All my life I’ve wanted to be a music geek. I try really hard, but just the fact that I have to try at all means I’m totally not a music geek.
I don’t let my non-geekness stop me from pretending like I am one. From what I can tell on the outside looking in, you have to act as though your taste is impeccable and beyond reproach, and you also have to hate everyone else’s favorite band. These two, I am good at.
So last night when Vodo, a genuine music geek, asked if he could take a look at my 80GB of ebony-love, Eurydice, my stomach started to hurt a little. I tried to play it off that concern that his clumsiness would harm her. “Be careful,” I shouted as I handed her over.
Then I tried to distract him with the only video that I own, Mike Doughty’s “Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well.” That lasted a few minutes, until I told Vodo to stop pressing his greasy nose against my Eurydice.
Then, then, then the Vodo started to dive into my actual music collection. That kid’s one smart cookie. I don’t give him enough credit. He immediately headed to playlists and started to peruse the Top 25 most played songs. I am not ashamed! I am not. But I have to admit I felt a bit like I was standing there naked in the middle of Grumpy’s asking for him to point out all my flaws. See why my stomach began to ache?
When he started making fun of me for having Shakira and Justin Timberlake in my Top 25, I tried to defend myself.
“I collect Hips songs,” I told him. “And they both mention hips.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I am weird.”
While his thumbs pillaged my collection, I howled my disapproval. “Vodo, it’s like you’re, it’s like you’re. . . digging through my closet.” I wanted to say underwear drawer but for some reason I couldn’t say the word underwear in front of him.
And, because he is way smarter then I want him to be, Vodo skipped to the Top 25 2005 playlist. He perused the list and just looked at me, not saying a word.
“Yeah,” I said, my chin hovering over his arm trying to take a peek. “I had a breakup in 2005.”
He laughed. Maybe because he understood or, maybe because I’m a dork. I’m not quite sure.
As we were leaving Vodo was trying to tell me that emo was the new hair metal. I, of course, told him it was not, and even if it was there’s some redeeming value to “Talk Dirty to Me” and “Home Sweet Home.”
“No there’s not,” he said.
“I’m sorry Vodo,” I said. “I’m for the people’s music, make fun of me if you want.” Because if you can’t beat a music geek, you have to play the snob card and make them insecure. “Anyway, what is this shit you’re giving me?”
“Well,” he started. “Ever since I saw Justin Timberlake on your iPod, I realized I could give you shit.”
Like I said, he’s one smart cookie and I don’t like that one bit.