At the gym I attended in the city, they played a steady diet of hip hop, house, trance and club mixes, all of which I cannot stand. Club music is an insult to musicians. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP, etc. But I wasn’t there to listen to music. Just exercise.
The gym I now attend in the lily-white New Jersey suburbs plays the lily-white classic rock hits of the ’70s and 80’s. Sometimes, I miss the THUMP.
I was doing my warm-ups and dissecting the lyrics of the awful Good Lovin’ Gone Bad by British dinosaur rockers, Sad Company. Oh, excuse me. I mean Bad Company. Towards the end of the song, Paul Rogers sings:
Good lovin’ gone bad
And baby, I’m a bad man
Ooh. But earlier in the song, he belly aches:
‘Cos I’m a man
I got my pride
Don’t need no woman
to hurt me inside.
Don’t need no?! What the fuck is don’t need no?! Isn’t that, like, a quadruple-negative? Good-bye, English language. And which is it, buddy? Are you a bad man or a girlie-man who walks around with his broken heart dripping off his puffy white sleeve? Make up your mind.
I almost got into an auto accident. I was in the Costco parking lot. I came to a full stop, looked right, didn’t look left, and hit the gas. The car approaching from the left didn’t have a stop sign. I locked up my brakes and he missed me by inches. It would have been my fault, too. Christ, it’s the absolute worst feeling in the world.