Last night I was driving home after a pleasantly sweaty time at the gym, and realized to my delight that I was too exhausted to get antsy about what was playing on my iPod. On my morning commute, I can skip over a dozen or more songs until I get to the only one that sounds “right.”  (And then play it over and over and over until I get to the office. My freshman roommate used to do the same thing with Yaz. Imagine being 18, away from home for the first time since theatre camp, and being stuck with ”Don’t go” on eternal repeat. Unsurprisingly, she’s my only college roommate not linked to my Facebook page).

Last night, though, my critical brain was engrossed with the chore of scanning the road for suicidal/passenger-car crushing deer. Thus occupied, everything that came through the tinny speakers seemed to be worth singing along to at the top of my lungs. Which I did: joyfully, horribly, without reservation or an iota of apology.

Now we know why those deer are suicidal.

Admittedly, my iPod taste is pretty cheesy. I’ve been known to throw down the suburban white girl’s idea of a gang sign while trying to rap along to “Mama Said Knock You Out.” But damn, my Madonna karaoke’s not half-bad! I can even keep up with the mostly-German version of “Rock Me Amadeus.” But you will never witness me mouthing the words to Falco while cruising along local streets.

Some tunes just demand s-p-e-e-d.

At 75 MPH White Zombie sounds pretty dang good. Driving at 30 past the crowded supermarkets, however, I would deny the Devil’s Rejects director three times before the cock crowed thrice. NPR, baby! That’s all you’ll hear coming from my slow-moving vehicle. Until I accelerate onto the highway ramp. And turn up “More Human than Human.” And play air-drum on my steering wheel while bellowing like a harpy in heat.

In the winter, with my car windows closed, I’m more likely to give in to temptation. “Play us some MC Hammer!” my snow-damaged brain insists. (This is likely the same cruel voice that demands baked goods all the time, then beats me up for having a waist bigger than 24 inches). So if you were to peer inside my ice-crusted side windows, you might just catch me reminding all a’yall that “I’m dope on the floor and I’m magic on the mic.”  

More likely, though, you’ll only hear Soraya Sarhaddi Nelson (no relation) deconstructing the latest debacle in Kabul. See, I’m pretty good at covering my cheesy taste with a facade of intellectualism. As, I suspect, most liberals secretly are. Of all the millions of People magazine subscribers, there have to be a few crossovers with McSweeneys.

Break it down…

U, Dave Eggers, can’t touch this.