Back in college, after a night of standing around in some taproom or other, occasionally I had the good fortune to bring some unsuspecting boy back to my room for a little bit of smooching. The same story unfolded every time – unsuspecting boy would offer to walk me home, we would get to the door of my room, I would unlock the door, unsuspecting boy would precede me into the room, and from behind unsuspecting boy I would espy one of my Bryan Adams tapes on the floor. At this point, I would edge towards the stereo and execute a swift dance step designed to shoot said Bryan Adams tape out of the line of sight with my toe, all the while composing an elaborate “a friend of mine brought it over here and forgot to take it back to her room, NOPE, NOT MY TAPE AT ALL” defense in case unsuspecting boy busted me. Then I would notice him perusing my CD collection and I would pray fervently that I had remembered to hide the Dance Mix USA album that I had ordered from TV, and just as I realized that I had indeed restored Dance Mix USA to its rightful place under the couch, unsuspecting boy would spot my Fine Young Cannibals tape and the facade of coolness would crumble into a heap of ë80s synth-pop rubble. (Doesn’t it always?)

I tried to like the “right” music. I really did. I bought dozens of CDs I could have cared less about so that people would look at my CD collection and say, “Cool,” and they would mean me as well as my musical choices. I made a valiant effort to ween myself from my Billboard Top Ten albums, reasoning that a woman has to put aside girlish things like the Thompson Twins and “The Pina Colada Song.” (Keep in mind that, during my college years, most people viewed the eighties as the antithesis of all things hip and therefore worthwhile. In the intervening years, the eighties have had their ironic cultural renaissance. How serendipitous for my cool cred! Um, not.) But one night, I went over to someone’s room and he had Pink Floyd’s The Wall on really loud, and everyone sat around on the floor taking bong hits and singing along. I like that album well enough, and I knew the words to the songs, but when the song came to the line “leave us kids alone” and everyone else in the room closed their eyes and screwed up their faces and delivered the line “hey, teacher – LEAVE US KIDS ALONE” with a rebellious fervency, I just started laughing, because somehow, belting out a lyric about the children of England’s lower middle class and their abusive teachers and their fathers killed in the war when we were sitting in a dorm room at PRINCETON, drinking beer and smoking pot that our parents had indirectly PAID FOR, and pretending that we identified with the kids of “The Wall” because we felt oppressed by our PAMPERED UNDERGRADUATE LIVES and the unreasonable expectations of our LOVING AND SUPPORTIVE PARENTS THAT PAID FOR US TO FUCK OFF AND GET SMASHED FOR FOUR YEARS struck me as not only pretentious but utterly absurd and self-absorbed. I mean, if anyone qualified as pretentious and self-absorbed, I did, and God knows I sang “I Will Survive” many many times as though Gloria Gaynor had written it expressly for my rage and hurt pride, and I have to admit to singing along with so-called “in” songs in order to convince not only others but myself that I belonged at parties where they played “in” songs. But at that moment, I thought to myself, to hell with it. If I want to listen to the Carpenters, I will bloody well listen to the bloody Carpenters, and if someone makes fun of me, I will remember all of those other overprivileged sophomores yelling “leave us kids alone” until their faces turned maroon, and I will not care what they think.

Sure enough, they made fun of me. One roommate of mine complained incessantly to our third roommate about my Young MC albums. Another friend found my Crowded House CD and almost wet herself laughing. I stuck with my “we mock what we do not understand” attitude. I knew they had a point – some of these bands I listened to were laughably bad – but I liked them and I wanted to listen to them, so I did. I embraced my inner dork. Strangely, this prompted others to admit to crimes against pop culture, like Ernie, who dug into her underwear drawer to reveal a stash of hilarious heavy metal albums. We threw on Bon Jovi’s New Jersey CD and had ourselves a time. A short time after that, “The Pina Colada Song” started popping up at parties. Go figure.

I realize that I have made my friends sound like a pack of ravening merciless music Nazis, but in all fairness, I have some pretty horrendous tapes and CDs. A brief list of particularly dorky selections follows . . .

Bryan Adams. Agreed, the duets with Barbra Streisand have got to go, but the three albums I own hearken back to the glory days of eighties rock. (Yes, I said “three.”) And you can’t beat “Run To You” for sheer scenery-chewing cheese. Don’t believe me? Watch the video on VH1 sometime.

Billy Joel. I own six Billy Joel albums, including Storm Front. I have no excuse.

