A lesson learned from a 1960s song…

No, not “Eve of Destruction”.
Or “Blowin’ in the Wind”.
Or “The Sounds of Silence”.
Or any of those Really Relevant Songs that are constantly overplayed on oldies/’60s stations.

As a matter of fact, 1) you have never heard of the song in question, 2) the lyrics are not the stuff of social consciousness, 3) neither is the lesson here, for that matter, and 4) this lesson is only peripherally related to the song.

I will start by asking you to listen to the song linked below, at least through the first chorus. The link here brings you to a YouTube page that contains both sides of the 45; inasmuch as this screed concerns the song “Loddy” – the A side of the record – you will want to start from the beginning (the music starts at :07):


(You listened all the way to the end of that first song, didn’t you? And you were singing along – at least to yourself – by the time that last chorus faded out, right? Don’t worry…I won’t tell. )

So why did I trick you into listening to a bit of ‘60s sunshine pop? Here is a hint: You likely remember little to nothing of the verse(s), I am guessing.

Ahh…but (and here is the setup) that chorus. I will bet that you are not going to get it out of your head anytime soon; there is something about an infectious sing-along riff that just burrows its way into your memory, and stays there longer than it should.

In my case, it stayed in my memory for forty-seven years…but only in my memory, and nothing more. I distinctly remember the song being on the radio for maybe a couple of weeks back in September of 1969. Over those couple of weeks, I probably heard it no more than a half-dozen times. And over the course of those half-dozen listens, I heard the DJ give the name of the song exactly once – but I could not make it out clearly over the background sounds of our little house (did he say Lottie? La-di-da? Or was my mind fooling me?), and I could not hear the name of the artist at all. And then, as often happened back then, the song vanished without a trace and never came back, leaving me with nothing but that chorus – “sing la-dee-da, la-dee-daaaa” – echoing in my mind and never really going away. Now, there were any number of other songs over the years that followed the same trajectory on the radio, coming and going before you got to know them…but, invariably, I was able to catch some fragment – maybe the title, maybe the artist, maybe a line or two of the lyrics – that, over time, gave me enough of a clue to be able to track the song down in a record store or, later, online.

But, maddeningly, there was that one song that never went away in my mind, but that did not leave me with any clue at all as to its identity, save for that one line, repeated over and over in the chorus and in my memory. With the advent of the internet, I was able to check off most every song on my list of most memorable lost tunes…except for that one. Lord knows, I tried. I searched for numerous possible variations on the title, based on that fleeting mention from that DJ all those years ago. I tried typing that maddening chorus into Google. In fact, I actually had hit the correct spelling of the title a couple of times…but the title invariably led me to a different song. And then, several years ago, I stumbled upon a database dedicated to old music surveys – the weekly printouts that were always left on the checkout counter at music stores and any number of other locations back in the day. The database was far from all-encompassing, although still enormous; a given station might have several surveys turn up over the course of any given year…but there were also countless stations that might have been represented by one lone list, if that. Still, it was a daunting task; I tried entering the various spellings, only to come up empty. I even tried pulling up various surveys from September 1969 and, if I saw a song I had never heard of, I pulled it up on YouTube, just in case I had completely messed up on that title. Nothing.

And then, a week ago, I revisited that database. There had been any number of surveys added since my last visit. This time around, I started by searching all songs from 1969 beginning with the letter “L”.

And. Among the over 400 songs that matched my request…”Loddy”, by a group called Tax. There were over 72,000 survey charts in the database…and exactly one with this song, added since my last visit. From mid-August 1969, which was certainly close enough to be within the realm of possibility. Holy crap…could it be? I jumped – almost literally – to YouTube…and there it was. And it was.

I played it again. And again, and again. And, in my mind, I was suddenly twelve years old again…with none of the cares and worries inherent to being an adult…and, for that matter, with none of the angst – or the troubles – that twelve-year-old me had to deal with so often. For the moment, the innocent twelve-year-old met the more uninhibited sixty-year old in one spirit, set free by the soaring chorus of a long-lost song now brought back to life. And it was wonderful.

The lesson here, of course, is to never give up. Not every such endeavor winds up with the happy ending…certainly given what was out there to work with in this case. But, at the same time…sometimes perseverance and luck combine to smile on you. And when the stars do align, the feeling of overcoming the odds is indescribable. Do not obsess…but, whether it is something great or small, whether life-changing or life-enriching, or just a little something to help you get through the madness…if in your heart it is worth it, do not quit.

