Jules, over at Pancakes & French Fries, recently posted a few of her favorite songs. Then she asked us to join the fun … which got me thinking …    

I’m not so much a music connoisseur. Oh sure, I might pretend … after all, I love music.  Loveit.  But much like everything else in my life, my playlist tends to run amuck – there’s no rhymn or reason.  I’m a little bit throw-back, a little bit country, a little bit soul…and on and on it goes.

Even more ghastly than this hodge-podge of music selections is the fact that I’m not big on artists. For most of my life, unless it was Frank, Dean, or Bing I hadn’t a clue who sang what – nor could I care. It’s only been the last few years that I’ve begun to pay attention – and only to better find songs on iTunes. Yes, I’m just that pitiful.

And don’t even get me started on concerts.  I rarely attend a concert - and there may be a reason why …

Take the John Mayer concert I attended a few years back. I went with a guy I met at work and several of his friends. The seats were awesome – three rows back from the stage, right smack-dab in the center. I haven’t the slightest who opened that night, but I’m thinking they were at least on their way to being great. After all, people seemed pretty darn excited. Or maybe it was just the beer. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I liked the music or not.  All I know is their bass player was shockingly skinny – sickly, even. And I had an overwhelming urge to bustle up on the stage and feed him some meatloaf and mash potatoes. And then, you know, get him into rehab.

Of course, that may not have been the issue at all. I am the one that got stuck on the school bus riding home from kindergarten and thought the high schoolers were all drunk.  So I’m probably not the best person to judge. Maybe he’d had the flu for a week – or maybe he was just like the girl I went to High School with who had an overactive metabolism. She was like six foot.  She could eat anything. And she was toothpick skinny. When she turned sideways she was often mistaken for Flat Stanley.

But I digress …

So, John Mayer eventually made it onstage. About halfway through a friend of the the guy I was with said, “Amy – get ready!  He’s gonna throw one of his picks!”  I looked up to see this guy with a pick poking out from his fro. I was mortified. For the love of God and all that is holy, why would I want some strange man’s hair pick? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but he wasn’t planning to throw his hair pick … but his guitar pick. Which, I was so relieved at my good fortune that I completely missed the souvenir that landed a few inches away.

I guess we can’t all be musicians. We can’t all be roadies. Sometimes it’s just best a girl stay home with her books …