I was shooting pool and drinking beer with some friends, a bunch of guys I hung out with pretty regularly about twenty years ago. The bar had a juke box, and all night the guys were feeding it dollars and blasting out heavy metal - Queensryche, Def Leppard, AC/DC, Mötley Crüe, Zep - pretty much exactly what you'd expect from a bunch of suburban white guys in their twenties.
So that was the mood in the place, until I stepped up to the juke box.
Scanning through the catalog of songs, I spotted "Brick House," by The Commodores, and punched up the numbers. Next was Michael Jackson's "P.Y.T." and then a couple more in the same vein. After I was done, I went back to the pool table and continued the game, waiting for my songs to start.
When the bass line from "Brick House" thumped out of the speakers, my friends were none too pleased. This was 'jungle junk' as far as they were concerned. But the effect of the music was hard to miss, even for the most Cro-Magnon among them. Almost instantly all three girls in the bar were groovin' and vibin' - one of the pair at the bar was soon off her bar stool, dancing along to the tunes.
And my friends just stared at me, like I'd discovered some sort of magic key that unlocked the mystery of women. One of the guys sidled up next to me and asked, "Did you plan that?" I smiled and lined up my next shot.
"Know your audience," I replied.