You ever played that game? The stupid one where you have to pick what you think is the lesser of two evils? “Which would you rather: drink spoiled milk, or eat a moldy loaf of bread?” “If you had to pick one, would you rather fuck Heidi or Spencer?” “Would you rather relive your high school years or stab yourself in the common sense repeatedly?”
My least favorite — aside from being forced to fuck either Heidi or Spencer (can I choose “cheese grater infected with cancerAIDS” instead?) — was choosing deafness or blindness. Losing either eyesight or hearing. I know some people have no trouble making this call, but it’s a genuine near-impossible decision for me.
On the one hand, there’s so much visual beauty in this world. I think losing out on that would be a daily heartbreak. No more sunsets, or snowfalls, or brilliant starlit nights. And women! Yeah, I’m a shallow piggypiggyfuckpig, but I love to look at beautiful women. So sue me. But if you lose, you have to show me your boobs.
But then, while going about my normal workday, I realized that you can take my eyes in a heartbeat (sunsets, I’ll remember you fondly; and I’ve still got my hands, right?). My iPod, shuffling merrily and randomly through its 16,000 + songs, settled on this old classic:
Yeah, classic. Wow. It’s like if Van Halen raped Loverboy and the abortion didn’t take all the way. But regardless of how I see it now, I loved this disc — actually, cassette — back in 1986. I don’t even have to think carefully of when I bought the tape, because when I heard the song, memories of that summer — spent at Duke University, quite possibly the best three weeks of my teenaged years — came flooding back, in such vivid detail that I can feel the breeze on the campus as I took a morning jog to that song, smell the fresh cut grass.
This isn’t hyperbole. I can recall all that, and more. The first time I kissed Cynthia Harrington (I sometimes forget the names of my ex-wives, but right now I remember everything about Cynthia). The Algebra II course I finish in one week (that should have taken three). The in-jokes and stupid pranks that my dorm-mates and I shared. The irritating roommate.
Music is tied to my memory more strongly than anything I can think of except maybe smell (and even that tends to be more abstract, pulling out emotions more than memory). So, yeah — I’d rather fuck Heidi and Spencer than go deaf.
For the record, Ozzy Osbourne was a whore long before “The Osbournes”: