You know what song I really like by The Bruce? Yep, "Streets of Philadelphia." If Forrest Gump hadn't played the lead role, I bet more people would like it. It's really uplifting. So why am I rummaging through old albums (um, digital files) of mine? Exactly. The radio in this town is abominable. And it's not even those new-fangled, dj-less stations that are popping up everywhere that has created the disaster that is Charleston radio. It blew long before The Chuck came to town. Yeah, right, The Chuck couldn't be much worse of a name. I think Atlanta has The Dave. I think I've also listened to The Steve somewhere. They're all the same. Some dude's name that is supposed to mask the fact each robot dude is pretty much playing today's version of Muzak (even though Muzak has apparently morphed into some sort of specialized music programming that isn't at all what you remember hearing in elevators back in the 80s). Come to think of it, I don't remember ever hearing elevator music - anywhere. Maybe it's because there isn't an elevator in SC that takes you up more than four floors. I guess it'd end up sounding more like a clip from that wonderfully boring old show "Name That Tune." But anyway that's what people call it: elevator music. My bet is that most people in Charleston don't mind The Chuck. And they might not even mind the agro-rock stations peppering the dial (which isn't really a dial anymore, obviously). That's because the majority of people wondering the streets in Charleston are helpless jackasses. The other day I was driving past a Gold's Gym that occupies an old windowless warehouse across the river. I commend them for reusing an existing eyesore, but at the same time I found it tremendously depressing. No windows. Probably just a ton of metal and mirrors. And probably one of those agro-rock stations blaring out of the drop ceiling. I wondered how that place stays in business. Then I went out for drinks later that night and it became fairly clear. There are a lot of guys who look like they could have played Division Three football or could possibly be in gay porn (or both) hanging out at most of the bars along King Street. The mating ritual is full effect at these bars. They're like those little Fiddler crabs raising their elephantiasis-stricken claws in unison. "Look at my biceps." "I belong to a gym." "I read Maxim on the john." "Wings aren't appetizers; they're dinner!" And they're just as indistinguishable: Lacoste shirt, tucked into khaki shorts or pants, and no socks between their tan feet and their boat shoes. Okay, I pretty much just described the uniform of my entire law school, but that's okay. Like I said earlier, I'm guilty of succumbing to the pressure of conformity. I belong to this large group of conforming non-conformists. You know, disheveled hair and beat-up sneakers. It's a very cool group to be in. First, it lets people know you don't give a fuck. Unless it comes to looking like you don't give a fuck, in which case, you do give a fuck. It's confusing, but it's calculated. Oh, and you should probably name Sonic Youth or Television as one of your major influences, even though you don't know who Thurston Moore or Tom Verlaine is. I know, I'm back to music again. That living accessory. I guess in the end we should just listen to what we like. And if you truly like Animal Collective then listen to them. And if you really dig Sweet Baby James then so be it. Or even Maroon Five or Creed or Nickelback or whoever they're playing right now on the majority of stations across the greater Charleston metropolitan area. I guess all I'm asking is that you not roll down your windows in that entry-level Acura coupe you leased. And maybe put the hardtop on your Wrangler. I don't want to hear that shit.