OK, few of you probably are aware of my ex-rock slut tendencies. You probably think you can guess my musical tastes from the wussy, obscure titles I list every week to your right. "She's an indie rock girl or perhaps a folky-alternative-female-hippie-soloist fan."
Au contraire.
At the few times I get my choice on the car stereo, it's usually some crazy rock and roll with a little bit of hip hop thrown in just to keep my fingers on the pulse of scene.
What scene, I don't exactly know.
Because here I am, singing (badly) to Fergie's London Bridge, the nastiest most inane song ever written, and I actually think I'm hip for a split second. Until I realize that whilst singing (badly), I am driving not to some club to get my freak on, but to the country club to walk on the treadmill while I read one of those obscure titles to your right while Fox News plays on one of the ten television screens above my head.
So I am lucky to even have a pulse, and hereby denounce my knowledge of any other pulse that may or may not exist.
Fin.
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