I have a confession: 
I have horrible taste in music 
I like music that's just as soulless as I am 
music that goes thump and overpowers with bass 
music that is made by fags in New York, 
London, and Berlin 
music that's cheesy and funny to listen to 
music that's so fast that only amphetamine freaks can dance to it 
music that sounds so Euro-trash that it only is aired by young DJ’s 
sweating it out in clubs 
over 2 technic turntables and a cheap mixer 
night after night 
going bezerk on reds, X, and acid 
or sitting in K-holes smoking J's and spinning ambient 

Like I said, I have bad taste in music 
I don't like anything on MTV 
I hate the stuff they play on radios 
I don't like biggie or puffy 
or boy bands 
or wanna be punk-rock 
or glam pop 
or glam rap. 

I like house 
I like trance 
I like dub 
I like ambient
I like electro
I like breaks 
I like Indian trip hop 
I like happy hardcore 
and I fucking love 
drum and bass music. 
which as we know, 
all sounds the same 
and is made by machines 
not musicians 
just kids sitting in their rooms 
late at night 
plugging away at sequencers
samplers and fx pads 
all trying to be 
the next Josh Wink 
and dreaming of discos and dancefloors 

so I guess I'd have to admit 
I have bad taste in music. 
Good Sex, Bad Music

It was a warm summer night in Paris, almost ten years ago, and we were lying in bed savoring a joint made sweeter by the post sex haze that flooded us. He started a game of true lies and random confessions; it was one of our favorite past-times, second only to "Who can come up with a more thought-provoking question?".

He told me he'd lied to his shrink that week, because he couldn't stand to tell her that we'd gotten back together again, after yet another of our nasty break-ups. But that the sex was so good, he just couldn't stay away. He was artful with his flattery, flirtations, lies and make-belief. And there was no denying that we used the sex and the conversation to stimulate each other to such heights, that all sorts of indiscretions were forgiven, just for these moments of post-coital glow.

I'd been intently focussed on a futile attempt to make smoke-rings in the still night air, but gave up when I realized that it was my turn now. Pretending an air of nonchalance, I told him that the one fantasy that never failed me, was picturing Michael walking in on us any moment now. I heard him run his fingers through his shaggy brown hair, as he tried to decide whether or not he was going to take the bait. In the end, he settled for an old joke, "As long as he brings us some more of that fine scotch, there's room for three".

Yes, a moment of comic relief, and I was ready to play my trump card in the game: "Mon Cheri, I have a confession to make: I think I've had you fooled for a long time, but now it's time you knew. I have bad taste in music".


He took a deep drag of the joint, gently flicking ash with his forefinger, in a practiced gesture I knew so well. Raising my chin with his left hand, he gazed into my eyes, while I saw the shadows of mirth, pain and laughter mingle in his countenance. And he said, in his thick French accent: "The question, my love, is whether you have bad taste in music, or a well-developed taste for bad music. I strongly suspect you of the latter."

I can still recall his scent, as we lay in his tiny Parisian bedroom that night, our intertwined limbs telling their own stories, while we tried to live a life of make-believe. Who knows how it all might have turned out, had we but known that we only had one more night together.

The very last time I saw him, the sex was to me, like rice and lentils: deeply satisfying and highly predictable. As usual, we playfully wove a tangled web of words to trap nuances of each other, to be savored in our individual universes. I was in rare form, offering up spicy-sweet, crazy-beautiful love-juice. He kept baiting me to raise the stakes, gently smiling and teasing, all the while. In the end, he won the round, by confessing to secretly sniffing his fingers after they'd been in my anus during the last round of sex.

I was still trying to come up with witty rejoinders and brilliant repartee on my way to a mid-morning meeting, when I heard the news.

It was years before I could enjoy my well-developed taste for bad music without hearing the screech of failing breaks, and the silent goodbye we never said.

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