I Love Billy Joel Just The Way He Is

What makes a musician great? Is it a voice smooth as butter, a bravado the likes of which could stop a raging bull in its tracks, fingers that run across an instrument with an unnatural yet erotic speed? If so, those looking for greatness--NAY, STUFF OF LEGEND--need look no further than Mr. William Joel.

Captain Jack Will Make You Sing And Bop In Your Car Whilst Others Look On In Both Confusion And Awe

A few months ago, for no particular reason, I had a craving to listen to Billy Joel's "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant" like a woman pregnant with musical tastes from the late 80's. Though YouTube has fulfilled our cultural need for instant gratification, I was anything but satisfied and within a few weeks had bought a 3-disc set of his best songs. My mother bought the same one; though it made for a car ride heavy with tension and withheld breath (I hope none of you ever endure the sheer discomfort of hearing Billy sing the word "masturbate" which then vibrates off the walls of the car which your mother is driving) I regret nothing. The highlight was most definitely the point at which "Only the Good Die Young" had reached an instrumental and my mother, who showers with her clothes on, turns to me smiling and still bopping her had back and forth and says, "You know, this is really not a very nice song." You tell em, Jackie.

Since then, the CD is on constant rotation in my car, and never fails to get my ponytail bouncing, my shoulders tensing up with the tempo, and my voice screeching loudly against the unmatched enthusiasm of the Joelster. And enthused he is; the man yells for no reason and at often inappropriate times. When "Captain Jack" is getting you high tonight, there is nothing less appealing than some dude yelling in your face about it and totally killing your buzz.

I've found there are few people more fun to imitate, whether you're at a fancy restaurant ordering drinks (I'll have a "BOTTLE A' RED! Or, if we have the fish a BOTTLE A' WHITE!") or reciting Shakespeare (Oh, Juliet, won't you "COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT...You Catholic girls start much too late!") Billy is always ready to poke his head out and surprise you, effectively giving you a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

And also, there few people so deluded as this self-proclaimed badass; I'm not sure why Billy thinks he runs with a "dangerous crowd" but it seems that laughing a bit too loud is hardly dangerous, though perhaps a bit inconvenient for the neighborhood's elderly (who, in fairness, probably do think that ol' Billy is a hoodlum). I mean, we may be right and he might be crazy, but his "dangerous crowd" consists mainly of Elton John; the man might be a lot of things but dangerous is not one of them. I think if you were to look in a thesaurus for synonyms of "dangerous," I can guarantee you will find two names noticeably absent from that list.

So many musicians are overlooked by our generation, as we become more and more fascinated by synthesizers and songs which undoubtedly contain lyrics such as "save me from myself," "I hate your girlfriend," or "I want to have sex with you in a public place." We have forgotten what it's like to have a few broken cords assuring us that "I love you just the way you are," and outdated saxophone solos emphasizing how much "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints."

There are few things more satisfying than rediscovering a deep love for music, no matter how ashamed you might be to roll down the window at a stoplight while it's blasting from your back speakers. I will not be embarrassed if you see me flailing around like the Muppets' Swedish Chef in my car singing about Billy Joel dancing with his hand in his pants (his words, not mine). I only ask that you please refrain from telling your friends.

Besides, "Piano Man" is probably the most wonderful song to slur into a microphone* during Karaoke Night at your local bar.

ALLLLLRIGHT!

*which smells like a beer; on the plus side, people sit at the bar and put bread in your jar while asking "Man, what are you doing here?"

How Jessica Got Her Groove Back

Sometimes, we are reminded of our own mortality and thank whatever God Oprah tells us to that we are alive. I, ever the social anomaly, am more often reminded of my own idiocy and thank Bill Cosby that I have the ability to laugh about it.

Jessica Battles an Acura Stereo; Loses What Little Dignity Remained

The night I got home from living in Germany, I eagerly awaited my first encounter with an old friend. Looking a mess, I applied a little lip gloss and tried my best to hide the stains on my t-shirt from the In-N-Out I had just inhaled. Off in the distance, my mother was asking me questions about my trip and tearfully explaining how much she missed me; I, however, was off in a fog wondering how he looked, if he had moved on to someone else, and if he would ever forgive me for leaving. His name is Charlie, and he is my Acura.

