Guys, I’m like a fine wine. I only get better with age. Marinate me in some Zappa for a few years and I’m one of the silliest and most sarcastic things around. (Just think: by the time I’ll reach my 30s, I’ll be as potent as hemlock!)
So you can imagine how I react when I encounter anything that doesn’t meet my standards. Now, I can’t say that NPR is on the same level as Frank, but when I’m subjected to it (on quite a regular basis, actually, considering the ‘rents love it), I make fun of it nonstop. Their voices (can you say the teacher from Charlie Brown?), their enunciation, names, subject matter—everything. Nothing is safe.
So when I pushed open the door to our apartment and found The Satanic Radio Station blaring through the space, I was not a happy camper. I was already a frazzled mess—I’d spent the majority of the week procrastinating on an online course with buddies, listening to a friend wax poetic about a mere mortal of the male variety (get a grip), and trying to deal with the fact that I was leaving for Israel in less than 2 days and was not prepared at all. We’d just gotten home from taking El Padre into the city for a doctor’s appointment, he’d made the entire experience worthy of eye-gouging and it was raining.
I hate the rain.
In any case, Robert Siegel’s voice was not what I needed right then. I ripped my Converse off as quickly as I could and dashed like a mad-woman to our dining area so I could switch to something that wouldn’t make me contemplate suicide. I played with the channel toggle and picked up a fuzzy, loud line that sounded familiar before immediately dismissing it and trying to latch onto a cleaner signal.
Before I knew what was happening, music was blasting from the speakers of our boom box, loud, bouncy and familiar. For a moment, I was plunged into slow motion: there was a recognizable note, a definitive tone, and…Was that a marimba?
I tuned back in almost violently to catch the end of Ruth’s marimba dance, a ginormous and genuine smile splitting my face. I wiggled back and forth in my dining area, waiting to join in…
“The beat goes on and I’m so wrong, the beat goes on and I’m so wrong—THE BEAT GOES ON AND I’M SO WRONG, [yeah, this is where I started jumping up and down] THE BEAT GOES ON AND I’M SO WRONG!”
My bag was digging into my shoulder, so I let it drop to the floor without a care in the world before planting my feet, spreading my arms, and belting from my gut with all the by-god intensity years of chorus had instilled:
“I MAY BE TOTALLY WRONG BUT I’M A DANCIN’ FOOO-HOOO-OOOOL! I MAY BE TOTALLY WRONG BUT I’M A DANCIN’ FOOO-HOOO-OOOL!”
I danced like a maniac during the interlude before swaggering (swank suave-ay?) around, announcing that I’d gotten it together and now had my very own disco clothes (HEY!) complete with a spoon for up my nose.
I’m something, aren’t I? (At least, that’s what most people would probably say…)
Around this point, El Padre wandered into the dining room with a smirk and an awed expression. When he asked me breathlessly if I was Jewish, any irritation I previously felt towards him melted away. I grinned and waved a dismissive gesture at him while complimenting his nails.
The song quickly reached its end (can I use denouement here?) and I was left standing by the kitchen with an amazingly goofy smile on my face. Ladies and gentlemen: a cool-ass DJ, an awesome (and spirited) song and just like that, insta-good-mood! At that moment, I could not have been flying higher.
I pulled out my laptop and send the DJ an email, thanking him for being such an exceptional human being (2nd time I’ve caught him playing Zappa) and blasted the song a few more times just for good measure.
Unfortunately, here in Israel, there’s no such thing as a radio station dedicated to rock (or music at all, actually). But I don’t mind. I mean, I don’t (always, ahemahem) need a radio station to be in a good mood, and certainly not on my Anniversary!
Yes yes yes, sweet children of mine—it’s been 2 years, today, since my first blog post. Cool, huh?
Wait, what? You forgot again? Marked it on your calendar a month late, planned on sending me a card, but your carrier pigeon became dazed and confused flying across the Atlantic?
It’s alright. I figured. No hard feelings. :)
Besides. A pigeon can’t really compete with this view anyway.
