Karl Klockars

It’s not often that I reach deep into the internet-o-sphere and hitch onto someone else’s idea and run with it. I hate the word “meme” almost as much as the term “lede” bugs me, but it’s the closest thing we’ve got for today. Anyways, more often than not it’s just recurring blithering about buildings I hate or songs I’m stuck with. But for shits and grins, and because I turned on an old Sound Opinions podcast, one might as well lay back, take the muscle relaxants, and let it ride with a selection of Guilty Pleasures.

It’s not an uncommon concept and god knows I listen to a bunch of utter shit. And for the sake of argument, they’re only guilty pleasures if you’re really ashamed of them. If you take a listen to the show from the website (which reminds me of a dentists office for some reason) you kinda get the idea that Derogatis isn’t really ashamed – rather, perversely proud – of liking My Humps. Simultaneously, I’m pretty sure Kot feels pretty cool for bringing up Naughty By Nature, but I wonder if anyone told him he was mixing up “OPP” with “Hip Hop Hooray.”

But we digress.

My swedish roots leave me wide open to an appreciation of all things bubblegum and crap, which I chalk up to the Seasonal Affective Disorder. (Bring it on, winter!) But for a lot of other things, I simply have no excuse and I am honestly ashamed of the following. Hear my cry, o digital bretheren, hear my cry of penance and see me fit to listen to the new Mastodon record and try to repent. Only a penitent man shall pass. Kneel!

Guilty on the Following Counts:

Count One: “I Was Born To Make You Happy.”

Oh, Britney. Wherefore art thou, Britney circa 1999? All we have left is faded memories of purity long gone, and random Google Image Searches take me back to a better day. A nicer day. When you spoke to high school sophomores across the nation, and somehow I got swept along.

You claimed you were born to make me happy, and dammit, I believed you. I thought our 2 year age difference would make no difference at all, and I could be the dark side to your flowers and butterflies image. We’d travel the world, me as your strong, silent gentleman with the long hair and pointy nose, standing off to the side of the stage looking on in appreciation.

And here we stand today. I still have that song on the iPod. I skip it every time – it just hurts too much – but it’s still there in case I ever need it. But you wounded me, Britney. Why did you claim to like Swedish guys in that one interview! I thought you were born to make me happy! Never again, Bit-bit. Never again.

Count #2: “I’m Not Okay.”

Seriously, you can’t tell any of my friends about this one. I’ve got a similar soft spot somewhere around the aorta for highschooler pop-punk. Wish I knew why, but there it is. And I’ll admit here as well to tapping my feet to a Blink 182 record as well. But dammit, My Chemical Romance, why’d you have to write such a catchy song? How dare you!

Way to epitomize the “whaa why me” generation, tearing an entire emo-punkette chapter for yourselves. How dare you remind me of Queen and a ranting 11 year old simultaneously! And how dare you make me like it. I go through phases where I’ll play a song 80 times a day for about two weeks and then burn it out. I’m like a kid with a Disney movie that way. (Mine was “Robin Hood.” Ooh-de-lally.)

And I listened to this on buses, trains, in elevators, on sidewalks, and always had my thumb on the “next” button in the event of someone walking up to me, tearing my headphones off and yelling “what you listening to!” Imagine the horror of being found out listening to that. Anyways, please don’t tell anyone, all right?

Count #3: “Cry.”

When I was living in the House of a Thousand Yawns with three other guys, there was one go-to computer where everyone just downloaded whatever the hell they wanted. Someone decided that Faith Hill videos were the thing to download one afternoon, and there in the queue was a wet, weepy Faith wandering around in some backyard garden singing about a key to a lock to a heart of sorrow. Or some shit like that.

But the timing was spectacular. I was deep in the heart of a winter depression during which I would drink malt liquor and sit in dark rooms, so this video popping into the hard drive is perfection. For hours at a time I would play this, singing along and when my friends would come home at 10:30 and I was already asleep, they knew it was a bad day.

“If I have to come home and see that goddamn video up one more time I’m going to hit you,” a friend of mine told me once. Too bad, kiddo. Someone found it, now delete it or deal with my moodswings. And if you get rid of it? I’m just gonna find it again–the internet is a biiiiiiig place.

So endeth the confession.

<Just to make myself feel better, I’m going to call for the destruction of the 7-11 right by Wrigley Field. I was walking past there about three weeks ago, and there’s way cooler things that could go in there. Another ticket broker, a jersey store, maybe a taco place.

All I know is that walking out of the tool factory that is Hi-Tops isn’t much fun having to gaze past a convenience store to see Wrigley. Especially after a handful of Jagerbombs.

Even if it’s not any cooler, it’d make more sense to have another crap sports bar there rather than a place to buy a pint of ice cream. I guess people gotta have somewhere to rehydrate after eighty beers during a game. Whatever. Boom-blow it up.

Whew. I feel much better.

Now where are my Aqua records?…