Day 1
I realized the true horror of this week's challenge exactly 42 minutes and 20 seconds after I started.
That's when the album I was listening to on my iPod ended and I pushed a button to replay "... Baby One More Time."
All week, during every waking hour, I'm going to listen repeatedly, endlessly, to the debut album by Britney Spears.
I not only won't listen to any other music, but I'll listen to the album in its entirety constantly--at home, in the car, even at friends' houses.
All ... the ... time. I'm sure my friends can't wait to hang around with me this week.
"Is this a cry for help?" said one friend when I told her of my plans. "Seriously--isn't this how they torture people?"
I felt like I owed my computer an apology as I downloaded the pink CD Monday morning. "Trust me," I told my laptop, "this hurts me more than it hurts you."
I had to remove 11 songs from my iPod to make room, so to keep it simple, I eliminated a whole album, Bob Marley's "Legend." I didn't consider it one "Legend" being replaced by another.
The fun began at 5:41 a.m. with Britney--if I'm listening to her all the time, I think we should be on a first-name basis--singing the words, "Oh baby, baby," from the first song, "... Baby One More Time."
The album ended at 6:24 ... and then began again. My first thought: What have I done?
It all started Sunday night as my 17-year-old daughter Caitlin and I discussed my plans for the week.
A friend and loyal reader, Stacey Pleasant, suggested that for one week I should listen only to some type of awful music. I, um, of course, don't own such music.
The worst CD I feel I have is "Saturday Night Fever," so I told Caitlin that's what I'd be doing. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was allowing Caitlin to speak.
"Why don't you listen to Britney Spears?" she said.
"Because I don't own any Britney Spears," I said, for once proud to have better musical tastes than someone.
"I do," she said. "I have a CD in the car--I'll go get it for you."
If I were smart, I'd have tackled her to the ground right then and there.
Unfortunately, I'm not too bright, which is why I currently have the lyrics, "The sky may fall/And the stars may too/But I will still/I will still love you" piping into my ears.
Where did I go wrong with Caitlin? I raised her right, forcing U2, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin on her.
But Britney Spears? I don't know whom to blame, but there was probably a gateway song that led Caitlin down the wrong path. Most likely something off U2's ridiculous "Pop" album.
"I have all of her CDs," said Caitlin, twisting the knife even further.
She performed some quick calculations based on waking hours and the length of the album and estimated that I'd listen to Britney's album 158 times this week. I think she noticed me cringe involuntarily.
"You won't last," Caitlin said. "It's funny that this is going to kill you, but it's even funnier what it's going to do to Linda. She's going to have to listen, too."
"Funny" wouldn't describe the look on Linda's face when she heard of my plan and how it would also involve her.
"Why would you do that?" she asked, as if I were 4 and had just painted my face with peanut butter.
I listened to the album in its entirety 20 times during the first day, so I'm happily below Caitlin's initial estimation of 158 for the week. On the negative side, I ... listened ... to ... Britney's ... CD ... 20 ... times!
And I thought the lyrics to Saturday Night Fever's "Disco Inferno" were dopey. I long for the pure genius of "Burn, baby, burn/Disco Inferno" compared to "Hit me baby one more time."
Day 2
I took Britney with me everywhere Tuesday so she could experience a healthy dose of normal life in small-town suburbia. Lord knows Britney doesn't often hang around the neighborhood of normalcy.
She sang to me in the library, as we shopped for groceries and went to the bank, and even as I went for a run.
I don't recommend Britney as a workout partner. The teen-angst ballad "From the Bottom of My Broken Heart" is not the fiery rocker I needed for motivation.
Then, my friend Ron e-mailed Britney, me, and a group of college friends to say he had a free ticket to his company's suite for the night's 76ers game.
When others passed, Britney and I took him up on the offer, though Ron wasn't expecting me to bring company.
"I should have checked what you were doing this week before I asked you," Ron moaned after I e-mailed that I was bringing Britney.
When I met Ron before the game, he let me plug my iPod into his car's stereo system so we could both enjoy Britney. Though for Ron, I don't believe "enjoy" is the right word. Endure? Tolerate? Suffer through?
Those words could also describe what Ron experiences on a night out with me.
For the day, I listened to the album 16 times, a few less than Monday because I slept in a bit.
Nothing cures insomnia like knowing you have to listen to Britney as soon as you wake up.
