Greetings! I can't thank you enough for fixating your sight-balls on this corner of the page. Welcome to my new column, "Made of Metal," writ in flame from my mighty typewriter of steel! If you haven't figured it out already, this column is about Metal. So, if you have any allergies or aversions to all things fast, heavy, loud, pummeling or pulverizing, please take your business elsewhere. I have no time for you. This is by a die-hard Metal fan for equally fanatical followers. From my seat of power, I will review albums, the occasional concert and offer up my opinions about Metal in general.For the debut edition of my new column, I suppose I should tell you a little bit about own journey down the righteous path of Metal. But before we begin, you should know, dear readers, how privileged you are to learn the truth about my most un-Metal origins.

There's no denying that the first music that I really listened to with any real attention was Alanis Morissette's hit album Jagged Little Pill. Before that, it had mostly been Tina Turner, courtesy of a tape that my father claimed was always stuck in our car's cassette player. My older sister had purchased the album, automatically making it the coolest thing since bright colors, and let me listen to one song a day under her supervision. We even went to see Alanis with our dad at Madison Square Garden. (I feel like I just confessed to a murder.)

My preadolescent years were infested with equally poppy schlock. I operated under the assumption that if something was on the radio, it had to be good, and therefore worthy of my parents' hard-earned money. I was the proud owner of such shimmering gems as The Offspring's Ixnay on the Hombre and anything that came out of the guy from 311's mouth. It wasn't enough though; I always wanted something a little bit heavier and edgier.

Then I hit puberty (I think), and boy, was I pissed about something. I caught the nu-Metal wave like a pro surfer and rode it, hard. Korn (I feel nauseous), Papa Roach, Limp Bizkit (I just threw up everywhere) and Slipknot all rocked my world and drove me to horrible crimes of fashion (I wore huge pants. You know the ones). I was the poster boy for a generation of horribly misguided losers. Yet, looking back, it's hard to deny that those bands at least pointed me in the right direction.

After an argument with a Metal-minded acquaintance, I went out and purchased Soilwork's Natural Born Chaos, intent on disproving his assertion that anyone could play guitar better than the guys in Slipknot. I put the CD in my stereo and promptly had my jaw handed back to me by the floor with a thank-you note. Though the album was comparatively accessible to most of what I listen to now (Soilwork are now generally hated and reviled as sellouts), it was a vital stepping stone on my journey.

At first I found the twiddly riffs and harmonized guitar parts cheesy; nowhere near as bad-ass as the downtuned chunk of my former idols. I tried to resist, but soon I became yet another slave to the Metal horde. Soilwork's entire collection was soon followed by more extreme bands like The Crown, Amon Amarth, Dark Tranquillity, and just about every other Metal band on the European continent. I always wanted something harder, faster and louder.

Today, I am completely addicted. I listen to every genre and sub-genre of extreme Metal. I turn it on when I wake up, when I come back from class, when I am working and before I go to bed. I respect other kinds of music. I understand that Metal is not for everyone, but for me, there is no substitute. Nothing makes me bang my head as hard or crack a bigger grin on my face. There is nothing better than sitting at my desk and playing a variety of air instruments to my favorite albums as my friends or family watch in bewilderment. There may come a time when I grow out of it, but I pray that day never comes.

Now that I've revealed my shameful past, I think you owe it to me to read my column on a somewhat regular basis. It's okay. No one has to know. Pretend you're reading the Pop Culture article. Just remember, a closet Metalhead is still a Metalhead.