When IRIE is not quite IRIE enough

It's true. I have become a reggae addict.
I received a handful of reggae-themed gifts for my birthday, including the hefty "Rough Guide to Reggae."
I have lost myself within its pages, with devastating results.
I had already grown beyond Bob Marley's "Legend" compilation. I was a reggae connoisseur. I was into the Bob Marley and the Wailers tracks produced by Lee "Scratch" Perry. I knew that "irie" meant "good" or "fine."
Life was good. I mean, "irie."
Then I got deeper into the sounds. I fell in love with dub. Then the whoops and shouted (and hilarious) non-sequitors of ace deejay Dennis Alcapone. Then I-and-I delved into the roots reggae. "War inna Babylon."
I-and-I began to lose touch with reality. Slipping into the mists. Slipping into the collie haze (not really... I mean, when I was in college, sure... but it always made me really paranoid and I once bought $5 worth of cheeseburgers and then... but, that's another story).
Losing... my... grip... sanity... fading...
I haven't touched a country music CD in weeks. The Beatles? Who are they again?
Just give me more of that sun-splashed sound.
Today I hit rock bottom. My kids are now involved.
As I drove the kids to school this morning, I popped in a tape of some vintage Jamaican rocksteady from the 1960s.
I almost cried. Reggae-hater Kerstin sang along -- word-for-word -- with the Paragons' classic "The Tide is High."
Ras Tafari! Take me! Save the children!
Posted by Hello