Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Old Lame Signs...

...That you're officially no longer "of the world", so to speak. Ahem. New Year's Eve has never been my favorite holiday, but in days gone by, I could at the very least get through it with little more than a headache and a high tab to show for a night of forced revelry and merrymaking with friends, coworkers, and that drunk 45 year old woman dancing on the table across the bar from you in a pink tiara. Surely you've all seen that woman?

Anyway, I attempted to celebrate the New Year "secular style" with a little dining and drinking in the company of good friends. I of course ended up standing on a chair, engaged in a heated discussion with the DJ and wearing a purple crown and matching lei with my black cocktail dress. Now, before I lose every single one of my readers, let me redeem this scenario for you...

A crowded sports bar, an "Irish" pub in suburbia with Guinness and Coors Light side by side on tap, multiple big screen TVs on the walls, and a raucous, happy crowd dancing and drinking and enjoying each other's company...

*Aside*(In some bars, when the lights are up high enough and the friends you came with are real friends, so real you plan on leaving with them at the end of the night, it is still possible to have a good time, a great time, actually, without compromising your morals. Take St. Dominic, for example... His bar stool evangelizing casts a whole new light on the concept of 'Theology on Tap,' but I digress.)

...Suddenly a new song comes over the speakers, louder and with a heavier beat than the 80s and 90s pop/rock that has been featured all evening. And then, the lyrics:

"F*ck that b*tch, you dirty b*tch, you're a nasty wh#re, oh yes you are..."

I apologize for the still-apparent profanity, but it looses some of its effect if you don't hear the full line. Kinda catchy, don't you think? Well, I found it to be such an endearing lyrical commentary on the sad state of affairs of our perception of women in today's society that I just had to share my thoughts with Mr. DJ. So I did what any self respecting girl would have done in my situation: kicked off my heels, handed them to my best friend, and climbed up the back of my chair until I could rest my chin on the DJ booth above our table. I knocked to get his attention, and he obligingly smiled and removed one headphone:

"S'up sweetheart?"

Riiiight, clearly he was going to take me seriously. But I pressed on, confident that he would recognize my line of reasoning in regard to the aforementioned refrain still blaring from the speaker 6 inches from my left ear.

"Um, hi. Actually, I was wondering if you could change the song."

DJ (one eyebrow shoots up) "you wanna make a request?"

Me "No, just a different song please. This one is profane and degrading to women." (and yes, I actually said that. Maybe it was the light beer talking, maybe it was just good common sense, but either way, I had apparently snapped. At least according to this guy...)

DJ (snorting in disbelief) "Sorry, no way. Besides, a woman requested this song. It's one of my most requested tracks."

ME "But it's offensive and it promotes sexual violence and disrespect towards women."

DJ (no longer remotely flirtatious) "Well that's too bad, but like I said, a girl requested this... and I get paid to play music I don't even like. I have to play songs every day I don't necessarily enjoy, it comes with the job.

Headphones back on, conversation over. Feeling somewhat defeated, I retreated from my lofty post and sat down, slipping back into my adorable new black peep-toe pumps (thanks Karen) and replaying the conversation to my somewhat bemused companions. I say somewhat bemused because my friends are used to my often impulsive and frequently embarrassing public displays of moral outrage. I don't think I could shock them if I tried.

Anyway, I filled them in on the details and the night progressed without further incident, culminating with the climactic ball-drop at midnight, followed by approximately 3 minutes of hearty cheering and confetti, ending abruptly at 12:07 am, at which point the party was, essentially, over. (And how exactly are they still calling it Dick Clark's rockin' New Years Eve when it's hosted by Ryan Seacrest and the entire teen cast of the Disney channel?)

So the moral of the story? I suppose the moral would be this: when you refuse to compartmentalize your Christianity, you are gifted with unique opportunities to indulge your thirst for public humiliation and ridicule. Maybe even on a regular basis. But you know what? The music was a little better for the rest of the night.

Perhaps it was a coincidence. Maybe Mr. DJ's play list was already heavily back loaded with N'Sync and New Kids on the Block, you know, like he was saving the best for last... Maybe.

Or maybe he just liked my shoes.

1 comment:

  1. Jenny, those "peep toes heels" are a very classy way to "follow in my footsteps." You did have an impact, as evidenced by observing the improved music selections for the rest of the night. Love, Mom


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