Phil Collins is my arch nemesis.

Everyone does it; you're cruisin' down the highway, sunny blue skies, windows down, a song comes on the radio, you crank up the volume and before you know it you are singing right along like you're the next American Idol. Now take the amount of times you do this compared with the amount of time normally spent in the car. So if you've done your math right, it would probably equal 1 or 2 songs per drive per day, which most likely averages about fifteen minutes to one hour.

Now take into consideration that I spend most of my time in my car, especially since I live in it. I should really get my own reality tv show with the lyrical wonders that come out of my vocal chords. Seriously, I should have a record deal. Normally I am fine with this. I don't really tend to ponder or question my in-car rock concerts. Well, at least until today.

There I was, driving south on I-87 in New York. Two and half hour drive from New Paltz, NY to Washington, PA. Wispy white clouds danced across the crystal blue sky. The chilly weather that had hung over me in upstate New York had given way to a warm, fall, mid-60 degree day. Sick of my cd's and ipod, I turned to the search function on my stereo. And that's where it all happened.

Approximately half way down the I-87 thruway, I became consciously aware of what exactly was happening in the microcosm that is my 2002 VW Eurovan Weekender. Let me give you some lyrical hints here: "How can you just walk away from me,
When all i can do is watch you leave..So take a look at me now, oh there's just an empty space And there's nothing left here to remind me, Just the memory of your face."

Oh ya, I was driving along, rocking out to the musical styling of Phil Collins. And not the quality Genesis Phil Collins. I was getting down with the awful, 1980's, cream suit, loafers with no socks, No Jacket Required, Phil Collins.

I was luckily able to keep my myself from driving my van into the closest cement lane divider. I noticed a rest area sign, salvation was approximately 2 miles ahead. I focused and drove directly into the parking lot.

Without shutting the engine off, I chose one of the loudest and most lyrically unintelligible cd's I could find, Helmet. I placed it in the player and cranked it up as loud as it would go without damaging my poor dogs hearing. In The Meantime flowed out of the speakers like a ravage dog on crack. It entered my eardrums and travelled down to the pit of my stomach. As the thumping bass and screeching guitars and lyrics swirled around my brain, I felt it pushing out the spam that had been placed there moments earlier.

After about twenty minutes of this I finally felt close to whole. Although I will never forget this lyrical, body-snatching, rape, I feel at least ready to move on. Maybe I'll even put the radio back on later this week.