Nostalgia sits on the opposite side of wanderlust and travelers know it all too well. There are two basic encounters with this sickness:
1. The uninitiated: typically late at night or after phone calls back home... moments of girlish neediness. At other times, it is triggered by association, elevating the most mundane objects like a favorite mug or even front door keys (with their specific American cut), to the level of Platonic form (uh... was my 'big blue mug' ever really that special?).
2. Nostalgia as medicine, the chosen embrace of stupid old shit that is suddenly (and unreasonably) hypnotic. Old films, baseball websites and improvised cajun food all assume narcotic form for me when things aren't going so well abroad.
But the hands down, most guilt-inducing indulgence of wimpiness is a playlist of freshly pubescent pop faves. No one can escape its tentacular snare. For me, it consists of pre-house roller rink tracks from the late 80s.
Growing up in south Florida, we had a steady flow of freestlye, with its Latin roots, mixed in with the standard oldschool rap/electro and sappy Stevie B. ballads. It is a musical mix stuck between two eras, teetering between analogue and digital... always sounding a bit awkward yet so self-assured. Love it or hate, no one has to know if you listen (be advised, 2 couple-skates):