More cowbell?

I have a cowbell. It's an antique, and presumably it formerly adorned a bovine neck or two. I love my cowbell.

Incidentally, I love rock music incorporating the cowbell, for example, the classic song, "Lowrider." Who could argue that "more cowbell" is not a valid artistic choice? (The answer to that question is Lola).

The main use I get with my cowbell is ringing it to inform everyone that dinner is ready, and the robust tones of the cowbell may be heard from in front of the television upstairs to down in the garage workroom, where the husband toils on his computers. (The cowbell's secondary use is on New Year's Eve, when we make a hellish racket at midnight. One of my neighbors did evoke the SNL skit and yelled out last year, "More cowbell!" I obliged).

The other day, after ringing the bell for dinner, I childishly entertained myself by chasing the cat known as Frowstomatic the Immortal God around, ringing the bell. Lola was angry and covered her ears. Later at dinner, she harangued me: "You are insane in the brain with that thing!" Ouch.

Lola's complaint was itself rock-and-roll based, but from a non-cowbell using song. Any time you run across Lola, you can chant, "Insane in the membrane" to her, and she'll chime back, "Insane in the brain." The child seems to stand for heavy metal and against cowbells. She has in the past praised the musical stylings of Trent Reznor as "pretty." I will leave my cowbell to Iris in my will.