And, for what it is worth…if there really is/was a Loddy – a real person who inspired this song – I have fallen in love with her, sight unseen. Just sayin’.

“I can no longer stay silent.”

This was the line that opened a Facebook post from a friend this morning. A friend who, like your humble correspondent, once frequented a game-show forum that eventually devolved into a wasteland due in no small part to the unrestrained political discussions that pretty much took the board over. A friend who established a virtual “Moratorium Lounge” within the board as a way of telling the chronic offenders “enough”.

To be sure, I have occasionally made posts both to my Facebook page and this blog that could fairly be called “political”. As a rule, though, I tried to avoid doing so. Reasonable people can have reasonable differences, and I have friends across the political spectrum. Because, you see, I tend to see people in the whole. There are any number of people on my friend list whose views on things political are diametrically opposed to mine. And on the more-common occasions when I do comment to something political that they may have posted to their own timelines, I try to do so in a respectful manner. Because, you know, they are my friends.

But, like my friend, I can no longer stay silent.

Not when the fears I felt over the course of the recent election are already beginning to take root within the new administration after only a week and change. There is the manipulation of the press and the distortion of facts being propagated by government spokespersons. There is the marginalization of minorities and the obscene waste of resources that will be earmarked for the construction of an easily-circumvented wall that is intended as much as a statement as a barrier. There is the turning away of refugees and the twisted explanation as to how it is not about religion, along with the transparent exemptions given to nations where the president has business interests. There is the call for a “great” military buildup (and, Lord help me, I have come to loathe that word). There is the shakeup at the National Security Council, in which he replaced the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Director of National Intelligence with his right-hand political adviser.

Except for the thing about the press, all done by executive order. And all of this within the first ten days.

I will make no apologies here for being frightened or angry. As my friends and/or blog followers, I hope you understand. Today, I changed my Facebook profile picture to the Statue of Liberty. Not only for those who she welcomes, but also for what she is welcoming them to. Because both, I fear, are being radically altered by those now in power.

And I, too, can no longer stay silent.

A name for a face

If you have lived in the Wausau area for any amount of time, chances are that you have seen him walking down the street somewhere…maybe along Grand Avenue, maybe downtown…but somewhere. And it was not hard to notice him, to be honest; the gait he used in his walk earned him a nickname by which he was universally known. And even if you never saw him, chances are that you likely had heard of him at some point…again, most likely by that nickname.

Like countess other locals, over the years I have both seen and heard of the man – either within the context of “sightings”, or by the description of his walk. But, always, by that nickname; I do not recall hearing him so much as once referred to by his actual name. And, like (I am sure) virtually everybody else around town, I personally knew nothing of the man himself; my guess is that most people would have used words such as “harmless” to describe him. Now, I have no doubt that most of us would like to think of ourselves by that particular adjective as well. Nevertheless, that word – “harmless” – carries with it a certain connotation when used to describe a specific person. If in fact it is used in conversation regarding another human being, the unspoken implication is that, for whatever reason, the listener needs somehow to be reassured that the subject of the conversation possesses that particular trait.

And if we would like to think of ourselves as harmless, I would also think that few of us would think of ourselves as “cruel”. Nevertheless, whether or not we might consider ourselves as inherently cruel (and I would truly hope that the vast majority of us would not), chances are that at various points in our lives we have committed acts or said things that would fairly qualify for that description. And I will plead guilty as charged, of course; this particular baggage comes with being a flawed human being. To the point here: I certainly stared in passing more than once back in the day when seeing him on the sidewalk, and I could not help but smirk knowingly on occasion when his nickname was brought up in conversation.

But that was back in the day. I would like to think that the years, in their counsel, have made me a better (if still flawed) person. And, more than once over the years since, I will admit to having paused for a moment to wonder about the guy. Was he still around? Was he still drawing stares as he walked down the street? And what of him as a person? His life certainly had dimension beyond the peculiarities in his gait. Who – if anybody – knew any of that? And did he have anybody at all who might have cared?

And, sadly, these thoughts all began with the nickname. I have not used that name here, nor will I begin to do so now; you have likely already guessed (even if you have no clue as to specifics) that this was not a nickname that was bestowed in kindness. But, for God’s sake…what other reference point does one have when speaking or thinking of a man whose actual name is as unknown as he himself is known?

