R. B. P. M.: Really Bad Pop Music; an obsession.

Most do not think of pop music in terms of obsessions. I however, do. It's a passion; specifically, I collect all forms of really bad pop music; my passion.

I collect this like there couldn't possibly be a tomorow. And we're not talking Michael Jackson pop; not Celine Dion; not Madonna; not the Backstreet Boys. We're talking about obscure, and even unknown artists like Cathy Dennis, Soul Decision, No Authority and Reflex. NKOTB this is not, as they actually sold records (sad though that may be). These people? Do not sell records.

This weekend I purchased a single from Joy Enriquez, a relative unknown in the field of Pop as her album won't debut in stores until February of 2001. A Hong Kong import of the 3rd Cathy Dennis album not sold or distributed in America. An album by Phoenix Stone because he seems to be a cross between Steve Best and Reflex, and for those in the know, you do NOT want to cross these two together. And the 2nd album by No Authority.

Why, some of you are thinking, would any sane person purchase anything of this sort? I have one word for you: torture. Simply put, R. B. P. M. is the highest form of torture I've found. I'm obsessed with the torture of my neighbors, my friends, those I carpool with, my parents, and my pet. Yes, that's right, I'm obsessed with torture. That's God's own truth.

Now, as my friend Dorn has shown me Everything2's daily logs, I get to inflict my poor taste in methods of torture on you, my unassuming captive audience. This is a sharing of ideas, and should in no way influence your music purchases. Try it sometime. Pick a truly hideous artist of the pop music variety, put it in the stereo and turn-up the volume. Watch people change shades of color you never thought possible. Watch as you drive some to not only flee, but to stumble and gag. I've actually made one friend vomit from listening to a Track by Boyzone. There's nothing like driving someone home from a party while listening to BBMak. They groan and moan and shift in their seat. Some even pick fights with you, fingers wildly poking at the stereo in the car's dash to get it to stop. And there's nothing so much joyful as the warm fuzzies one receives when one's pet actually starts to cry-out in pain to a CD.

Speaking of torture, see my dream log for November 13, 2000. Now if that isn't about torture, I don't know what is.