Mortifyingly bad soundtrack albums. Okay, let’s start with Chariots of Fire, the first LP I bought with my own money at age nine. Sing it with me now – da na na na NAAAA NAAAAAAA . . . da na na na NAAAAAAA . . . oh, come on. You love it. But you don’t own it, and I do – on CD as well as wax since my current stereo configuration doesn’t include a record player. My fondness for synthesizer music sinks still lower with the Tangerine Dream-riddled soundtrack to Risky Business. I don’t know what happened to “the Dream,” but I have a feeling that all those soundtracks they cut in the eighties made them rich beyond their wildest dreams. I also own the soundtracks to thirtysomething and Dying Young (W.G. “Snuffy” Walden and Kenny G – two great tastes that taste great together). Should I mention that I also have “Dueling Banjos,” the innocuous soundtrack to the horrifying film Deliverance? Oh, why not. I did warn you, after all.

ëTil Tuesday. I only own one of their albums, but I bought it last year, which should tell you something. Surely others must have tender memories of Aimee Mann’s Warholian hairdo from a decade ago, which bristled as she embarrassed her snooty boyfriend by howling “Voices Carry” at the opera. Mann’s solo stuff rocks, but I really can’t use that in my defense, I guess.

Boston. I use the “great driving music” rationale with this one.

The Spice Girls. Hey, I dressed as one for Halloween. I had to know the songs. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Duran Duran’s Thank You. Yes, the one where they try to cover “911 Is A Joke.” I maintain that, aside from that disastrous foray into rap, they turn in a strong effort on this album, especially their version of “Watching The Detectives.” Besides, I still tend a tiny flame deep in my heart for Simon Le Bon, from back before he started to look like Regis Philbin.

James Taylor’s Greatest Hits. One of those hopelessly mainstream “chick rock” albums that one cannot graduate from an all-girls’ school without memorizing (also on this list: Cat Stevens, Van Morrison, 10,000 Maniacs, Bonnie Raitt, Erasure, and Howard Jones).

Depeche Mode’s Violator. Generally acknowledged as their worst album, and naturally the only one of their albums I own. My first true love gave it to me, I listened to it incessantly, and now I can’t bring myself to chuck it. (All together now: “Reach out touch base!” Nice.)

The Go-Go’s Greatest Hits and The Fine Young Cannibals’ The Raw and The Cooked. I had to hide these two religiously all throughout college; now, thanks to the eighties revival, they garner admiring looks from visitors to my pad. Others in the “remove the cover insert in the hope that people won’t look too closely” genre that have become cool again recently include Thomas Dolby, The Thompson Twins, Dexy’s Midnight Runners (extra points for obscurity), Level 42 (ditto), and Crowded House.

Genesis’s Invisible Touch. I don’t know why. I just own it. Feel free to shoot me.

These days, people can put truly awful music on the jukebox at their local pub and nod knowingly when everyone else groans, “I haven’t heard this since high school,” and “oh, cheese!” despite the fact that they all know all the words. The ironic reclamation of pop culture elements formerly deemed cheesy (if not outright bad) means the worse, the better – and the best if you can truthfully claim you liked it before it became cool again. But I don’t count myself among those who reclaim pop flotsam ironically – those who giggle in reflexive delight at the opening bars of “Oh Mickey” or raise their lighters with a determined smirk when Bon Jovi’s “Dead Or Alive” comes on. I genuinely like this music, not because it reminds me of the past (though it often does), and not because I can feel superior to it (though I often do), but because I just like it. I like Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and I like Alphaville, and I like Men At Work, and I don’t know why, but I know I liked them before it became de rigueur to laugh at how dated they sound.

I would advise all of you, no matter what your musical tastes, to embrace them. You don’t have to drive down the main street of your town blasting the New Kids or anything, but if you like jumping on your bed with your Katrina and the Waves tape turned up to the decibel level of a jet taking off, do it. (I did until I got too tall and my head started hitting the ceiling of my room.) If you watch Baywatch because you really care what happens to the characters, go for it. Who cares? Everyone has wretched things that they secretly like; even the Diva admitted to owning a Remington Steele poster back in the day. I think she should dig it up and hang it over her bed. Why not? I found it cathartic to admit that I liked humiliating music – to let people know that, despite my curmudgeonly exterior, my heart still melted when I heard “Save A Prayer.”

In other words, I don’t pretend that still liking Duran Duran makes me cool, but somehow I don’t think that pretending to like the Chemical Brothers when I really couldn’t care less makes me cool either.

Please. I own a CD by the Robert Cray Band. Nothing can make me cool at this point.

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