His name, as I found out today, was Nile “Nick” Seis, and he passed away this past Friday. Rest in peace, Nick. Because if anybody out there deserves that particular benediction, it is you.


As we go through life, there are far too many times when we fail to stop and smell the flowers, in either the literal or the figurative sense…times when we are so caught up in the day-to-day madness that, when something comes along, we overlook it for whatever reason. Sometimes these oversights might be such that, were one to have paused for a moment, life could well have changed dramatically. And then there are times when the impact might be far from life-changing…but where, nevertheless, there might be some tiny something that might have been overlooked that might have brightened your life in some way, shape or form…not in any concrete way, perhaps, but just some little something to help you get through the madness.

That I am just now writing about this should tell you that, a couple months back, there was a lot going on in my day-to-day. Nothing worth noting here, and nothing to worry about at all…just one of those busy times in life where there is enough routine stuff to keep you going, perhaps a bit too much. At the same time, the backstory goes back a lot farther.

For years – and not often, but every once in a scattered while, somewhere in passing – I would see a reference to Leonard Cohen’s song “Hallelujah”, which dates back to the 1980s. And everything I read about the song hinted to something very special. I actually had a legitimate excuse for not pursuing it in the days before the advent of the internet. Once YouTube came around, not so much. Even with Cohen’s passing a couple of months back…well, the tributes were fine, and I really had to check this out…but there was work to do, y’know.

And then I saw a clip of Kate McKinnon from Saturday Night Live, in character as Hillary Clinton, singing “Hallelujah” at the piano. Holy. Crap. And then, a couple of days ago, my reaction was the same as I watched an autistic girl put out another moving version – this one with lyrics rewritten as a Christmas carol. And it was time to dig deeper.

And what I found was amazing. Not just the two renditions I had heard…not just for the fact that there were apparently several other versions out there, piecing together verses written at various times. No; what really jumped out at me, what absolutely struck me, was finding the original set of lyrics. This was as powerful of a piece of poetry as I had ever seen in my life. Yes, I am sorry that I had not looked before this. And yes, I am glad I finally took the time to dig in. Now, it is a matter of finding this rendition somewhere on YouTube.

Unfortunately (or, more accurately, fortunately, as today is Christmas Eve), there are things to do today. But I am not going to allow myself to wait so long this time around. In the meantime…please allow yourself to be moved by the original words. Thanks, Leonard…


Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah


Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah


You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah


I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah


Painting to a mystery

We will begin today with something that I just wrote. (Yeah…I know…everything in my blog is “something I just wrote”…work with me on this.) At any rate…it has been quite some time since something poetic has entered my mind, and it is time to share. You are, of course, invited to stick around as well for the long-winded follow-up, where things are explained in detail. So…here you go…


She holds the relics
Faded remnants of another day
The touchstones of your being
Touch her spirit in the mystical way
The mother of Abidan

She sees the visions
Trusted to her vision to hold
Painting to a mystery
Filling pages as a story unfolds
The mother of Abidan

And you will remain alive
In the singing of her song
You will remain alive
By the mother of Abidan

She hears the voices
Distant echoes from the faraway
Called to hear their calling
Giving voice to what is given to say
The mother of Abidan

She knows the secrets
Held aside for her to behold
Whispers to the keepers
Breathing life into the stories untold
The mother of Abidan

And you will remain alive
In the singing of her song
You will remain alive
By the mother of Abidan


So, anyhow. First off, you are likely wondering how I came up with that word, “Abidan”. Hint #1: I didn’t…more on that shortly. Hint #2: If you just returned to this page after Googling “Abidan”, good on you. For returning, that is. Inasmuch as you probably have already been led astray by the results that no doubt appeared on your screen. Because the Abidan who generates the vast majority of Google hits is a Biblical character from Exodus whose name translates as “father is judge”…which has nothing at all to do with this.

You see, “Abidan” is not a person so much as a concept. In this case, it comes from the Old English – sometimes seen written as “ābīdan” – which has among its translations “remain alive”. (Perhaps not coincidentally, it is also the root of our current word “abide”.) At any rate: “Abidan”, as defined here, was used by my artist friend Donna Meyer in a work entitled “Abidan (Remain Alive)”. As a side note, this work is currently on display at the Center for the Visual Arts in Wausau, Wisconsin through the end of 2016 as part of the center’s “Roots” display. And I highly recommend that you check it out – and not just because Donna is my friend (although that counts for something on its own, y’know); I personally found it to be very intriguing on its own merits…and there are numerous other wonderful pieces of work on display by other artists as well…worth a bit of your time, in my humble opinion.

