Karmic Macho Man
Some sins echo.
I made a mistake in my past. A grievously heinous act for which I may never be forgiven. For which I may never repent. What I’m about to reveal is not for the faint of heart. There’s a reason, when I pass clergy in the historic district of my newfound city here in Spain, they look upon me and involuntarily perform the Sign of the Cross. For I have soiled my very soul with an incomprehensible indignity unbecoming of this human vessel gifted to me by the graces of our bountiful world.
For years I wondered if my transgression would catch up to me. If one day — I, too — would become a victim. A victim of what? Well… first, we must go back in time.
The scene: I was ten years old. In the bathroom. And something happened.
“♫ MACHO MACHO MAN,” I sang, “♫ I WANT TO BE A MACHO MAN!”
The entire summer I stayed with my grandparents in San Mateo, California, I sang this one verse from this one song, over and over, every time I took a shower. Later, I learned that other people could actually hear me the entire time. Including people who weren’t my grandparents. Yes, the neighbors. They could hear me too.
And now I am a victim. My wife as well. We were minding our own business in our apartment, when from somewhere beyond our walls…
“♫ ALLLLLL BYY MYYYSEEELLFFFFFFFF!”
I know. For 2026, this is quite the anachronism, especially in Spain of all places. But that's also how you know I'm not lying. Apartment living has its… compromises. And no, that's not the only song I've now been reminded exists — against my will. There was another musical masterwork I had purged from the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind. It has returned, with a certain volume and enthusiasm that made my wife laugh hysterically like a madwoman.
“♫ MAI-IA-HII, MAI-IA-HUU, MAI-IA-HA, MAI-IA-HAHA!”
I’m sorry, but like a re-emerging infectious disease, the meme that popularized this song been reintroduced into my life, and so now it has been reintroduced into yours. You thought you’d never have to hear or see this again. You were wrong. Now we can share in the suffering, together. Everything is my fault, of course. Go ahead and blame me, but I’ll remind you: there have been multiple opportunities for you to stop reading, and yet what did you do?
You couldn’t stop, because I’m one of the best at what we Substack intelligentsia like to call “the biz.”
Anyway, my wife’s uncontrollable chortling seems to pause the… serenades, but only temporarily. The Karmic Macho Man giveth, and He taketh in mysterious ways. Ugh, now that U2 song is stuck in my head. And yours. As long as we don’t sing it in the shower, we can contain the spread.
If you or someone you know has been affected by shower singing, please dial this hotline:
1-800-SUBSCRIBE-TO-BEBOP-LIBRE