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Guys, Iām like a fine wine. I only get better with age. Marinate me in some Zappa for a few years and Iām one of the silliest and most sarcastic things around. (Just think: by the time Iāll reach my 30s, Iāll be as potent as hemlock!)
So you can imagine how I react when I encounter anything that doesnāt meet my standards. Now, I canāt say that NPR is on the same level as Frank, but when Iām subjected to it (on quite a regular basis, actually, considering the ārents love it), I make fun of it nonstop. Their voices (can you say the teacher from Charlie Brown?), their enunciation, names, subject matterāeverything. 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 messāIād 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. Weād just gotten home from taking El Padre into the city for a doctorās appointment, heād made the entire experience worthy of eye-gouging and it was raining.
I hate the rain.
In any case, Robert Siegelās 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 wouldnāt 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, andā¦Was that a marimba?
I tuned back in almost violently to catch the end of Ruthās marimba dance, a ginormous and genuine smile splitting my face. I wiggled back and forth in my dining area, waiting to join inā¦
āThe beat goes on and Iām so wrong, the beat goes on and Iām so wrongāTHE BEAT GOES ON AND IāM SO WRONG, [yeah, this is where I started jumping up and down] THE BEAT GOES ON AND IāM SO WRONG!ā
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:
āI MAY BE TOTALLY WRONG BUT IāM A DANCINā FOOO-HOOO-OOOOL! I MAY BE TOTALLY WRONG BUT IāM A DANCINā FOOO-HOOO-OOOL!ā
I danced like a maniac during the interlude before swaggering (swank suave-ay?) around, announcing that Iād gotten it together and now had my very own disco clothes (HEY!) complete with a spoon for up my nose.
Iām something, arenāt I? (At least, thatās what most people would probably sayā¦)
Around this point, El Padre wandered into the dining room with a smirk and an awed expression. Ā 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 Iāve caught him playing Zappa) and blasted the song a few more times just for good measure.
Unfortunately, here in Israel, thereās no such thing as a radio station dedicated to rock (or music at all, actually). But I donāt mind. I mean, I donāt (always, ahemahem) need a radio station to be in a good mood, and certainly not on my Anniversary!
Yes yes yes, sweet children of mineāitās 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?
Itās alright. I figured. No hard feelings. :)
Besides. A pigeon canāt really compete with this view anyway.
