnne just liiiiike it …” he yelled, his booming voice trailing off as he merged into the turning lane.

Gone, baby, gone.

His nostalgic reaction to my little dream car made me smile, as is common when Sal draws attention from a fellow motorist’s praise and complimentary honks. I sat up straighter in my white vinyl bucket seat manufactured in 1965 for those with younger, more flexible spines.

I kept driving feeling pretty jazzed up in my straight 6-cylinder/170-engine that goes from zero to 35 in, well, 25. Seconds not minutes. Don’t judge. Respect your elders and their classic cars.

Suddenly, at another traffic light, a white-haired woman driving a fancy SUV rolled down her window and said in the sweetest, most sincere voice fit for a queen: “She’s … so … Bee-YOU-tee-FULL!

I sent her off with a royal wave as she turned down Vinsetta Drive, no doubt reveling in fond memories of her high school days eating yummy onion rings at the Susie Q on Gratiot and making out at the East Side Drive-In.

Or not. Maybe she just snuck in the trunk with her girlfriends. I laughed at my made-up scenario, which happens often as well, thinking of the time I, too, hid in the trunk. Then my wandering mind took over, and I started thinking about funk music and humming. Yes, humming.

Beaming at the thought, I actually started singing an old-school song from back in the day. “You’ve got a real type of thing goin’ on, gettin’ down … There’s a whole lotta rhythm goin’ round …”

And whistling. I never whistle. But I do now.

Time to give up the funk.