Saturday, January 31, 2009

Kooky Finger Snaps

Whenever anybody asks me about what music I like to listen to, I tend to respond with somewhat of a sheepish grin and a coy, affected demeanor. Clearly I have something to hide. It's not that I don't like music, no, I'm not some kind of granola-munching radical. The problem, if anything, is that I like music too much. I have an extensive music collection with hundreds of CDs that cover artists going back over sixty years, all the way back to skinny Elvis (thank you very much, now get me some peanut butter 'n banana sandwiches). Why can't I just own up with pride and answer the question about what I love to listen to? Am I afraid of the reactions that I will get, ashamed of the many possible repercussions if I own up to the artists that I fancy (which is not the manliest phrase I could have chosen)? Will I be subject to some sort of college-level hazing? Ostracized, taunted, folks whispering behind my back in clipped and hushed tones? Will I be "outed" even though I was never "in"?

I can hold this in no longer. I need to come clean to all of you, to unburden my heart and my soul. I will be strong and live with whatever backlash comes my way. Here goes. I have the musical tastes of a 14 year old girl. There, I said it. O.K.? I scream whenever I hear the Backstreet Boys (and yes I have all of their releases). I turn up the radio whenever *NSYNC comes on. I go weak in the knees when I hear Madonna, or pre-white Michael Jackson, or old New Kids. I know, you did not expect to hear this coming from me. You probably thought I liked the manly stylings of the Chainsaw Brigade, or of Locker Room Grunts, or the Sweat Stains. Alas, I wanted to like them, but without the drum machine, the kooky finger snaps, and the dripping ooo-oohs, my mind could not embrace what I was hearing. Now I sit hear, post confession, uncertain of how you will view me. I want to run away, but guilty feet have got no rhythm.