Can’t Touch This
I like to get down, especially when I’m driving alone in my car. For that reason, I have not yet burned to the ground the radio broadcasting corporation that took away my favorite Seattle mix station and replaced it with a station called “Movin our-commercials-show-multiple-people’s-butts-shaking-and-bobbing-around-in-circles 92.5-FM.”
The station is REALLY hit or miss. One minute you’ve got some Nelly crap (no, not that Nelly) and the next, you get some sweet eighties dance tune.
On the way to Target this evening, they were playing some steaming-pile song, degrading women in general, yet glorifying those who walk around in daisy dukes and bikini tops… and they couldn’t even turn a rhyme… HELLO!! If you’re gonna rap over a bad generic Hip-Hop track about all kinds of skanky skeez, at least do it with some style. I still won’t listen to you, but at least I won’t call you out publicly on my blog.
So I ended up with Delila who instructed me to “slow down and love someone.” I personally like to love people very quickly because then I have more time to love more people. Please do not connect this paragraph with the skeez mentioned above.
In the parking lot, two girls were standing by their car, huddled up together and looking nervous. One mentioned to the other how fast her heart was beating and I thought, “I wonder if they’re meeting up with their internet boyfriends for the first time tonight. How exciting and scary. Does their mother know?” This line of thought brought to you by my viewing of the movie “Drive me Crazy”, starring that teenage witch girl, a movie which I attended in disguise, lest I be discovered by one of my film friends and mocked for the rest of my college career. Incidentally, this film also started a chain of events which landed me at a Backstreet Boys concert with sparkles on my chest and corn-rows in my hair.
On the way home from Target, I was lucky enough to catch MC Hammer doing his stunning rendition of his original classic You Cannot Touch This on the posterior-shaking radio station. I car-danced like it was my job, and at 9:00 at night, it basically is.
On my post yesterday, creatively entitled “Dude.,” Anonymous said “You get a lot of comments, so what exactly are you insecure about?”
I think it’s time I come out with the truth. I am insecure about the fact that although, like the great MC Hammer I am “dope” “on” “the” “floor”, I am not, however, “ma”-“gic” “on” “the” “mic”. There you have it. My rap skills have been slipping lately. We have yet to christen the new house with a real, no holds barred, Daring Family Freestyle Rap Battle.
I feel your collective gasp before it escapes your keyboards and I am ashamed. If I ever find the Karaoke machine in the 6’ high stack of boxes that is my living room, I will remedy the situation. Then? Once I’ve brushed up on my skeelz on the microphonizzle, insecurity… she will be gone. Until then, it doesn’t matter how many comments I get or how many times Laylee bolster’s my confidence with questions like, “Mommy, can you please use some covering-up makeup? You have some red spots on your face,” I will remain insecure.