I was in a car accident two weeks ago. Not minor, because I am currently car-less. Not major, because, well I am here. Long story short, I have a cute sedan that I get to drive around in the meantime. It gets me to and from work, has a cute horn and free satellite radio. Heaven.
If you have never had the pleasure to listen to satellite radio, know this: it is incredible. I used to think that the main attraction was "commercial-free music"- when it is really so much more. There are 50 bagillion categories and 100 times as many channels. (That's 5000 bagillion for all you non-math minors.) In my humble rental, I have the ability to program my top 15 favorite. I only have this rental for 3 weeks, so I knew the choice could not be taken lightly. With satellite radio, you don't choose your favorite radio stations based solely on music or genres, rather you go with life memories.
Do I want to remember the days of driving to Grandma & Grandpop's house in Dad's old 1979 Ford pick-up? That would be The Roadhouse, the 80's country music station.
What if i want to be taken back to that moment when I got my first walkman and would sing Ace of Base as loud as I could in my bedroom with the door locked? 90s on 9.
And how about revisiting that time when my husband first learned his hardest lesson as a newlywed to date: Never leave your wife alone at a wine festival? Well that'd be 60's on 6 of course.
So that was my first chosen preset. 60's on 6, with Mike Kelly as the afternoon DJ. It only took about 4 songs into my commute home that evening when I was taken back to that day. Back to the day that my husband rarely discusses, my friends were unfortunately absent for, and was probably the highlight of a select few privileged middle-aged mens' lives. Read on if intrigued. Stop here if you've had enough.
It was September 2008, and my 2nd favorite VA annual event was approaching. (My favorite is of course WMZQfest.) The Virginia Wine Festival. Hundreds of wineries, all-you-could drink tastings, and one entrance fee. My friends and I made plans for the event weeks in advance. We'd mapped our route, figured our plan of attack but then fell short of ever executing. You see, the morning of the wine festival, as I sat at my mirror placing every strand of hair perfectly on my head, I got the first text. Then another, and another. Everyone bailed. It had rained the night before and the ground was wet, muddy and so-not-worth-it. The truth was, the clouds were breaking and the sun was shining. We'd be drinking anyway, so I was not concerned about mud. My husband and I decided it would be worth it to go by ourselves, since the crowds would be smaller anyway.
We arrived at the festival in the early afternoon. It turned out to be a perfect September day. Skies were blue, wine was pouring. Life was perfect. That was, until my husband got a phone call. It was his office, and although it was Saturday, since the festival was right around the corner, he had to run into work and check on something.
My husband quickly bought me a smoked turkey sandwich with some extra-carby bread to soak up whatever had been recently thrown into my belly. He then instructed:
"Stay here, I'll be right back."
I'm not sure how long it took until he was out of sight, but I jumped up and made my way towards a stage where a band was about to perform. I kept my distance, cautious of the music they might be about to play. I looked around at the lack of crowd. There was a middle-aged hippy standing on a folding chair, yelling out her request. I saw a few children dancing a ring-around-the-rosie-esque ballad. Then a man came on the stage and introduced the band: The Original Rhondels. That's when all ladylike grace that I had been born with had vanished.
The music started. I was in a hypnotized trance.
People all around the world!!!! Join hands!!! Let's start a love train, a love train!
I shoved my way past the dozen or so people socializing in front of the stage and got to the front. I danced. I sang. I displayed my empty wine glass proudly above my head and swung around in circles.
All of your brothers over in Africa- Tell all of the folks in Israel and Egypt too-
Never has a one-woman show ever made such a spectacle. And never had a bigger fan showed up at The Original Rhondels concert before. And let me tell you, The Original Rhondels were loving every minute of it.
After a few more verses, a trombone player made his way to the front of the stage to do his solo. It was about this time when my husband had finally found a parking spot after returning from his errand. I let out a "woo!!!" to the trombone player; Jim searched the spot where he had left me. I screamed out "LOVE TRAIN!!! I SAID LOVE TRAIN!!!"; Jim looked across the field in my direction. Jim was a mere seconds away from learning his lesson.
The trombone player whipped out a washcloth. Not any washcloth, but one with the band's name proudly printed on it. He wiped it across his forehead (something I'm sure was totally hip in the 60's) and then HE THREW IT AT ME. Buzz.kill. There I was, looking guilty as ever. An empty wine glass, standing not in our "stay here" location, with a sweaty washcloth in my hands. Double.Buzz.kill. Jim didn't stop laughing the entire way home.
And neither did I, on my way home the other night from work, when "Love Train" came on 60's on 6, XM radio.