Let me explain something about my car, for my feelings are not easy to express. A '95 Acura Legend, ol' Charlie doesn't have a front left signal and his windshield is cracked across a good third of its surface, effectively giving him a pirate face. The back door handle is chewed off (the bits of foam missing will always be the trophy of Sam the dog), and no windows but mine roll down (broken child safety lock). Often when entering or exiting my car for the first time, riders are surprised to hear a CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK from the rear which I have to explain is a result of my sister driving through a car wash with the radio on (Hi, Mimi). When a passenger asks to recline his or her seat, my warning is often silenced by the WHOOOOSH! of the backrest flinging itself backwards with the force of a torture device right out of James Bond. Really, the only things my car has going for it are the fact that it still has four wheels, the radio, and my cup holder which folds out (recently a piece of plastic broke off, signaling that the cup holder is indeed enjoying its last breaths). Needless to say, I love my car as no other woman has loved before.

My breathless greetings to Charlie were met with silence; my good friend of four years was dead. We charged him and took him to the mechanic, and $200 and a day of slave labor later, we were back in each others arms. In silence. Because the stereo, in its cryptic digital language, sneered, "COdE."

Jessica Sets Off to Find and Kill the Elusive Mr. COdE

I searched near and far for weeks trying to find the mythical code that would break Charlie's silence, much like Sebastian in The Little Mermaid except with less racial stereotypes. By which I mean a little more. According to the interweb, the dealer could help me (HUZZAH!) but would need a serial number for the stereo system (*cue Charlie Brown pensive music*) which I did not have. Frantically calling anyone that might help, no one seemed to care or know what exactly I was talking about. To be fair, I was wearing a babushka headscarf and crying in Yiddish about "my poor boy, Charlie"; I suppose that wasn't the most clear way of explaining my problem.

For weeks, my plan to go to the dealer was foiled again and again by the twisting roads of Van Nuys and the evil forces on high which giggled darkly, "Excellent....she's trying to fix it again, the foolish girl..."

Finally, today I took my most aggressive step toward rescuing Charlie: I called the dealer. The conversation began with a short explanation, led into the wrong assertion that I would need to get a new stereo, and ended with a clearly green employee that I imagined to have braces and acne telling me that the service department opened on Tuesday.

David advised me to go to the dealer anyway and "play dumb" in order to get someone there to pop my radio out and do it for free. Sadly, I betrayed my anti-sexist crusade and turned down my bedside photographs of Mary Wollstonecraft and Judge Judy while I shamefully put on a dress and curled my eyelashes before heading out the door.

30 minutes of traffic and two wrong exits later, I arrived at the Acura dealer with a bouncy head of hair styled for the occasion and a desperate hope that I would not meet the voice on the phone. I did. While he did not have braces or acne, he was just as young and odiously condescending in person as he was over his service-desk telephone; I immediately regretted this decision.

"Hi, my stereo...needs, um, a code..."
"Did you call earlier?"
"(sadly, with an inability to lie in the face of several employees staring at me)...yes."
"I explained to you over the phone..." (this phrase was uttered no less than three times, each time with more saccharine sweetness and a resentful sneer, while I sheepishly dug my toe into the floor)

I left defeated, broken, and feeling very stupid, all while wearing dress which made it truly humiliating. After screaming and swearing in my car for 15 minutes, shouting obscenities which would make a sailor blush, my sister Cheri called me. Through her, Todd (the previous owner) explained that the code was in the glove compartment, which I had scoured furiously the day before. Hoping that in my rage I had overlooked it, I prayed to every God I knew (calling in a lot of favors) to let me find a stupid piece of paper that I more than likely tossed out years before.

A few hundred yards from my house, sweating and anxious while makeup melted off my face, I couldn't wait any more and pulled over in the shade of a tree to search the glove compartment once again. The card on which Todd had written the code was nowhere to be found.

I was, for the second time that day, defeated. I was hurt, sad, and helpless, preparing myself to have my brother break into my radio just to find a series of numbers which would hopefully lead me to the code. I sadly flipped through the manual one last time, hoping the card had fallen into it, which it hadn't. Just then, I spied a small sticker on the front of the manual to which I had previously paid little attention. It was exactly five digits. With no better options, I punched it in.

I have never been so happy to hear a static-ridden mariachi song in my life.

Today, I am just as big an idiot as I was the day before, but now I have music to distract me from thinking about it too much.



Until next time, keep on keepin' on.