Donna’s work is a series of photographs which merge images of people and objects from the past, creating visual narratives in one’s imagination of the people who may have used these objects. As she has stated in her own words: “Even though my conclusions to these questions may be suitable to me the answers, ultimately, remain a mystery.” As I was reading her statement while looking at one of the pictures, it (perhaps subconsciously) dawned on me that this was very similar to the sense I occasionally experienced looking at photos of many of my ancestors…people of whose daily lives I knew nothing at all save for pictures in my imagination. And somehow, this resonated to my soul on a level not so much defined as felt.

And, as has happened unexpectedly from time to time, a seed of imagination was planted in my mind. I envisioned a being who “knew”. Someone who had the power to enable those long gone to “remain alive”. A mother of Abidan, if you will.

But who, exactly, might this Mother of Abidan be? Clearly, Donna – both as the literal mother of Abidan (defined as her artwork), and as the one in whose mind the narratives appear – inspired the writing, and can rightly claim the title. But, at the same time…could it also be the being as manifest in my imagination? Or could it be each of us, regardless of gender, called to help those who came before us to remain alive by relating what we know of them to those who have come after? Does one have a claim larger than the other…or can it be said that each have a full share in their own way?  Again, ultimately, a mystery.

The words that the mystery inspired are written out at the top of the page. The mystery itself belongs to each of us, each in our own way. Paint to it as you will.

I’m back. And this is my one political post.

No. I have not forgotten about this little corner of cyberspace. Sometimes, you see, the hubbub of everyday life just increases in volume to the point where there are just not enough hours in a day – or, for that matter, in a month – to accomplish everything one sets out to do. So it has been for two of my favorite projects; my genealogy project and, obviously, this blog have both been set aside for far too long, and it is high time to get back to both.

If there ever might be a time to resume the occasional screeds here, this certainly is it. Now, I generally avoid posting political stuff, either here or on Facebook (although those of you who follow me on FB know that this is not an absolute). There is just too much potential for things to go wrong, as I found out a few weeks back. In a nutshell: There was a news story making the rounds concerning a Republican county headquarters in North Carolina that had been set afire. I broke my self-imposed guidelines and posted my take on the story to Facebook. I felt that it was important for people whose beliefs hewed more to the left to come out and condemn this act. Those on the right would – hell, should – be outraged…but this was something that transcended things political, and it behooved those of us who may not have seen eye-to-eye with the GOP to condemn the actions of somebody who, in all likelihood, shared our political point of view, but who had completely lost touch with the concepts of respect and decency.

At any rate: I made the post, along with a brief condemnation of the act in question. And sadly, a comment was quickly posted that said – verbatim – “This is what liberals do”. When he subsequently opened a reply to my own response with the words “You libtards”, I immediately unfriended him and took the post completely down. The word “libtard” is, obviously, a portmanteau of “liberal” and “retard” – which 1) implied that I was somehow cognitively impaired based upon my general (although, please note, not total by any means) adherence to liberal principles, and 2) incorporated one of the most vile and degrading terms that one can hurl at a fellow human being (and, for the record, I will not tolerate in any way, shape or form, any attempted jokes concerning which of the two component words I am referencing here). This was a former co-worker who I have known for over a quarter of a century, who I have knocked numerous beers down with on more than one occasion, and who I sincerely considered a friend. Yes, I knew that we were worlds apart politically. God knows, I have any number of friends – both on Facebook and in real life – with whom I disagree vehemently on matters of a political nature. But when somebody crosses the line to the point of not questioning me, not calling me out, but actually degrading me for my beliefs, it causes me to reevaluate just how well I actually know the person in question…and just how much of a friend they actually consider me

Thus, I hope you understand when I pause before continuing to note that if I appear to be overly cautious in my choice of words here, it is for good reason.

