This is why I HATE Johnny Cash

   I am sure that I will incur some Cash-fan hatred with this one, but it is time that I made my point, and the reasons behind it, very clear.  The truth of the matter is this:  I hate Johnny Cash.  Yes.  I said it.  HATE.  My reasons have nothing to do with the man in black himself, but with the malicious and vindictive use of his music as a torture device.

   Anyone who knows me well can attest to the fact that I am physically incapable of not lashing out irrationally at the mere mention of Johnny Cash.  Should one of his songs happen to begin playing in the immediate vicinity, one can expect a series of irritated and loathsome words to escape my mouth, along with a face similar to this:

Or this:

Or even this:

   They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  Well, readers, you now have 3,000 words about how much I can't stand the incessant intervals of that bass preluding into lyrics about prison and rings of fire.  "How did she become so angry and cynical about one of the greatest artists of all time?" you must be wondering.  Well, I will tell you. 

   It all began when I was studying for the Wisconsin bar exam.  As the devout student and study-er that I was, I naturally would leave my studying for the evening, as I was working full time during the day.  Now, to fully appreciate the depth of my hatred, you really need to understand the pressure that is involved when one is studying for a bar exam.  Some of you out there are very aware of what that pressure is.  For those of you that aren't, let me give you a brief glimpse into the head of a studying bar examinee... you begin with mild anxiety about the test and whether you will pass.  When you first begin studying, the test itself seems so far away, that true panic seems unnecessary.  You fall into a sense of false security that "it will be fine" and "I will pass this exam" and "vomiting is not necessary".

    As the days pass and the exam grows nearer, that false security seems to wane.  You begin thinking that clearly you are the dumbest person on the planet because you can't remember the difference between a unilateral and a bilateral contract and you're really not one-hundred percent sure of how to spell "jurisdiction" or "causation" anymore.  It is at this point that because of the mountains of information you keep stuffing into your brain, that other things like social ability and motor skills take a backseat.  You begin to stutter and your eye begins to twitch (true story).  The stress and pressure of it all has reduced you to a blathering idiot who can only think about law.  You wake up thinking about law.  You go to sleep thinking about law.  You dream about law.  You lose the ability to say or even spell the word "statue" without turning it into "statute".  Some of us will never recover from this one (you know who you are).

   It was in this state of severe mental disarray that my hatred for Johnny Cash was bred.  There I was, sitting on my couch, books and papers scattered all around me, when I heard a strange sound.  "Bum, bum... bum, bum... bum, bum...".  "What the hell is th-that?", I stuttered as my eye twitched involuntarily.  I ventured into my bedroom and the noise grew louder.  From there I could hear the unmistakable lyrics to "Ring of Fire" (we've all seen "Walk the Line"; I can recognize that nonsense anywhere).  The music was coming through the wall at such a volume that I could make out every lyric in every verse.  This was not OK.  This was not the first time my neighbor had irritated me, but given my mental state at that moment, I was irrationally angry.  Seeing red angry.  Throwing pillows around the room angry.  Pounding on the freaking wall angry. 

   I took this opportunity to calmly and collectedly call my apartment manager and politely inform him of the ruckus next door.  Translation:  I called him up and demanded that he get his butt over here NOW to tell that idiot next door to turn that crap off because I have to study and pass the bar exam otherwise I will never get a job and I will live in poverty for the rest of my life selling all of my worldly possessions to pay for my student loans.  The manager arrived not 10 minutes later, had a chat with the neighbor, and the auditory assault ended, at least for that evening.  But the damage had already begun to be done.

   To lend a bit more background to the situation, it came to my attention that the Cash-loving neighbor was actually one of my apartment complex's maintenance men.  As such an individual, one would at least infer that he might have a heightened sense of public responsibility, compassion for his fellow man, and consideration for his neighbors.  We all know the saying, "don't poop where you eat".  Well, in the case of a maintenance man who lives where he works, he should be especially cognizant of his surroundings and be on his best behavior.  But alas, he evidently was not.

   Fast forward to 2 days later.  I am again sitting on the couch, surrounded by all my study materials, and the INCESSANT bass notes begin again.  Tonight however it is louder and more irritating than ever before.  I pick up the phone and ever so politely call the manager over again.  He shows up and proceeds to pound on the neighbor's door.  He pounds again.  And again.  He pounds for a full 10 minutes.  Manager then informs me that neighbor is probably drunk, as he was fairly inebriated on the evening of his previous offense.  Neighbor is likely PASSED OUT with the offensive music playing and there is really nothing to be done if he won't come to the door.  So sorry for the inconvenience.  You've.  Got.  To.  Be.  Kidding.  Me.  This is when the law dork portion of me begins her internal diatribe about "breaching the warranty of habitability" and other such prattle.

   At this point is is nearly 10:30 p.m.  I am in a complete state of emotional upheaval.  I am panicked about the impending bar exam, I am livid at the idiot next door, I am reacting irrationally, and the soundtrack to all of this is freaking JOHNNY CASH.  I made the decision to drive the nearly 45 minutes out to my parents' house in order to ensure at least some sleep that evening, because no one could tell when the aural onslaught might end.  Not impressed.

   At least there was a happy ending in all of this.  Despite the idiocy next door, I did manage to pass the Wisconsin bar exam, and I did manage to put the fear of God into my imbecile neighbor so as to prevent any further auditory trespass of Mr. Cash until I moved out.  It is amazing what a threat to break a lease and a nasty conversation with your apartment complex's regional managers will do...

   Nonetheless, long story short: I do now, and I will forever more, hate Johnny Cash.  I hope that by providing my tale of woe, the true Cash-lovers will forgive me for my hatred... and simply tolerate my fits of rage whenever those tell-tale bass notes enter my consciousness.