One random reason: I like those Time-Life half-hour music commercials, the ones in which some young hot mama teams with a mannequin-like former music star to play snippets of oldies in between sales pitches for tapes or CDs of whichever decade/category of music they're hawking. Even if I've seen the broadcast a dozen times, I don't mind having it on as background noise while I'm doing something around the house. Clips of favorite tunes seldom fail to inspire warm feelings in me, whether they're songs I grew up hearing or even older ones that populated the oldies stations of those long-past days.
(God, the songs of my youth are now venerated oldies . . . that sort of puts things into perspective.)
I believe the first one of these programs I ever took notice of featured Jack Smith, the Wolfman, back in the Eighties. I was home alone recovering from a work-related accident (broken foot), and since this was pre-cable or satellite for me, all I had to watch were four or five local over-the-air TV stations. Three of these were running soaps -- cute chicks, but jeeze, the acting and what passes for plots on those shows is pathetic --, another had some preacher who, as the Charlie Daniels Band's "Long-Haired Country Boy" says, "Wanted to do a little walking (on the water), too," so that left me with a low-powered, lower-funded UHF outlet that was playing the Wolfman's record collection sale to raise commerical revenues.
I remember that Jack was sitting around, all bloated and sweating in a terrycloth robe as if he had just come off-stage following a Springsteen-like performance while he answered "golly-willikers" questions from a couple of young model types about the Golden Era of Rock and Roll. In illustration, Wolfman cued samples of some of the great songs his selection offered.
To my surprise, I had a terrific twenty-nine minutes, and since then the newer, slicker T/L versions (R.I.P. Wolfman, by the way) have carried on the tradition.
Of course, I never actually buy the CDs.
Another reason: I can perform a little of several traditional Greek dances (thanks to a summer when Dad showed up for awhile), and I never refuse to demonstrate this talent, especially while drunk. The only thing more geeky than an American dancing Greek style, is anyone engaged in Irish step-dancing ("Riverdance" version).
There are plenty of other excellent reasons why the attribute of coolness will forever elude me -- all of them as boring as these two --, and I may reveal a few more the next time I'm feeling a little too good about myself. Right now, it's time for a wax representation of Bobby Vinton to try and convince me to commit my next ten years' salary to his "personally-selected" collection of great love songs. Good luck with that. PeteLeo.