Tonight marks a perfectly fine evening turned disappointment personified because the following conversation (more or less) occurred between Husband and me:
Me: “I woke up with Wrecking Ball looping through my head this morning. I don’t even know why.”
Husband: “I don’t know that song.”
Me: “I’m quite sure you do. It’s really overplayed on the radio.” *sings a few bars*
Husband: “Nope. I don’t listen to the radio anymore.”
For those of you new to the show, may I remind you that Husband has intentionally gone out of his way to purchase Ke$ha and Selena Gomez mp3s, while I opt for stuff from Fitz & the Tantrums or Imagine Dragons. (There’s some silver lining in this because the last Amazon haul resulted in Husband discovering that he quite likes all the songs I chose because they’re superior is why, so not all is lost. And he hasn’t gone totally off his rocker, purchasing entire Ke$ha albums or anything wretched like that.)
But. Not only am I becoming increasingly familiar with the lyrics, I’m actually totally enjoying it. Never mind that I’ve disliked Miley Cyrus since the inception of “Hannah Montana.” Never mind that I’ve chosen to opt out of the VMAs videos that went viral on principle alone. Never mind that I’ve avoided the music video and all the spoofs with Nic Cage’s head. Never mind that she’s a really average pop singer. It’s just a catchy song, you guys, and I think deep down you know this.
This is probably the point at which you expect a photo of Miley Cyrus, in all her naked glory, atop a wrecking ball. Or Nicolas Cage, in all Miley Cyrus’s naked glory atop a wrecking ball. But I’ve got principles, and you know it, and I’m completely unwilling to degrade my blog with either. You’re welcome.
This has made me do a lot of thinking (you know, for the past few hours … whatever, I’m feeling introspective), and I’ve decided that a True Music Snob, like unto myself, is such only when deciding to hell with it, I’m going to like even the most sold out, corporate crap if I want to. I know there are starving musicians in the Pacific NW who have to hold day jobs who hold more talent than Cyrus ever will for the duration of her really bizarre, mostly sad life. I know there are easily a dozen female singers I can name off the top of my head who are and will forever be better singers. I know the whole “I wanted you to let me in, I should have let you in” bit really doesn’t make any sense (although to play devil’s advocate here, let’s go ahead and take a minute to think upon the lyrics of “Louie Louie” by the Kingsmen).
Should you be curious, the song did, in fact, loop through my head all day long and continues to plague me even as I sit here in bed, waiting for my sleeping pill to kick in (on a totally unrelated note, there’s something really discomforting about having to take four medications for one anxiety disorder, and when I say sleeping pill, I really mean “anti-depressant that makes people so damn tired, they decided to give it to insomniacs, but I’ve got the added bonus of more seratonin, which my dumb brain apparently cannot produce on its own no matter what.”) There’s something kind of meta about the song being a wrecking ball in my day, when you think about it.