Confession - okay, it's not really a confession, because if you've read this blog the last 10 years you'd know it already — I like cheesy music. And I've gotten to the point in my life where I don't feel the need to qualify that with "But I like good music too" because I'm tired of labeling things as "bad" because it's a "guilty pleasure." Like, why would I have to feel guilty about
liking a song (albeit one that involves a singer who was quite well-known for his mullet)? I didn't murder anyone. I didn't steal someone's prized lawn ornaments. My liking said song does not inflict pain on you in anyway (unless you don't like it and press play...and, well, then that's
your problem for watching it knowing full well what's about to happen, not mine). So why should guilt be involved in any way? Oh, right, because music snobs exist. Or should I say, people with limited imaginations who haven't learned the whole notion "To Each His Own" exist.
ANYWAY. I enjoy the hell out of this song. I mean,
Tonya and I saw him in concert in 2005 (Remember? And what's up with Flickr not attaching old photos anymore. Hmph) and it was pretty awesome then, nearly 20 years after it was released. I mean, there was actual thought put into the lyrics and they aren't just thrown together in rhyme-y fashion, and it's sung with feeling. There have been moments when it's come on in, like, a Duane Reade and I have this incredible urge to belt out "I don't know howwww, to stop feeeeeeling this wayayayayayyyyy" from my spot in the shampoo aisle (I don't though. It IS New York and all, but I don't want to ruin anyone else's experience as they stock up for their medicine cabinets). Hence, it's a GREAT karaoke song.
But still. I'm not going to feel bad about it, and I'm planning on more posts like this, where I fully intend to lose street cred with the cool kids... and not give a flying crap.
