I'm making an e-confession for Paul because I learned something about him this week that I had never known before. Probably because this is a fairly recent development. Turns out his taste in music is not what I've always thought it was. He has always been a big Neil Young or the BeeGees fan, but as we've been driving around lately, Paul has been turning on the radio to a particular radio station, 99.7, that basically only plays ten to fifteen songs. Pop songs - super poppy pop songs. And he has been singing along lustily with Ke$ha (who I have never heard of but who was on TV the other night singing her inexplicable hit "Blah, Blah, Blah"--Paul was agog that I had never heard it or of her), Fergie and the Black-Eyed Peas singing "Imma Be", that "Tik-Tok" song with the relentless beat, or the song with possibly the most insipid lyrics of all time that go something to the following effect: "You can call me Mr. Flintstone 'cuz I'm gonna make your bed rock." Classy, right? There is another song that I've only heard once where a guy is comparing his, shall we call it affection, for a girl to the fast food experience, analogizing to IHOP, drive-thru, carry-out, etc. I still don't quite understand the connections and frankly, I'm more than a little frightened to spend time thinking about it.
But I find it hilarious that Paul not only listens to this station while he commutes to work, but that he likes the songs and knows all the words even though he is more of a beat/music person and I am the one who pays attention to the lyrics. In a way it's maybe like finding out that your spouse of almost-six years speaks Swahili on the side and you never knew about it. Maybe not. I'm kind of flabbergasted and cracking up over this quirk. Even more so when Paul serenades me while driving in our car with phrases like "I love your sushi roll, hotter than wasabi, I race for your love, shake and bake Ricky Bobby" (if my mother is reading this post she will have no idea what those lyrics are about - don't worry mom, I'm trying not to post explicit stuff on here; these words don't mean anything to me either).
Paul just looked over my to see what I was typing about and informed me that our conversation about this the other night was confidential. I told him not to worry, that I thought his penchant for pop beats is funny and I'm not judging. He responded in classic form: "It isn't good for my bad-boy image if you think this is funny. I'd rather you were judging." He was perhaps only half-joking.