Turns out, music exists. I thought it didn't anymore. I thought, while I was away in Raffiland, music had simply stopped. It had driven down to the levy, and the levy had been dry. But it hadn't. It has been going on without me, and I can't say I'm very happy about it. Why didn't it even call?
And you! Some kind of friend you turned out to be. I bet you knew the music hadn't died, didn't you? Didn't you? And did you tell me? No, you didn't. Not even a simple phone call, saying, "Hey, The Dad, I was, you know, down at the mall and, well, I kinda heard some music. I just thought you ought to know. Don't be mad."
But I'm not mad, not anymore, not now that he shock has worn off. How could I be mad when I'm dancing around my house for two hours everyday listening to WHATEVER I WANT. Yes, that's what I'm doing instead of writing posts for you. Or laundry. Or making money. Don't get me wrong, I'm always one song away from doing all those things, one song away from sitting down and bringing you the funny, but then the next song starts and, wow, it's another one not about little red cabooses, or kangaroos, or how five is such a pretty number and how awfully glad I should be that I have five people in my family but right now its me, just me, and I'm dancing around to songs that are about drugs and booze and sex and say words that I can't say here because my mom reads this and that I sure couldn't say in front of my kids even though I'm pretty sure Lila said motherfucker yesterday as she crapped behind the couch but she didn't hear it from me and she didn't here it from my music although she'd sure be hearing it now because that's what somebody is yelling from my speakers and I'm yelling right along with it and it doesn't matter what else I need to be doing because this is rock and roll and rock and roll waits for nobody. Except when I pause it to go pee, because I evidently drank way too much coffee this morning.
I'm listening to it all. Everything I have. There are albums here from back when I wore an earring and thought I was alternative. There are albums here from back when I wore a nipple ring and really was alternative. There are albums here from when my hair was longer than my wife's and from when my head was shaved bald. There are even a few from the past few years that friends have sent me or I have gone out and gotten myself, but have never really listened to. Not like they should have been listened to, you know?
You know that slightly disturbed friend you had in college who made mix tapes for every occasion? The one who would sit down in front of his stereo and put together 90 minutes of music for every break-up, every first kiss, every grade better than a D in Spanish class? That was me. When I listened to music, I really listened, with every pompous fiber of my being I listened. And so did everybody in my dorm, because I turned my stereo up to eleven and made them. And they should have thanked me, instead of calling the campus police. Ungrateful bastards.
So here's what I was thinking: Let's make a mix tape. Right now, together. Throw out a song, a good song, in the comments. You can explain your choice or just let the song speak for itself. It doesn't have to be deep or pompous or obscure and it doesn't have to show off your amazing indie cred, unless of course you live in the Lower East Side and then you can't help it. It just has to be good. And then maybe I'll do something with it. I don't know what that something will be, maybe nothing if you guys have really sucky music taste, but maybe I'll compile it all onto a disc or two and give it away as the prize for our next poetry contest.
I'll start. The opening song on our mix tape, which will, incidentally, be titled Turned Up to Eleven, is Elise, Elise, by The Real Heroes. (Click on the link and find it under "Listen." You'll be happy you did.)
What's next?