Memories, like the pages of my mind...

So, the missus and I are doing a quick power cleaning in preparation for a visit from her dad. I find housework irritating (Duh!) and one of the ways I can make it more palatable is with music. Whether it's my iPod or Pandora or Slacker, I find a genre and crank it up. I'll clean the counter-tops popping my booty to hip-hop or turn the toilet brush upside-down for some improvisational air guitar rock. I'll sing at the top of my lungs, making sure to control my oft overused vibrato. It's the Clorox music festival and I'm the main act. That is, until a particular song got me thinking.

We all have music on our iPods that has no business being there. Maybe you're a fifteen-year old boy who secretly keeps a copy of "Oops! I Did it Again" or a thirty-something woman whose dinner party is interrupted by an unexpected appearance of "Slob on My Nob." Today, as I cleaned and rocked, "Only You" by the Flying Pickets disturbed my groove with a fiercely a-Capella shock. It's bad enough that the song is on my iPod, but making matters psychologically worse is the fact that I don't even like the song. At all. What's it doing there? How did it end up in my iTunes library? Let's take it a step further. I KNEW ALL THE WORDS!

How is it possible that I know every lyric to a song I didn't know existed in my library and that I don't particularly like? I gave it some thought, and I know the words to TONS of songs that I don't like. "Harden my Heart" by Quarterflash? Yep. "The Way We Were" by Barbara Streisand? Check. "Ice, Ice, Baby" by Vanilla Ice? Every last worthless rhyme. Is this ability to retain unpleasantness a clue to my essence? It goes beyond music, actually.

I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the Brat Pack movies from the 1980s. I clearly remember nearly every unpleasant person I've ever met. I am a card-carrying atheist who can recite the call and response of Catholic services better than the Pope. (The Lord is with you/ And also with you/ Lift up your hearts/ We lift them up to the Lord/ Let us give thanks to the Lord, our God/ It is right to give him thanks and praise/ dingalingaling.) In the meanwhile, I can't remember when my oldest son first walked. I have no idea what my favorite color is, nor my favorite restaurant, book or song. I couldn't answer the question, "What's your best memory?" but I know precisely (to the minute) the moment of my life which was my worst.

I hadn't ever considered myself a pessimist as much as a recreational cynic, but this musical catharsis has offered me some alarming introspection. I may not be just a funny guy with a slightly dark side. I may just be more than a little grumpy. I'm not the recreational cynic I'd always hoped to be. I am clearly incapable of happiness, or if not, I get my happiness from pain and irritation. Who am I? Am I a sadist? A masochist? A depressive? Who or what am I? I think I know and I have the Flying Pickets to thank.

I'm an asshole.