I will start the second part of this post by noting – perhaps unsurprisingly – that I voted for Hillary Clinton this past Tuesday. And I did so somewhat less enthusiastically than, perhaps, I should have. Although she came across as the closest of the four most recognizable candidates to me philosophically, and certainly as the most qualified, there were any number of things about her that left me feeling somewhat less than warm and fuzzy in much the same way that Bill Clinton did back in the day. At the same time, I saw enough of Donald Trump’s words and actions on the campaign trail to make me realize that, of the two viable candidates for the Oval Office, Clinton was my only choice. In another time, I may well have abstained or voted for another candidate…but not this time.

None of that matters now, of course. The election is over, and under the rules, Trump has clearly won. And, digressing for a moment: As uncertain and, frankly, fearful as I am for the future, I completely oppose the movement to attempt to swing the Electoral College to Clinton. Hillary blew this election, and those of us who are apprehensive about a Trump presidency need to accept this.

Now, with that said: We all need to take a long look in the mirror and pause to ponder how our attitudes may have suddenly changed. There is a meme currently making the rounds that you may well have seen – four panels, with different background colors – which I refuse to share either here or on Facebook. Although it raises a valid point which I will address shortly, the caricatures contained therein – a drawing of a person rabidly opposed to Obama (quite literally in this case, as he is shown foaming at the mouth, among other highly unflattering characteristics) before suddenly undergoing a complete transformation in the last panel – very much cross a line, and I will not play along.

At the same time, absent the illustrations, the words standing alone do raise a valid point. There are any number of people who have vehemently opposed Obama over the years beyond fair and reasonable political differences, questioning the legitimacy of his presidency, the location of his birth, his religious beliefs, disavowing him as “their” president, and who raised the specter of a rigged election, calling for rejection of a Clinton win (and those were just the points raised within the cartoon). And now, suddenly, the people have spoken and we need to unite behind the new president.

And there is more; I have seen those who have made no attempt to hide their disgust and, sometimes, their hatred of Obama (or Hillary Clinton) lamenting similar posts aimed at Trump. In fairness, I absolutely must say here that this does not apply to all who opposed either one …or anything close to a majority, for that matter; if they may not be fans, at the least they frame it within the context of the loyal opposition. And I have no illusions whatsoever that there are those on the left who would behave correspondingly were the shoe on the other foot; there are those with whom I may be in agreement philosophically but who cross the line just as badly. This must be attributed in part to human nature, of course. At the same time, there is an inherent bitterness on both sides that we must move beyond…a “scorched-earth” philosophy that has utterly poisoned our national dialogue, replacing the concepts of compromise and the greater good.

Nevertheless, I hope you understand this: Unless either 1) you choose to denigrate me as my former co-worker did, or 2) your beliefs are so far over the line as to be abhorrent to any understandable human decency (think Nazis or ISIS), I have no intention of losing you as a friend – either in real life or on Facebook.  It would be a very boring world, indeed, if we all thought the same; all I am asking from each of us here (and yes, I realize that I am among “us”) is to respect each other.

In closing: Speaking from the left, I do have my fears. I fear for what the future holds for those who may look, pray, or love differently than me. I fear for what Trump’s well-documented attitudes toward women may entail. I fear for what his world view will mean for us, both in the short and the long term. And, something that I have not yet seen brought up anywhere: I fear that, given complete control of our government, the Republicans will move swiftly and ruthlessly to utterly eviscerate the Democratic opposition. I am not just talking about marginalizing them within the confines of the business of government in the upcoming term, but in actual terms of destroying any chance of them regaining power via elections in the future. For those who think I am being far-fetched: It has been done in Wisconsin since the 2010 mid-term election thanks to legislative redistricting, changes to campaign finance laws, reorganization of government watchdog agencies, and numerous legislative changes. There are some things that would be done differently at a federal level, of course – most obviously, redistricting is controlled by the states – but I have seen what can be done, and I have no doubt that there are those who have taken note.

At the same time, I refuse to give up hope. I can hope that all of the rhetoric that was recorded on the campaign trail was a ruse from a businessman who refuses to show all of his cards while negotiating/campaigning. (Yes…I realize that I am actually hoping that he lied…at this point, it is the best that I can hope for.) I can hope that, like Bill Clinton, whatever his personal attitude toward women may be that he will not roll back on the gains that have been made thus far (although I have little illusion as to any further progress anytime soon). I can hope that he does, in fact, move toward the center and work as an outsider honestly bent upon shaking up a seriously broken status quo.

