Find another door.
Lately, I seem to have been going further back in time.
Re-reading books last published ten years ago. Watching movies where the cast almost appeared to be light years younger. Listening to music released even before I was here, and – good grief – actually liking it.
You see, the radio station has taken to playing some – as they proudly put it – “retro” hits during my lonely drives back from work.
This is not an entirely bad thing, of course. I get to listen to some rarely-played but oft-talked-about songs – ones that may or may not have lost their gleam and shine after all these years. Back when afros and sullen faraway looks rule the day. Back when cheesy photos and smug mugs were plastered on covers of vinyl records or music cassettes. Back when music videos were mostly in black and white, and one of the models happened to be Keanu Reeves. Back when the wind unerringly blows about the singer’s tresses as dancers twirl into oblivion behind her. Back when Prince did not yet come up with his… symbol.
Still, one can only take so much of MC Hammer; somehow, that one hit of his, even if played in an endless loop during a torture ritual, will not appear out of place, nor the least bit strange.
I suspect that someone in the radio station practically worships the American rapper – it seems to me that the station must, must, must! play that darned song at least once a day.
Anyway, confession time – I really need to question my recent music choices.
I mean, heck – this is Hall and Oates we are talking about. A potential favourite now. Crikey.
What, of course I am a little worried. Someone had better tell me that this is just a phase.
Just. A. Phase.