Suck My Sunny Side
When I finally got my first paycheck that wasn't entirely spoken for by bills, creditors, leeching exes, emergency vet bills, steam cleaners for the incident that LED to the vet bills, or one of the million other catastrophes I spent my mid-twenties lurching between, I rejoiced. And, as a proud American, I rejoiced by blowing three hundred dollars on an MP3 player. I went with a Creative player (the now-discontinued Nomad Jukebox Zen model), because that three hundred really was all the excess cash to my name. The twenty gig iPod I had been coveting with a fervor normally reserved for porn only had a Firewire port at the time. Not being a member of the Mac Cult, I would have needed to install Firewire cards on two PCs. That pushed the total to 380 smackers. I wasn't about to finance a toy, so the twenty gig Zen went home with me.
It's a great toy. I'm fond of holding its brushed aluminum case and making various annoying and inaccurate claims as to how much storage space is being waved around. I'm even fonder of making playlists for every conceivable reason. Turning 34? I'll make you a playlist! Afternoon bridal tea? I've got the soundtrack! Party? All I need to know is the average age of the attendees and the purpose of the function. Going into labor? I'll set up nine hours of songs with a good pushing beat! Nothing is worse than a frustrated DJ with access to modern technology.
But my number one favorite excuse for a playlist is a roadtrip. The last one was assembled for a two hour trip to Lancaster, PA. Packing took three minutes, but the playlist process was a happy two hours. Let's see, so four hours on the road, plus some extra time for traffic... in the mood to sing along... a happy mood, no "Traveling Soldier" drama... eh, not feeling the folk songs or the show tunes... whoa, I forgot I owned that one... voila! The perfect, happy, rocking the highway, 4.6 hour singalong playlist!
I opened the sunroof, hung my left arm out the window, and hit shuffle. Somewhere on I-83, the Red Hot Chili Peppers started to wail, and I was howling along. "Hit me you can't hurt me suck my kiss," Kiedis and I were saying to each other. "Give to me sweet sacred bliss, your mouth was made to SUCK MY KISS!" It was a full out, head snapping, chair dancing extravaganza in a 94 Mazda.
The thing is, I wasn't actually chair dancing in a 94 Mazda. I was dancing in a muddy field during the summer that I was seventeen. I am the designated driver, so I'm not high on anything but August heat and dehydration. The sun is setting at Lake Fairfax when the Peppers hit the stage, and we're all pretty worn out, but we get to our feet for one last mosh pit, one last group singalong, one last chance to wave our lighters in the air. We're just dumb, overprivileged kids from the suburbs who don't know our asses from heartbreak and desire, but we know something unpredictable is going to happen to us. College starts in two weeks, but we're not thinking about any of it, we're thinking about how we know all the words to this song and how much we rock, man, we really, really do.
THAT was the buzz that my MP3 player killed when the funky ass Flea bass cut off and the banjo cut in. "There's a dark and a troubled side of life, but there's a bright and a sunny side, tooooooo..."
Watch out for that shuffle mode, man.
It's a great toy. I'm fond of holding its brushed aluminum case and making various annoying and inaccurate claims as to how much storage space is being waved around. I'm even fonder of making playlists for every conceivable reason. Turning 34? I'll make you a playlist! Afternoon bridal tea? I've got the soundtrack! Party? All I need to know is the average age of the attendees and the purpose of the function. Going into labor? I'll set up nine hours of songs with a good pushing beat! Nothing is worse than a frustrated DJ with access to modern technology.
But my number one favorite excuse for a playlist is a roadtrip. The last one was assembled for a two hour trip to Lancaster, PA. Packing took three minutes, but the playlist process was a happy two hours. Let's see, so four hours on the road, plus some extra time for traffic... in the mood to sing along... a happy mood, no "Traveling Soldier" drama... eh, not feeling the folk songs or the show tunes... whoa, I forgot I owned that one... voila! The perfect, happy, rocking the highway, 4.6 hour singalong playlist!
I opened the sunroof, hung my left arm out the window, and hit shuffle. Somewhere on I-83, the Red Hot Chili Peppers started to wail, and I was howling along. "Hit me you can't hurt me suck my kiss," Kiedis and I were saying to each other. "Give to me sweet sacred bliss, your mouth was made to SUCK MY KISS!" It was a full out, head snapping, chair dancing extravaganza in a 94 Mazda.
The thing is, I wasn't actually chair dancing in a 94 Mazda. I was dancing in a muddy field during the summer that I was seventeen. I am the designated driver, so I'm not high on anything but August heat and dehydration. The sun is setting at Lake Fairfax when the Peppers hit the stage, and we're all pretty worn out, but we get to our feet for one last mosh pit, one last group singalong, one last chance to wave our lighters in the air. We're just dumb, overprivileged kids from the suburbs who don't know our asses from heartbreak and desire, but we know something unpredictable is going to happen to us. College starts in two weeks, but we're not thinking about any of it, we're thinking about how we know all the words to this song and how much we rock, man, we really, really do.
THAT was the buzz that my MP3 player killed when the funky ass Flea bass cut off and the banjo cut in. "There's a dark and a troubled side of life, but there's a bright and a sunny side, tooooooo..."
Watch out for that shuffle mode, man.
posted by Sanya at 7:32 PM
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