Thursday, September 19, 2013

Shaping The Young Minds of Tomorrow, Today!




Being trapped at home with her baby doesn't allow my friend Gina much time for extracurricular activities.  So, although I am not a "kid person" per se, every now and then I lean into the strike zone, take one for the team, and watch baby Milo so Gina can have some semblance of a life.*



*I know it sounds odd for someone who HAS kids to say they don't particularly LIKE kids, but hear me out: I love my short people.  My short people are wicked rad.  But when my short people are acting like asshats or doing something annoying, I can call them on their shit.  When you try that with other people's kids they tend to get a bit. . .stabby.


Last weekend I headed over to Gina and Alex's condo to watch Milo so Gina could go for a jog.  As usual, Gina was running around the condo like a ferret on crystal meth, looking for her keys, looking for her water bottle, looking for her iPod. . .finally, in frustration, I thrust my iPod at her and kicked her skinny ass out the door so Milo and I could sit on the couch and watch Doomsday Preppers bond over educational and skill-building activities.  Forty-five minutes later, a sweaty and breathless Gina returned, her delicate features twisted in disgust and holding my iPod away from her like it was a flaming bag of crap.

"You're dead to me." she sneered, dropping my iPod on the sofa cushion and wiping her hand on her shirt.

"What did I do?" I asked in confusion.

Gina waved her perfectly manicured hand at the offending iPod.  "That. . .that. . .PLAYLIST!  I feel dirty inside.  Now please excuse me, for I must bleach my ear canals."

I rolled my eyes.  "Bitch, PLEASE.  My playlist isn't THAT bad."*


*Yes. . .yes it is.  A friend once told me that I have the musical aesthetics of a fourteen-year-old boy.  I feel she was being generous in her assessment.


"Seriously, Jen."  Gina sighed.  "How much Pitbull can one person listen to?"

"Umm, ALL of it?"  I replied vehemently.  "I mean, c'mon!  He's Mister Worldwide!  Mister 3-0-5!"

"Yeah, well, Miss 5-0-3,"  Gina continued "he may be 'overseas at about a hundred G's per show', but he still sucks like a whore when the rent is due."

Unwilling to let this (or any other) point go, I thrust my iPod back at Gina.  "Just listen to track 9," I urged. "'Calle Ocho'.  At the very least, you have to admit it has a good bassline for running."

With a sigh of resignation, Gina took the proffered iPod and popped the earbuds into place.  I watched as she scrolled through the playlist and selected track 9.  She listed in silence for a minute or two, then furrowed her brow in consternation.  "Wait," she said. "did he just say 'watch me make a movie like ALBERT Hitchcock?"

I shook my head.  "No, I'm sure he said ALFRED Hitchcock."

Gina slid a slim finger over the screen, rewinding the track and listening again.  "Nope.  'Albert' Hitchcock, I shit you not.  Now, granted, I may not be a walking IMDB like you, but I'm relatively unaware of Mr. Albert Hitchcock's work."

"Hmmm," I mused with a tilt of my head.  "maybe he's a niche director, catering to film viewers of a very specific genre."

Gina snorted derisively.  "And what genre would that be?  Shitty Cuban rappers with an inability to reference pop culture?"

"Yuk it up, Simon Cowell."  I drawled.  "The rest of the playlist is bomb."

Raising her eyebrows cynically, Gina continued to scroll through the songs.  "I gotta give you some street cred,"  she grudgingly admitted. "you've got some Fort Minor, some old-school Dre, some Kid Cudi. . .aaaaaaaand, street cred officially revoked."  Without a word, Gina slowly turned to screen to reveal the beaming whitebread faces of One Direction.

"Oh, please, I dare you to listen to 'One Thing' or 'Best Song Ever' and not grin like a crack whore."  I argued.  "Not liking One Direction is like not liking puppies and unicorns, and double rainbows.  And do you want to live in a world where those things aren't AWESOME, because I don't!"

Nailing me with her best thousand yard stare, Gina intoned "'Baby, you light up my world like nobody else, the way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed'. . .seriously, Jen, that doesn't even RHYME.  I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup and crap out better lyrics than that."*



*OK, I'll concede that point. . .begrudgingly.  I mean, seriously?  'She said her name was Georgia Rose, and her daddy was a dentist.  She said I had a dirty mouth, but she kissed me like she meant it'?  It sounds like those lyrics were written by five uneducated, overindulged tweens with a. . .oh. . .wait. . .


"Ah, I see you have our favorite domestic abuser, Chris Brown."  Gina frowned.

I rolled my eyes in annoyance.  "God knows I'm the last one to advocate violence, but in his defense he only beat up Rihanna and quite frankly, I've wanted to do that for years."

Gina shook her head in disgust.  "Selena Gomez?"

"Oh, c'mon, she's cute as hell."

"Sir Mix-a-lot?"

"Hey, I like big butts and I cannot lie."

"T-Pain?"

"Pfft!  Imma make it RAIN up in heah."


Snickering, Gina scrolled through the playlist again and let out a slow groan before turning the screen to show the cover of Justin Timberlake's 'Suit & Tie' track.

"Oh, no!"  I argued before Gina could speak.  "Steaming piles of 'no'.  You will NOT talk smack about J.T. and Mister Carter.  That is one economy-sized CostCo box of 'NO'."

"Hey, I got 99 problems, lovin' Jay-Z ain't one,"  Gina stated, raising her hand defensively, "but Justin?  I just don't get him.  He sings like someone just hit him in the sack with a croquet mallet."

I shook my head gravely.  "You would be wise to take back what you just said, my friend. In the words of the great Mister Timberlake, 'what goes around goes around goes around comes all the way back around'.  That's bad karma, yo."

"True,"  Gina grinned, "but I also understand that 'karma-karma-karma is a chameleon; it come and go, it come and go'."

"Well played."  I said, giving Gina a congratulatory fist-bump.  "Now why don't you take a shower and Milo and I will continue our little confab."

Dropping a kiss on her baby's sleepy head, Gina headed down to hall to shower.  Making sure the door was firmly shut, I picked up Milo and softly rubbed his back, singing "'So I put my hands up, they're playing my song and the butterflies fly away.  Noddin' my head like that, movin' my hips like that...'"

When the kid is old enough to twerk, the jig is up.  But for now?  I feel a glow of contentment knowing that the soundtrack to my shame will be passed on to the next generation.

xoxo, and. . .call me, maybe?

Jen































6 comments:

SWSNBN said...

THE BEST EVER. I agree with you...my friends mock my music all the time. But PITBULL? Come on! It's upbeat and awesome and I don't care about the lyrics.

Mandy said...

I thought Pitbull was Puerto Rican?

Mandy said...

In related news, I now can't get "Shake Senora" out of my head.

*sigh*

Chillin'Villain said...

Oh no...NOT that crazy Carly Rae Jepsen chick...

I pray every night that she will be a one hit wonder...or at least have A-Rod hit her once over the head with some stale Wonder bread. Now THAT is a stupid song.

Cheryl S. said...

I'm with you. I love me some good pop trash. And I don't care that the song's about getting high on MDMA, We Can't Stop is a good song. So is Wrecking Ball. Although I almost have to agree about JT. I wonder how he gets all those hot girls when his voice is probably higher than most of theirs. . . .(Oh,and in "my day" JT was John Taylor of Duran Duran, not Justin Timberlake. MMMMMMM. Duran Duran. . . )

changelivlife said...

God I am the LAST person to correct over pop music, but that Miley song is damn catchy and the lyrics are actually,

"nodding my head like YEAH, moving my hips like YEAH."

But...fantastic post. Your music preferences tend to make great blog fodder.