It warmed my heart. There I was walking along the produce aisle at the new Porter Square Star when all of a sudden I heard ``Please stand back. The mist is about to begin.'' They must have read my GSB message and taken action. No more Gene Kelly Singing in the Rain. Only a dry, boring, but functional and polite warning message left in its place. I continued shopping and smiling about my achievement and didn't notice the man who was following me until the eggplant that he carried with him came crashing into my skull. It was a rotten eggplant. I stumbled around trying to wipe the seeds out of my eyes and that's the last thing I remember until I woke up. At first I was a little disoriented, but after a while I got used to the lighting and my head cleared a bit and I realized that I was in the employee back area at the Porter Square Star. I had been there before, searching for a bathroom. Then there was the time I went posing as a USDA inspector running around with a Grade D Meat stamp. But that's another story. So I shook my head clear and it was then that I noticed him sitting on a bench across from me, plugging in a portable stereo. ``What happened,'' I asked. ``You started having a sneezing fit after being covered by eggplant bits. Apparently you're allergic to raw, rotten eggplant. Anyway, you hit your head on a steel display case while sneezing.'' ``Wait, why am I tied to this appliance dolly? And who the heck are you? And what the heck are you doing?,'' I asked, not disguising my irritation. ``Shut up! That's enough out of you. I'm the guy who was responsible for adding a little music to the produce counter and I'm the guy who lost his job because of you. I'm also the guy who's now going to exact some revenge. So you don't like my music, huh? You punk.'' ``Wwwwwhat are you gggoing to do to me?,'' I asked. ``I'm going to leave you there, tied up and listening to one of those stations that plays YOUR kind of music.'' And with that he left and I started laughing. Here I thought that I was going to be bludgeoned with produce and instead I was being sentenced to listen to WFNX until someone finds me. Some revenge! So I listed to the music for a while. I knew all the songs and soon started singing along... ``I won't pay I won't pay. NO waaay! Nah nah why don't you get a job?'' Cool. I like The Offspring. ``Every morning there's a halo hanging from the corner of my girlfriend's four post bed...'' Cool... I know this one, too. But after several hours, it got worse. Deborah Harry chimed in: ``Maria, you've got to see her! Go insane and out of your mind.'' Uh, o.k., whatever. ``You make me feel like I want to be a dumb blonde in the center for the girl next door.'' Paula Cole, what were you thinking? ``Wanna put my tender, heart in a blender, watch it spin around to a beautiful oblivion.'' Tender heart in a blender? The mental image is more appealing than the lyrics. This was starting to make me ill. And it went on this way for several hours. The last thing I remember was sheer disgust as Natalie Imbruglia crooned: ``think of all the bubbles of love we've made'' I woke up Friday night in the alley behind Star with a note pinned to my chest: Now what do you think of Gene Kelly? Thanks to Christian for filling in for me while I was, er, tied up last week. Come help me recover at this week's G I R L S C O U T B E N E F I T 5:35, 7ai, see you there.