iPod, reshuffled

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

A-ha? Oh yeah!

"Take on Me," A-ha: When you're ranking the best Grammy-nominated Norwegian '80s pop trios, A-ha is definitely in the Top 30. "Take on Me" makes me feel old because a decade ago, I could hit the song's famous high note, even at (or especially at) the end of a night out in college.

Now, most times when I go for "In a day or twoooooo!", I sound like the Gingerbread Man from "Shrek" getting punched in the stomach.

But I'll keep trying, much to the neighbors' dogs' chagrin. Because if Morten Harket taught us anything, it's that it's no better to be safe than sorry.

"Push," Matchbox Twenty: When I was in middle school, there was a girl I liked named Kristen who had cut her hair fairly short. One night, we were at a friends' house and the music video for this song came on TV.

(Yes, kids, there was a time when people watched music videos on TV. It was the Stone Age, or at least the Stone Temple Pilots Age.)

Anyways, as "Push" was playing on TV, I mentioned to someone that Kristen had hair much like Matchbox Twenty lead singer Rob Thomas. Word got to Kristen and she was not amused. And that's how I learned a valuable lesson: If you tell a girl in middle school she has the hair of a twentysomething dude, you better hope the bottle lands on her when you spin it because that's the only way you're going to kiss her.

"I Can Love You Like That," All 4 One: While "I Swear" is the group's best-known song, I always liked "I Can Love You Like That" better. As I was driving with Belle one night when we first started dating, she requested some music. So, of course, I began singing, for some unknown reason choosing this song.

When Belle threatened to jump out of the moving car, I turned on my iPod. The first song? "I Can Love You Like That."

We both sang along to the song about two years later during the first dance at our wedding.

"Go All The Way," The Raspberries: The song my dad says he wanted this to be his first dance at his wedding. My mom rejected the idea but still married him.

"The Rubberband Man," The Spinners: I turned on the TV early one morning a few months ago and stumbled across an infomercial for "Soul of the '70s." It was one of those offers for a 23-disc, 17,000 song collection where they show snippets of live performances of many of the songs, interspersed with gems of dialogue such as:

Host: Platform shoes! Big hair! Crippling inflation! The '70s were a crazy time!

D-List'70s starlet with a face that's only 20 years old: Ha! Ha! You are so right! And speaking of crazy, here's Wild Cherry with "Play That Funky Music."

Naturally, I watched the entire infomercial. One of the video clips was for "The Rubberband Man" and it is amazing. True to their name, The Spinners do a lot of spinning in their shiny, blue suits. The lead singer moves at times as if there is a bee inside his ruffled shirt, and the backup singers don't dance so much as shuffle behind their microphone stands. The group also is backed by what appears to be a 64-piece band.

Then, just when you think the video can't get any better, it happens -- the backup singers bring out giant, elastic bands as props while they dance. That's right, THEY BECOME RUBBERBAND MEN! One guy even ropes an lady onto the stage to play with his rubber band, and that's not a euphemism.

I had to watch this video multiple times just to take in everything. Now I know why The Spinners warn you to prepare yourself.

"Hold My Hand," Hootie and the Blowfish: I thought of a great joke about this song involving a fantastic, late '90s pop culture reference. But it's totally slipped my mind. Perhaps I'll remember it IN A DAY OR TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

End of the road

I sat in the sterile waiting room, trying to read the newspaper to keep my mind from thinking the worst. Mostly crappy, light rock music played softly overhead. An innocent, happy child, oblivious to what was going on around her, made enough noise to make me wish the crappy, light rock music was playing louder.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a man approached me with a serious look on his face.

This is what 170,000 miles looks like on the inside.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I thought.

"We just had to give it some more oil," he said.

"OK, great," I said calmly, while imagining myself doing the backstroke Scrooge McDuck-style in a swimming pool filled with all the money I just saved.

"The only way to permanently fix this, though, is to replace the engine," he said.

As my money-filled pool quickly emptied, I asked him how much more time I had with my car. Could I make it to the end of the year?

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem," he said.

And, just like that, my blue, two-door Civic had a terminal diagnosis.

I'm not sentimental over many material possessions, but my visit to the mechanic got me thinking about how my car is one of the longest relationships I've ever had. We met in the middle of my senior year of high school. I remember picking it up and driving right over to a friend's house for what was to be first and only meeting of the Franklin Gentleman's Club. My car would have been a topic for discussion except for, um, the business at hand. (Although the use of our hands was forbidden during the meeting.)

The Civic now has almost 170,000 miles on it, plus a few dents and spots with chipped paint. It has been filled to the brim as it moved me into two apartments, one condo and one house. It can practically drive itself to the beach. It has a knack for finding nails to run over, one time even getting a razor blade stuck in the tire tread, which impressed the guy at the tire shop. It has made countless runs to the grocery store and been a personal recording studio to countless songs, mostly sung off-key.

A lady friend (or four) has sat in the passenger seat over the years. There were awkward conversations and a few laughs, and that was just when I was alone in the car before or after a date. But the Civic is also where, after driving home from my first date with Belle, I could not wipe the smile from my face and thought she might be The One.

Speaking of wiping, few things make me happier than a clean car. I've spent many a weekend afternoon lathering, rinsing and vacuuming. And then I wash my car. Granted, it almost always rains after I'm done, but for those glorious, 27 minutes of sunshine, my Civic looks all shiny and new.

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I think.