I have nothing to say about Eva winning America’s Next Top Model. Nothing at all. Moving on!
This morning I’m sitting here with my coffee, trolling around the old Information Superhighway, wondering what on earth I could write about in the journal today, since I’m over ANTM (see above). Then I was reading my cousin Benjamin’s livejournal, where he filled out this meme that’s making the rounds about 2004. He was asked what music he’d discovered this year, and he said Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash, and then said, jokingly, that we should just keep that amongst ourselves. Now, I LOVE LOVE my cousin Benjamin. (Ben, are you listening? Adore you.) But hear this: loving Dolly and Johnny is nothing to ashamed of. If anyone thinks that it is, then they haven’t heard Dolly’s The Grass is Blue, or any of Cash’s recordings with Rick Rubin, or even “Ring of Fire,” for goodness sake. I will admit I am a bit biased. I have a picture of Johnny Cash right next to my computer—for reasons entirely too complicated to go into—which I am looking at right this second. And I’ve loved Dolly Parton for ages: I read her biography, which was given to me by my friend Lee Smith, who not only loves Dolly but has met her and actually had lunch with her.
(Oh, I can’t help myself, I have to share this story. So a few years back, Lee has lunch with Dolly. They go to this restaurant, and Lee is just amazed at how the people there respond to Dolly. They’re all in awe, reaching out to her as she passes, just wanting to touch her. Lee said, “Sarah, I swear, it was like having lunch with Jesus!” Which made me laugh out loud.)
Anyway. All of this got me thinking about music, and how it can be such a loaded subject. Everyone has strong opinions: there’s stuff you’re supposed to like, and stuff you’re supposed to hate, but is there ever a consensus, really? Of course not. Our annual Christmas party is coming up soon, and I remember, many years ago, that before the party I would find myself picking through my CD collection, removing certain things, because I KNEW at some point one of our friends who was a big music person, knowledgeable, opinionated, indie-minded, would wander over to look for something to put on, find a CD of mine and be disgusted. “Oh, my God,” I pictured them saying, drawing out a disc with two fingers, as if it smelled bad, “is this actually the Spice Girls?” To which I would say, “Um, that’s not mine!” or “That’s my husband’s!” both of which were total lies, of course. At that point in my life, I was ashamed that I liked Barry Manilow, and Britney Spears, and other things that now I am able to claim completely, because I’m over thirty and that means that I Just Don’t Care. (Or, maybe, Just Don’t Care As Much.)
I know that some of my musical taste makes some people wince. But I also know that life is too short to not admit what you like, and why you like it. So I wholly embrace the fact that yes, I do own a Spice Girls CD, and yes, I do like Mariah Carey, and yes, I listen to Country Music, and not just Dolly and Johnny but the current stuff as well. And when we have our party, I will inflict songs from all of these people onto my guests via my IPod, which makes it just so easy to do, because often, if they’re not used to the technology, they can’t figure out how to turn it off or change the song. (Feel the power!) I say, it’s time to fess up. I’ve done it here, and shared. You know you want to confess the secrets of your own CD collection. Come clean!
have a good day everyone!