Just about every Steve Miller Band song I can name is from his greatest hits album. My friend in high school convinced me, among others to join BMG music club. You get the first dozen or so CDs for a dollar then maybe commit to buy one at full price. The trick is, unless you tell them otherwise, the club sends you a monthly CD pick that they would then bill you for. We found ways to circumvent that: write a letter, return the CD unopened, or cancel the club membership. And each member you signed up earned you an additional four CDs.
So not only did I own the Steve Miller Band Greatest Hits so did half of my dorm. And when my husband asked if I’d like to see him perform live I said yes, warning him that my knowledge of his music was limited to this one disc.
The story of dorm friend and all of our CD shenanigans is one of only a few recent high school memories in which I do not have any shame or guilt or embarrassment. How could that be?
Even though I do not talk to said dorm friend after she walked out of my wedding after flying across the country and before saying hello (this is a story for another time), I fondly recall all of colluding and sharing tricks of the BMG club membership. (Worst case scenario, she advised, just tell them you are under 18 and they can’t do anything.)
That night I had an odd dream about a dinner with a bunch of friends from my high schools including one girl who lost her twin sister in a car accident. The waitress wanted to microwave my muffin but I wouldn’t let her because the muffin was in memory of someone who passed and I wanted to eat it the way he did and I was looking to the twin for support.
And the best part of the dream: there were a list of specials named after the coach in Glee and other prominent entertainers. One special which I was too shy to order or even explore but I promised myself I would return to taste was the Milf Alert.
If that is not a sign that I should be writing more, than I do not know what is.