never ever forget your music

i try to hit the gym daily before work.  helps me get my mind right before before going on shift.  while i'm  not a great physical specimen, i am not the guy to fuck with either.

so today after taking the brood to the sitters, i'm bumping around the casa trying to figure just where the hell my mp3 is.  not in the beach bag, not in the car, not by the computer or by the door. call the wife, who claims not to have misplaced it.

what ever,  i'll do without.  this is going to suck big time.  the Y embraces a policy of zero controversy.  this means no political or suggestive t shirts and nothing "obscene" on the radio.  it is okay to come in with gang tats and shirts ripped off however.  as for the "obscene" lyrics, 9 of the local radio stations are country or religious and 2 are oldies.  2 others are mix stations.  rarely is the rap station on for very long, and the rock station NEVER gets played.  forget your music and you are fucked.

so when i arrive one of the mix stations is on playing an hour of hits from 1977.  so i'm stuck listening to paul simon, hall and oates,  and some other assholes whine about love, or lost love, or some other bullshit.  this stuff just about makes justin bieber tolerable.  i'm doing pretty good until they play this platinum turd from yesteryear. 




who really feels like crushing it or banging out another heavy set on the bench, with crickets and frogs chirping and burping in the back ground while this "guy" is imploring to be held?  the wife says she has always like this romantic song, even as a little girl.  strange how it is not on her mp3. i mean it probably has its place at the retirement home or on the elevator or something, but come on, the free weight room of a gym?

AND I'M AINT LOOKING FOR ROMANCE WITH NO SWEATY BUNCH OF GUYS IN THE WEIGHT ROOM!!!!  where do women come up with this shit?  the first guy caught tapping his foot to this is getting smooth KNOCKED OUT.

so i organize a search party when i get home, (pester the wife into looking for my stuff) which she makes a half assed attempt at.  then i remember it's in the garage.  thank christ, no more leo sayer or marilyn mccoo for me tomorrow.