The best part about "burning" your own CDs (I'm not hip enough to have an mp3 player ... yet) is that, unless you're a masochist or just an idiot, you won't include any songs that you despise. I've rarely found a pre-made CD that contains all gems. One of the only ones is Cat Stevens' "Tea for the Tillerman", but hey, that was years ago, and it wasn't a CD when I found it. CDs didn't even exist then. It was probably an eight-track, and I probably walked three miles in the snow in shoes with cardboard soles to get it. By candlelight.

I recently made myself a new CD full of "cardio" music for use at the gym. It contains mostly '80s stuff that I loved dancing to at "gay" clubs in Philadelphia. Think Erasure meets (no, I didn't say "meats") Dead or Alive meets Bronski Beat.

This morning when I listened to this new CD, I was overjoyed to hear one song that I forgot I'd invited to the party. As much as I love the flashy dance tunes that take me back to my multi-zippered, silver-tipped-boots days, the one that really got me going this morning was the one that takes me back even further -- 39 years ago this July 12. I think I heard it in "the womb".

Wiggle into your capris, girls ... brush your bangs down over your foreheads, boys ... climb atop your desks, and ...

(My favorite part of this song is a four-second bit from 1:32 through 1:36. Absolute bliss. Like a good sneeze.)