Day 3
I fear I'm suffering a bit of a Stockholm Syndrome with my captor, Britney.
I have Britney on the brain every waking hour, singing sweetly in my ear at times, purring in a come-hither growl at others.
Her voice is inside my head constantly and she's saying such nice things to me.
She tells me "the reason I breathe is you" in one song, and sings in another that she was "born to make me happy." I'm starting to believe her.
Her confoundedly catchy songs and my non-stop listening to the album--54 straight times through Wednesday--have broken my anti-Britney defenses.
I'm horrified to admit I've started singing along with several songs.
Even worse, just before I fell asleep Wednesday night, I had the lyrics to "Thinkin' About You" bouncing around my brain. "I spend my nights/Thinkin' about you."
Every album has clunkers, but at the beginning of the week I wondered how I'd be able to distinguish junk from junk. I thought I'd have better luck mining for gold in a landfill than finding a tolerable song.
After a quick review of the song titles, I was certain "E-mail My Heart" and "Soda Pop" would be Bjork bad and by far the worst songs on the album. I was right.
However, the rest of the songs are more likable than a yellow lab puppy.
There's a reason the album shot to No. 1 in 15 countries, sold 25 million copies, and is the biggest selling album worldwide by a teenage artist.
On Monday, the songs all twirled together like cotton candy and I could barely tell when one ended and the next began.
Now, I can hear hints of Anita Baker, Natalie Imbruglia, Debbie Gibson, and Ace of Base, all in a good way. If that's possible. (I did mention my mild case of the Stockholm Syndrome, right?)
There's even a techno cover of Sonny & Cher's "The Beat Goes On," and, believe it or not, the piano intro to "Thinkin' About You" sounds similar to Motley Crue's piano solo on "Home Sweet Home."
I ran that idea by Linda to make sure I wasn't losing it. She agreed with the piano part but withheld judgment on my sanity.
Perhaps the only person happy about my newfound fondness for Britney is Caitlin.
We compared songs we like, dissed the bombs, and she wondered whether we liked certain songs because they were hits or because they were good songs.
I solved that one easily enough, since I had no clue which were singles, except for the title track.
While I've made Caitlin happy, I'm sure my poker buddies won't let me forget my Britney crush when we play next week. We've listened to a lot of music over the years while playing poker, and never once has Britney made an appearance.
Though the guys should be ecstatic I didn't force her on them by going All-Britney next week.
I'm in bigger trouble with my friend Tim, whose iPod holds possibly every song ever released. Except any by Britney--I checked with his wife Coleen the other day.
When I'm at his house, I'll sometimes flip through his iPod and I'm always amazed to find hidden gems. The other day, Little River Band's "Reminiscing" popped up, followed by a classic Sinatra song.
Now, however, thanks to my Britney bonding, I can forget getting near his iPod. I'll be lucky if he lets me in the house.
I hope he remembers, though, I'm the victim here. A victim of love, but still.
Day 4
I've stumbled onto a sociological experiment as I listen to Britney. I'm finding that how Britney is perceived depends largely on a person's age and sex.
Young females--and in at least one case, an older one--think Britney is the Beatles, Elvis, and Sinatra all rolled into one.
Caitlin and her friends fall, and I do mean fall, into this category. So does our 8-year-old neighbor Emma, who virtually exploded when she came over and heard Britney on my iPod.
"You're listening to Britney Spears?" she yelped.
Now that's a question that humbles a man.
"My grandmom likes Britney Spears," Emma said, and I let her continue to see where this would go. "She has it on her karaoke and sings it every day. 'Oh baby, baby!'"
The secret's out, Emma's grandmom. Sorry about that.
While her grandmom may be Britney's oldest fan, Emma is not her youngest.
I was babysitting for friends' kids yesterday, and their 18-month-old pointed to my iPod earbud while I was feeding him. So I put it near his ear so he could listen.
His eyes popped wide and he smiled like Emma. It seems young people enjoy Britney more than ice cream for breakfast.
Linda is not as giddy. She's not jealous about how faithful I am to Britney, or that I have another woman's voice in my ear.
Linda is a rhythm-and-blues rocker through and through who grew up on Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir," and other marathon rock classics with meandering guitar solos. The heavier, the moodier, the better.
A week of Britney's bubble-gum pop is worse than if I wired the house with elevator music. "I need a break," Linda said, as she lowered the volume on Britney at one point yesterday.
