I Don't Want To Go To Heaven If I Can't Get In

As I choose a locker at the gym tonight I smile at a lady who is also choosing a locker.  I think I've seen her before but I'm not sure.  Music plays over the loud speaker.  A voice sings: I don't want to go to heaven if I can't get in.  "What the hell does that mean?" she asks me.   I tell her I like songs more for their peppiness and their music and how they make me feel; not so much about the words.  I told her that when my offspring was younger I was really concerned about the lyrics of Marilyn Manson.  I lost sleep over Marilyn Manson and his crazy lyrics.  Eventually I came to see him as a huckster.  Nastiness was his schtick. Manson was pretending to be awful so he could have more money in his pocket; not because he actually believed the lyrics he was singing.  In private life he probably drinks whole milk and eats only organic carrots.  But it wasn't until I reread the lyrics of my own favorite songs when I was a teenager that I quit worrying about silly Marilyn Manson.  Music doesn't touch my soul because of the words that are sung and the poetry of the lyrics.  Music is more primal than words.  She told me that when she was in high school her boyfriend said he could imagine his Grandmother singing, "One Toke Over The Line."  She told him no, that song was about marijuana.  We laugh and exchange looks while not really looking at each in that health club locker room sort of way.  We don't want to see each other in our underwear so eyes above the neck at all costs!  I tell her I was a huge Rod Stewart fan. Huge fan.  But his lyrics are horribly misogynistic and sexist and totes terrible.  What ever!  His music moved me.  I liked him.  Rod was my man!  That raspy voice. Those tight pants.  That swinging the microphone stand around.  The mandolin!  When he sings, "Woooo!"  My heart goes pitter pat.