And the beat goes on...

If I were to add up the amount of money I have spent on music, I'd probably realize why I struggle to pay rent each month. I've never mastered the whole download thing. Why would I want to join the 21st Century? Technology is so hard. Anyway, my music:

It's an addiction. I'll be the first to admit it. Pre-college graduation, payday meant new CD day! The tradition has since changed seeming as the "real world" has been blacking my eyes each month.

The anticipation for that once magical payday was of monumental magnitude. Don't get me wrong; I still get pretty excited when I have enough money to "blow" on a new album, but there was just something about knowing exactly when that would be. My fellow music lovers know Tuesdays are great days, as well. For you meager music meddlers, Tuesdays mean new release days!

My album purchasing process is pretty much the same routine each time. Bounce into Best Buy, greet the yellow shirted gent at the door with a robust "hello", make a beeline to the music section, grab the album and go. It takes no more than seven minutes.

The hard part is getting the packaging off the bloody case. It is comparable to those horrid plastic packages of which your 1995 Sony Walkman came in. You have to practically use a chainsaw to extract the product.

Anyway, after 10 minutes of sitting in the parking lot in a seemingly losing battle with the airtight plastic, victory prevails. That is when I realize since I've been perched in my parking spot for some time with the car in reverse, usually there is an enormous Eddie Bauer Edition Expedition waiting for my spot, soccer mom cursing Daisy, my little black Honda. Oh well, I have a new CD, you can't ruin my day! I know it's lame, but give me a break. It's the little things in life.

I've gone to my fair share of shows, as well. This is not cheap, as we all know. Let's take a moment to recap my very first concert. The Pointer Sisters! I was so exited ... okay, bad joke. Really though, it was a great first show at Chastain Park Amphitheater. The venue is located in a hoity-toity suburb of Atlanta, nestled within tall Georgia trees and old Georgia money. I saw many a show there, and you can take your own booze! Anyway, my parents raised me in a very musically rich environment. Good music, too. I'd like to express my everlasting thanks. I'd also like to say they were hippies, but they refuse to concur. Whatever.

I also don't want to give the impression that I am a music snob. I'm not. Trust me, I know. I'm dating one and there is a certain degree of music that I am unfamiliar with. However, I'd certainly like to think I have the majority of the 1940s through the present covered. Motown, I must admit, is an enormous guilty pleasure. No, that's a lie. I don't feel guilty at all. Motown as well as '60s and '70s tunes. I can rock the heck out of some Janis Joplin at karaoke. I can also pass up much of the '80s music scene, unless it is Pat Benatar. Oh yes, love is a battlefield.

Here's a good one. I was probably in second grade and my father and I were headed home from softball practice. We were straight rocking out to Simon & Garfunkel. How does one "rock out" to S&G? Just trust me on this one. "The Boxer," to be exact, my favorite Simon & Garfunkel song. I pause, mid-song-belting, looked right at him, and asked what a whore was. The poor man came up with a very accurate yet tasteful response. Moving on. I'm way off track. Hell, when am I ever on track.

Anyway, the first time I ventured to Sauget, Ill., to locate Pop's Nightclub was a disaster. Not only were my friend and I headed to a sold out show with no tickets in hand, we also had no idea where we were going. Trust me when I say I have zero sense of direction. I've lived in Cape Girardeau for 11 years and still have to enlist the help of whoever is in my car, usually people who have lived here for less than five, to get me to the other side of the town. It is borderline pathetic.

Back to Pop's! Point being, it literally took us 45 minutes once we got on the bridge to East St. Louis the first time, in an attempt to locate our destination. Believe it or not, we were stone cold sober! Our expedition paid off, though. After waiting and waiting and me repeatedly redirecting the wandering suits to the correct strip clubs surrounding Pop's, the owner of the club let us in. Right on, dude. I felt like hot stuff ... I was 18, give me a break. By the by, the show was stellar. Notice, I didn't tell you who was playing.

I get extremely anal-retentive about my shows, too. Many of my friends can attest to this notion. For whatever reason, the left side of my brain briefly kicks on and I create a plan weeks, sometimes months, in advance. I typically don't like plans, however when I am headed to a show it goes like this: I am driving, we are leaving at this time, we will arrive at this time, and we will stand in this spot. If you question this plan or try to change it, heads will roll. It can get ugly.

Two of my greatest concert-going girlfriends have witnessed the ugliness on more than one occasion. I'm pretty sure I spit fire summer of '04 when, heaven forbid, we had to make an unplanned stop on the way to the Dave show for my friend's boyfriend (yes, I like Dave Matthews, get over it). This stop put us 20 minutes behind schedule. Enough said.

What is the point of this column? Your guess is as good as mine. I know I wanted to write about something that is a huge part of my life. Something that I truly love. What greater topic than music? I love everything about it.

I like to believe there isn't a person I'll meet from any walk of life, any part of this earth that couldn't hum a tune, tap a beat and somehow meet on an equal plateau. What a way for people to connect. I suppose Longfellow had it right when he declared, "Music is the universal language of mankind."

Thanks for reading.

This collection of words is dedicated to Kostas, the loudest Greek I've ever known.