6/10/14

As promised, an embarrassing i-Pod story.  So I’m driving along the other day listening to a playlist called “Chick Singer Albums” on my i-Pod.  Yaz’s “And On,” from the album “You and Me Both” is winding down as I pull up to a light… windows down, volume up.  Sure, playing Yaz makes me out to be an aging hipster, but perhaps somewhat cool because, I mean, c’mon, it’s Yaz, right?  Just as I’m giving the “Yeah, I’m cool because I’m listening to an obscure (nowadays) British New Wave song” nod to the cute little coed in the car next to me, what comes blasting out of my speakers?  “YO! I tell ya what I want, what I really, really want!  So tell me what you want, what you really, really want!”  I smiled… no, I gave a dopey grin of embarrassment, rolled up the window, and turned the car right when I really wanted to go straight through the light.  I sure hope she made it to her destination without an accident because she was laughing pretty hard as I left.  This was so emasculating that a bottle of Viagra wouldn’t have helped had she asked for a quick shag in the bushes.  But having said that, I’d almost forgotten just how good the Stank Hos… I mean Spice Girls were.  Sure, they were a manufactured “band” but many pop groups are.  It doesn’t lessen their… ok, I’m having trouble being that big a douche.  I went ahead and listened to the rest of the playlist and enjoyed singing along with the Mels, Emma, Victoria, and Geri.  Yeah, I knew their real names.  Melanie Chisholm was my favorite but Melanie Brown was a close second.  The other three fall in the order they were listed above.  I remember getting in a discussion with some little “tween” while walking from the parking lot to the concert about who was the best… oh yeah, you read that right.  I went to see them at Starplex in 1997.  She was an Emma Bunton fan but I had a compelling argument for Ms. Chisholm.  I don’t remember what it was now, but it was eloquent and well thought out… oh!  I remember, it was “Nuh uh!  Sporty’s the best!”  I may have thrown in a “You big doody-head!”  Inside, I debated hanging with a group of gay men to keep from being judged a perv.  I wound up shouting to my imaginary “tween” daughter to meet me at the front gate when the show was over.  I wish the T-shirt I bought actually fit me but the biggest they had was not made for a MOG*.  Oh well, what are you going to do?  Ok, as it is approaching 1600 h, I think I’m going to call it an rant.  Have an day.

*Man of Girth