We will see, of course. As for now, I am still in a daze.

Enough of that for now, though. I have to get back to work on that family history.  And I promise not to stay away so long next time.

Music: “Ours” and “theirs”

Time once again to blow the dust off of the Way-Bac machine and fire that bad boy up. The destination this time, early July. The specific year is not all that relevant, although it will land somewhere between the early-to-mid-1960s and a decade later. On the map, look to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula near the community of Wilson, located either between Powers and Bark River or Iron Mountain and Escanaba, depending upon your familiarity with the territory. This was where my Mom grew up…the same place where the rest of her family still lived. Every year somewhere around the Fourth, Dad would pack the seven of us into the car – three in the front seat and four in the back – and take the four-hour trip (including break time), and we would once again get to visit Grandma and Grandpa and all of the aunts, uncles and cousins on Mom’s side of the family (and for a few years, one set of great-grandparents as well). Before every trip, Dad would tease us that we were going to a “foreign country”. Looking back now, though, and revisiting my impressions as a kid…well, it may not have been a different country, but it certainly was a different world.

And that was not necessarily a bad thing. There were any number of things that were different from what we experienced in the day-to-day back in Wisconsin; whether their charms came from the things themselves or from their association with our visits and with everybody up there did not really matter…they were what they were. Of these things, one that came to be associated specifically with our visits was the music that could be heard coming from Grandma and Grandpa’s living room. To be sure, some of it was country music of the sort that could be heard on the radio at home or in Dad’s car. But there was another type of music – distinctively different from country, although not diametrically so – that was heard more often. This was the sort of music that was known in various circles as traditional, folk, or old-time (not to be confused with the “old-time” associated with polka dances, which was a very different genre indeed). In fact, this was music that one just did not hear on the radio anywhere near where I lived. For those unfamiliar, the best way to describe the sound is somewhere between bluegrass and Appalachian folk music…a sound that was, in fact, one of the early precursors of country music. Whether this music appealed to me on the basis of being associated with our visits or simply on its own merits, there was no denying its appeal even then.

Back home, though, there was none of it to be heard anywhere. And, in fact, even if it were, it certainly would not have appealed to kids my age. For most of those my age – certainly the cool kids, although I never came close to qualifying for that particular label – rock music was where it was at. The Beatles and the British Invasion hit the airwaves when we were in second grade, and quickly became “our” music – meaning that of kids our age…or, more specifically, that of the kids that mattered. Country music (which was the soundtrack of my home growing up)…the traditional music that my Mom’s parents listened to…the polka music preferred my Dad’s parents …even the sock-hop rock ‘n’ roll one might associate with American Bandstand, which was just a couple of years older than what kids my age were listening to…all of that and everything else was “their” music. And, if you listened to “their” music…well, were you really one of “us”?

Given my apparent inability to grasp what was and what was not cool over the years, musical taste was the least of my worries. That outlook changed, though, when a local FM station changed its format to rock in the late 1960s. Suddenly, the FM station was cool, and the AM station – which really had not changed its programming at all – was just as suddenly uncool…with all the baggage attached that one might expect. That well over half of their playlists consisted of the same music was irrelevant; in matters of music, like so much else, you were either one of “us”, or one of “them”. And admitting to liking anything that did not conform…well, you had better have some damn solid credentials to offset that music. But somewhere around then it dawned on me that, by limiting yourself to one genre, to one radio station…to immediately brush something off for no other reason than because the others condemned it sight unseen…by doing that, you were denying yourself a whole world of music that might just appeal to you in ways that you might never expect.

And I never looked back from there. Now, that is not to say that I feel any obligation to like a particular song based solely on the fact that it might be of a particular type that I normally do not listen to. At the same time, I will not blow a song off based simply upon genre. I do not like “Tha Crossroads” by Bone Thugs-n-Harmony because it might fill a hip-hop slot on my playlist. No…I just like it. Period, regardless of whatever label might be attached to it. And were I to reject it based simply upon its genre…well, I would be denying myself a little something that I like, for no other reason than a label. There are nuggets of gold in every genre…old-time traditional to current alternative, classical to hip-hop, and everything between. To me, there is not “old-people” music or “young-people” music…there is not “our” music or “their” music.

There is just music. Enjoy it. No guilt on your part. No guilt on the part of your friends when they like something you may not.

Just enjoy it. Please.