show me the money, but please don't tell anyone

originally posted May 21, 2007

I am ashamed. The other day the Scorpions came on the radio, sparking the following exchange:

BS: Who the hell listens to this?

Q: Some people do. Some people get really excited when the Scorps come on and turn it up and sing and stuff. I don't get it. That sort of thing should be reserved for Guns N' Roses.

BS: Are you joking?

Q: Yes?

I am a liar. What I meant was No. I really like Paradise City.


When I am busy driving around town and screaming at people, a really good radio moment is a special thing. I know we're living in the days of Ipods and burnable CDs and listening to whatever you want whenever you want and all, but when you haven't figured out how to turn on your MP3 player and you own a car that only has a tape deck and said tape deck isn't working because it got tired of playing the same six songs on your favorite Cure tape over and over again and finally said Screw you, sing Caterpillar Girl to yourself. That Cata-cata-cata part HURTS, you miserable twat a good radio moment still means something. It's the very best when 3 of the 4 stations you have programmed into your radio are all playing Phil Collins, and you just can't get away from Phil, and you keep punching buttons and jumping back and forth from Phil to Phil to Phil, but it JUST WON"T STOP and where is REO Speedwagon or Dio or even Cheap Trick? Then, just when you're about to rip out the fucking radio and pitch it out the window to wither in the dry, dusty heat of Satan's Nethers, something happens. Say, Paradise City comes on. And maybe you secretly love Paradise City. Or Fat Bottomed Girls, which maybe you openly love and are playing right now at this very moment. And maybe you get to hear it from the very beginning, and then suddenly you can barely drive because you've begun to dance with the steering wheel and are tapping the brake in time to the music and you almost have to pull over to devote your full attention to this effort and take a moment to reflect on how happy Queen makes you. And maybe, if the song is 'Somebody to Love', you are crying tears of joy. Maybe.

I don't think it's fair to say that I have excellent taste in music. While it is true that I like music that is excellent, it is also true that I like other music as well. I have what I refer to as "kitchen music". This is music that I perhaps own on cassette, but would never purchase on CD to enable living room listening. This is music that is played only on the little radio my daughter gave my for mother's day when she was two, and only in the kitchen. I keep the kitchen music in a drawer in the kitchen, near the radio. It's a sort of humiliating collection. There's Air Supply's Greatest Hits – I love 'Lost in Love'. I have George Michael's Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. Just Try and Listen Without Self-Loathing. Let us not forget the cassette single for 'Your Woman' by Whitetown. The only justifiable cassette in the whole lot is Elton John's Greatest Hits, Vol. III (given to me by Kristin for my 16th birthday – really, an excellent tape – I once forced Dr. BS to listen to 'Empty Garden', while in the kitchen of course, and it made him weep genuine tears of sadness...)

I've come to mostly accept my love of the KM. What's begun to trouble me, however, are my recent listening transgressions in the car. I have never, ever, ever been a fan of Eddie Money. Never. Not even in the kitchen. Yet the other day 'Two Tickets to Paradise' came on, and I turned it up, before I even processed what it was. It just sounded so good. What? And then – jesus shitballs, I can't believe I'm going to say this – I thought Wow. How romantic. And I meant it. WHAT?! It all happened so fast, I couldn't even censor myself. And now I have to live with this knowledge -- this humiliating little tidbit about myself. It seems I want to be surprised with two tickets to paradise. I want to pack my bags and leave tonight. I've waited so long. Waited so long. Waited so long…

Because I found this little debacle so troubling, I looked up the lyrics to this song, just to be absolutely clear what it was I was jonesing for. You know what? This didn't make me feel better. It turns out there's no actual mention of a plane or any other specific mode of transportation, and no details to speak of – just this promise of paradise and immediate departure. Now I'm thinking that this might just be a big euphemism for sex with Eddie Money, and paradise is in his pants, and these goddamn tickets are fucking free. In fact, he might even pay you to take them. Goddamn it.

It gets worse. As recently as the day before yesterday 'Hollywood Nights' came on the radio and I turned it up because I THOUGHT IT WAS EDDIE MONEY and I wasn't at all disturbed about this until I realized it was in fact Bob Seeger. WHAT?!? Suddenly Eddie Money is OKAY? Again, this all happened before I could process what was going on, and by the time I realized what was happening I was already dancing with the steering wheel and tapping the brake and singing along, for fuck sake, and then I nearly had to pull the goddamn car over, because I was crying. Yes, crying – big old tears of SHAME. Who am I? What have I become? It's all so depressing…