A Trip

The other night, a couple friends and I were driving back home from a birthday celebration at some far-flung dive bar. It was some kind of a party, featuring the birthday girl in an awfully talented band, and there was more beside that to the credit of the evening. In any event, the ride home was a long one, and let's just say that I at least was still very much seized by "the party spirit". It made the ride somewhat more tolerable than it might have been under other circumstances.

The shotgun passenger had out her phone, and was playing songs to supplement what must have been a lackluster playlist on what I gather we now call "terrestrial radio". I was singing along to each one, whether  I was very confident about the lyrics or not. It would be fair to say that my vocal performances were distinguished more by their enthusiasm than by their successful execution. At the best of times, I think I must have a limited vocal range, but these were not the best of times.

It's worth noting that these are not your traditional songs to elicit such a response. Rather than "Louie Louie" or "Kill In The Name Of", we had such classics as Pearl Jam's cover of "Last Kiss" and a number of tracks from the Wicked soundtrack. I was fairly familiar with every one of them, and I won't attribute my love of them to any sort of insidious momentary influence on my physiology. I feel just the same way now, as they're just dynamite songs.

One shouldn't be afraid to own up to what they love. It's more common, seemingly, to trash things or to hold them at arm's length for fear of revealing too much about oneself. It's an unfortunate attitude to think that each display of one's passions is nothing more than a free provision of ammunition for ridicule. One of the most attractive qualities I can think of is the confidence to show what you're into with utter, reckless abandon (provided that it doesn't happen during quiet time).