I was driving down the road the other day and trying to tune in my radio when a flashback occurred.

Having not suffered the rigors of combat, it certainly wasn't shell-shock (unless you count my generally combative marriage that ended about a decade ago).

Nonetheless, it was a terrible sound that brought back memories. The song is one of those that I hope they played for Manuel Noriega as he hid out in the Catholic Church in Panama.

So, here I am, just trying to get the station changed before I go nuts. What is this terrible song? "I'm a Barbie Girl," is the name. It is horrible.

I heard it the first time many years ago when it was released and I recall wanting to buy stock in Mattel after they sued to have the song's air play ended due to a copyright infringement.

While I was in Russia, I was riding in a private car posing as a taxi on the way to the airport in Ufa, Bashkortostan. The driver, a garish man in his 20s, was a big lover of techno-pop music (considered by some, including myself, to be the scourge of the free world).

The song he continually played in his little cassette player? You guessed it. It was about 5 a.m. and I was riding along in the back seat of a Russian automobile listening to this "music" when the fellow stopped at a checkpoint that looked like a weigh station here in the U.S.

He was kind enough to leave his cassette player going for me, so that I could enjoy "I'm a Barbie Girl," the dance version, the remix, the extended version and the radio version.

As I sat there, trying to zone out and leave this mind-numbing music, I was thinking about how cold it had gotten. The temperatures that morning were about 10 below and the snow was whipping across the tundra posing as a four-lane.

When the driver returned to the car, he immediately flipped the switch to turn on the heater, for which I was grateful. Then he turned the key to start the car and I realized that the battery had drained.

So this was my reward for listening to 10 minutes of Barbie Girl?

I would rather have my fingernails removed with large pliers. The driver and I, communicating through my friend and interpreter, talked about the problem. He said that he would ask the driver behind us for some help. I didn't understand why we didn't just roll start the car by ourselves, but once I got out on the slippery highway, I figured it out.

There was very little traction out there. I agreed to help push the little Volga or whatever it was. I was outside, in the blinding snow, with a Russian truck driver pushing a man's car who listens to "I'm a Barbie Girl."

After getting the car rolling, leaning far forward for more power, I had a scary thought - "What if he doesn't stop?" I can speak very little of the language and being out on a highway in the middle of nowhere at 5 a.m. is not a pleasant proposition.

When the little car putted to life, I kept running toward the car, just in time to see the tail lights flash. Unable to stop on the slick surface, I slid forward on the icy road. As I ran into the trunk, I was still thankful that my new "comrade" didn't abandon me.

However, upon returning to the car, I was less thankful as the words, "Come on Barbie, let's go party," echoed in the little boxy car.

Soon, I had changed the station in my little car in America and the moment was gone. At least something good came out of that excremental cacophony posing as music.

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