I was perusing my Facebook feed today and noticed a repost of an article at The Donnybrook Writing Academy .  You have to check out the article, but the gist is this… they got together as a staff, poured down a few beverages, and came up with a list of 100 songs that should never be played on the airwaves again.  I looked over the list, sad to see some songs that I still enjoying hearing, and had this to say back to them…

I woke up this morning, a brown eyed girl who was born in the USA, feeling a little down. I heard the folks over at Donnybrook  said good riddance to 100 songs I, and many other girls a lady and a loser all happen to get more than a feeling from.  It’s not that I want to call them creep or suggest they have a black hole sun for a heart.  That’s not it at all.  I mean, come on people, can I get a baby one more time from all you on board the crazy train.  Don’t stop believin’ people!

Once upon a time there were people who said don’t speak, listen, hold my hand, jump on the love rollercoaster, and quit bustin’ my humps!  Don’t give in, don’t be a zombie.  What a wonderful world this could be if people just got over the wicked game of radio censorship, put on their poker face, and like the speed of sound, like lithium, let that sound wash over them.  It’s magic man.   Or could be.

What’s with the haters?  Don’t they know a love story when they see one or have they lost that lovin’ feelin’?  I think Jeremy or Janie’s got a gun and they are out for a super freak on a leash named Fernando, the fortunate son he is, who only wants to experience the feeling of how to save a life through the beauty of jammin’ in Margaritaville to some classic tunes.

Can you hear me people?  Or is the tubthumping too loud for you Luka?  Am I livin’ on a prayer?  Am I just a jump around pretty fly gettin’ the run-around?  This censorship, this banning of the music that knows how to start me up, taking me on a stairway to heaven, it’s wrong.   Am I getting too baba o’riley?  Do I need to chug a little black velvet, cry like a free bird, pour some sugar on me, and take it easy?  Maybe I need to take a moment and when I touch myself with a Kleenex to the eye, I should feel it in the air tonight… the feeling of fireflies, but maybe not… maybe it’s enter sandman, stage left.

I don’t want it to be so.  God bless the USA, I want the good times.   I want there to be a higher calling. If I had 1,000,000 for every time someone said I want to hold your hand, I want to know what love is, and I can’t help falling in love with these tunes man, I would be rich!

I feel like I’m making a Lisztomania here.  Completely freaked out by the thought of losing the don’t worry be happy feeling of listening to some great tunes because a group of peeps at Donnybrook randomly decided, in a drunken stupor, that these sounds don’t make them feel like making love anymore.  It’s like getting rid of American pie filled with apples.  It’s like watching grandma who got run over by a reindeer.  It’s theft, that’s what it is… they’ve been caught stealing.  They are a bunch o’ bad to the bone peeps who might just blister in the sun if they keep going on like this.  Robbing the tunes from the people who still want them.

I know this diatribe is turning into a bohemian rhapsody.  It’s just that the boys of summer and I, who were born to be wild, want to say that if this heresy doesn’t stop it will fade into you and the longer it lasts the more you will lose that Friday I’m in love feeling.  This is no celebration. This is no butterfly taking wing and whispering bawitdaba. This is a time to stand up, a time to light my fire and yours.   This is a time to give up Santeria, crow like a rooster, whip it into shape, and take back our airwaves.

I want to say to these drunkards, though the thought of this does make for a good thriller, that the ants are marching now one by one, the boys are back in town, and we are going to take the money money and run yelling mony mony. There is no kryptonite that can stop us cuz this is nuthin’ but a G thang gangstas.  I know without a doubt that when Stevie says I just called to say I love you, you, wastoids, will say I melt with you Stevie, and you won’t be able to stay at the YMCA, or look at waterfalls, or go walkin’ in Memphis again without wanting to listen to one of these songs.

It’s closing time on this missive, but I want you to know, you lit up fools, that you shook me all night long with this idea, but I know I wouldn’t be the gambler in saying that most of your body is a wonderland, your body of work that is, and I do appreciate it.  After all of this, isn’t that thought just a little bit ironic… yeah?