The Seven Hills Orphanage welcomed its newest orphan last weekend, and as far as we know she is not a level 3 sex offender — woo hoo!

As we're all in the embryonic stages of this new housemate relationship, it's very important that we reveal only the best of ourselves, so that when the monster comes out it will have some impact. If you start out a monster, no one is surprised when you become one (hello, Hillary!), and then what's the fun in it? Plus, you know, when I pitch a fit I want people to know I'm pitching a fit, otherwise why go to the trouble? Pitching fits takes a lot of planning and coordination. Not to mention the cost of catering, clowns, and balloons.

So I was in the parapet rocking out when our new homie showed up. But the damnedest thing happened when she appeared at my door...

Before I get to that, you need to know I'm a huge fan of internet radio, and Pandora in particular, which applies the technology of the Music Genome Project, whatever that is. It has to do with some incredibly complicated, highly coveted, top-secret algorithm. But the interface is pretty simple: you pick a song or an artist to start off, and Pandora tosses out tunes that share certain attributes with whatever you've chosen. If you like what Pandora's spinnin', you give it a thumbs up. If you don't, it's thumbs down. It's like having a DJ in da house you're cooler than, who you can totally order around. "Play this! Don't play that!" It's like a combination DJ/Gimp, but you don't need the extra room in the sub-basement! And that huge ring of skeleton keys. I can never find the right one! Oy!

You can create "stations" based on an artist or a song, or a genre of music. I have everything from Air to Zhou Long. Over time you get a pretty good mix of old favorites and new tunes. Best of all, it's free! But if you've got it on in the background when people visit, they'll think it's your itunes on shuffle!

And while the free service has ads on the site, there's no talk, and no commercials between songs. A big plus for someone who can't stand listening to other people bang on, even with British accents — those Brits on the BBC sometimes sound so snotty and petulant! — while I'm forced to sit silent. Which is one reason I don't go to the theater that often: I always have to fight that urge to pull a 'Til Tuesday "Hush hush keep it down now voices carry!" in the middle of Act Two. Don't lie: you all have to, too. That's why no one goes to the theater anymore (unless it's to see a Ryan Landry show, where if you pulled a 'Til Tuesday, chances are no one would notice).

I used to listen to public radio a lot, way back in the day, before they started their never-ending fundraiser. Now every time you turn it on, it's "if you really loved us, you would pay for us." Well, even prostitutes have the sense not to hound their johns. Leave it on the dresser on your way out. The constant bitching and nagging gets on everybody's nerves.  Even if you gave them a million dollars, they'd keep up their caterwauling.  Donor hoes.

And don't get me started on Public television — the worst of all possible worlds. Never-ending fundraiser and commercials! And crappy content!  I know I've said it before, but so-called "Newshour" with Jim Leher is actually only 52 minutes with Jim Leher. The rest are commercials for defense contractors and oil companies. They're not even fun commercials. They're these epic, sentimental lies, complete with soaring violins and whalesong. Who needs it?

With Pandora, it's just me and my Massive Attack.  There are apparently limitations to the free service: the number of tunes you can skip, and how many station changes you're allowed per hour. But I've never run up against them. The long and short of it is: it's free. I like it. I'm old-fashioned that way.

But sometimes I've noticed you can get on some weird jag where all your worst guilty pleasure thumbs-ups start tumbling out, one after another. This usually happens when I program a "Quick Mix" of several stations. Pandora seems to know exactly which embarrassing tunes to pluck out of each station, and plays them back-to-back when someone else is around. That's some algorithm they've got, lemme tell ya. I have a feeling that's the real reason they call it Pandora, in fact. It'll unleash all its evil eighties pop just when you least expect it.

And so it was the other night, when the newbie was moving in. She came to my door for a chat. I had been sitting, with my bottle of Glide working on some very important, top-secret business when all the sudden, the demon in the box came screaming out — it started with Phil Collins.

Why on earth hadn't I thumbs-downed him? Sure ABACAB rocked (come on, admit it — you know it did — I used to rock out to it in my old Datsun 210 on the way to high school every morning), but everything since? Worried about an alien invasion? Just launch a Phil Collins Audio bomb out into space. Once they're assaulted with "Can't Stop Loving You," assured there's still no intelligent life on the planet, they'll give up on us for another million years.

(While we're on the subject of space invaders. A little known fact is that Mariah Carey's Glitter is the only known defense against a giant asteroid, and Enrique Iglesias’ "Hero" can actually melt nuclear missile casings, making it the best bet for a viable missile defense shield.)

My new homie and me pretended not to notice "In the Air Tonight," but it got a lot harder to pretend that something awful wasn't in the offing when Dionne Warwick and Friends came on, singing "That's What Friends are For."

I have a gag reflex when I hear this song. Now, that sounds like a bad thing, but actually, after a long bike ride, I like to do some quick gag therapy. It tends to loose any sand, grit, and small pebbles that have filtered through the gap in my front teeth while I'm riding in the city. I'm working on a prosthetic gizzard, but I'm still probably about three years from viability.

I managed to suppress my gag reflex this time (I've had some training with that, too), and so we got through both "That's What Friends are For" and "Can You Feel the Love Tonight [Mormon Tabernacle Choir version]" (which I use instead of stomach-pumping, in case of accidental overdose), without incident.

But next up was Whitney, singing "The Greatest Love of All."

Now, I believe in this song, because, like Whitney, I believe that children are our future. Our future crackheads, that is. This song makes me twitch.  It brings out my inner crack-addled drag welfare queen. 

My new homie was getting nervous, I could tell.  We couldn't ignore the parade of audiogore spewing from the box forever.  She laughed nervously, and after an awkward silence ventured:

"Oh, is that Whitney Houston?"

I narrowed my eyes and leaned forward, twitchily.  "I don't know.  Do you know?" 

She was like, "um, wha-a-at?"

"Do you really know?" I demanded.

"Uh, um," she stammered. "you know."

I snapped my neck.  "Thank you."

I could tell my new homie was starting to get scared.  It scares me too.  The power of that voice belting out that song.  That crack ain't whack.

But when Celine Dion came on, our little chat was over.  I never listen to "My Heart Will Go On" in mixed company. That is some powerful, powerful shit.  They should bury all her albums under Yucca Mountain. And if they're worried about future generations getting contaminated by all that radioactive gunk down there, just build a visitors center where "My Heart Will Go On [Japanese Version]" plays on an infinite loop at 115 dB. Trust me, no one will ever come near.

I have been known to go into convulsions by the second chorus, so I didn't have time to dilly-dally. I made my excuses. Something about an important phone call, doing my nails, WHATEVER JUST EFF OFF!  SAVE YOURSELF! I'M ABOUT TO EXPLODE LIKE AN EFFIN SUPERNOVA!

She took the hint.  On her way out she was like...

"I love your taste in music!"

Oh My God.  Maybe she is a psycho after all.