I assume it was a break from Britney and not me, though Britney and I are becoming frighteningly inseparable to Linda.
Every time she enters a room where I'm listening, Linda glares like Clint Eastwood at my Britney-blaring iPod docking station.
My iPod occasionally shifts into pause-mode on its own and I swear it's because of Linda's look. However, my iPod is getting older; maybe it just has good taste.
Days 5 & 6
I've decided to re-make Britney's classic "... Baby One More Time" video this weekend. I know I'm not quite ready since I poked myself in the eye practicing.
I could pretend I'm surprised I did it, but anyone who knows me would see through my act. It's more surprising that I've only hurt myself once while practicing. (Or is it more surprising that I'm actually practicing?)
I'm so dancing-challenged that I make a hat rack look like Gene Kelly.
I feel a little sorry for poor Britney. I took her with me all around town and she was less welcome than vegetables in a kid's lunchbox.
I wore my iPod to go ice skating on the community lake where she (and I) were met with rolls of the eyes by my in-the-know neighbors.
At night, I tried to sneak my iPod near my music aficionado friend Tim and he jumped back, saying, "Get that thing away from me!"
In the afternoon, I played Clue with some friends while Britney blared from my docking station.
Our play was a little slow and some of us still didn't know which game piece we were halfway through the game. A meeting of Mensa minds it wasn't.
"It's Britney's fault!" one friend said in frustration. "She's making us dumber."
Can a person's dimwittedness be blamed on their choice of music. If so, after this week I'll be dumber than a Jim Carrey movie.
Actually, it'd be a brainless buildup decades in the making for me. I've made more poor musical choices over the years than occur in a season of American Idol.
I used to think New Edition was cool but Bruce Springsteen was for losers. (Let that one sink in for a minute.)
I own more albums by Triumph than the Beatles, and I know all the words to Kajagoogoo's "Too Shy."
If bad music killed brain cells, I'd be dumber than SpongeBob's friend Patrick Star by now.
Some might say my decision to listen to Britney all week only confirms it.
Day 7
I broke up with Britney last night. "You're going to miss her aren't you?" Linda asked.
Like I miss the chicken pox.
Alright, several songs on her "... Baby One More Time" debut were so bouncy they ended up lodged in my brain.
I'm sure I'll pay for that when I'm 93 and suddenly start singing, "Born To Make You Happy" in the doctor's office.
But I never again want to hear the inane, reggae-tinged background vocals in "Soda Pop": "Open the soda pop./Watch it fizz and pop./Open the soda pop./Clock is tickin' and we can't stop."
No need for me to look up the lyrics; I've got probably 98% of the whole album memorized, though I don't intend to add that to my resume.
I heard "Soda Pop"--and the rest of the album--122 times during the week.
To put that in perspective, if I wanted to listen to my favorite album once a week from now on, the 2012 Summer Olympics would arrive before I heard the album as often as I heard Britney's debut this week.
Marathon runners have nothing on what I've endured.
While under Britney's spell, I thought when Monday morning rolled around that I'd rush to my iPod and crank Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll" to cleanse my musical palate.
Nothing like a bad-to-the-bone rocker to wash away Brit's bits.
But what I really wanted was silence. It wasn't just that I was listening to Britney all week, but she also wouldn't leave me alone.
I was never anywhere without her tagging along, teeny-boppin' in my ear the whole time.
Earlier in the week, Caitlin asked if I'd keep any of Britney's songs on my iPod when the week
was over, and I told her no, but, oddly, I might."(You Drive Me) Crazy," "Sometimes," "I Will Be There," and "Thinkin' About You" wouldn't be the worst songs on my iPod.
I collect bad songs like the Tooth Fairy rounds up teeth.
My musical misfits include Nena's "99 Red Balloons," England Dan & John Ford Coley's "I'd Really Love To See You Tonight," and Mr. Mister's "Broken Wings."
My purchases alone in the 1980s contributed to the popularity of so much bad-'80s music. Billy Squier and Flock of Seagulls can thank me later.
Anyway, to end the week, it was only fitting that I break out my best Britney gear and be-bop on camera to the title track.
As usual, I had my break-dancing boy as backup, Caitlin played house DJ (and cringed), and Linda was the director.
The choreography was all mine, with inspiration from Britney's video, which you can see here.
I think even Britney would admit my video will make you think.
Exactly what it will make you think, I don't want to know.
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