I am white.
This may come as a surprise for all one of you that doesn't know me, but make no bones about - I am white. Always have been. Always will be. Unless, of course, my next medical concern is a flesh eating bacteria. We'll cross that bridge when it comes. Until then, let's talk music.
My mission in life thus far has not been to solve world hunger or to raise money so homeless kids can have warm coats in the winter. No, I like to expand my horizons to see the true necessities of this world. What does this world need, you ask? Good music, I answer.
If I meet someone and they have horrible taste in music, I find it hard to treat them with respect. All that I'm saying is a lot can be taken from one's purchases on iTunes. Sorry, kid. You can be the sexiest man alive, but if all that is coming out of your headphones is the latest Creed album, we are going to have some issues. (Although in a perfect world, every man would strive to more like baby daddy, Scott Stapp, in With Arms Wide Open. Just saying.)
If you love Creed, that is fine. Human Clay is legit. Insulting your bad judgment was not my intention. I just think people should recognize bad music when they hear it. Although my taste in what is acceptable has changed tremendously over the years, my determination for the greater good has yet to cease.
In high school I refused to listen to two types of music: Country and Rap.
Country music, in my mind, was the downfall of every American living in the south. Having a bad day? Then why in the world do you want to listen to a man whining about his broken truck, dying dog and wife that sits at home and contributes nothing to the family income? Dumb.
To my friends that thought the monotonous beat correlating with rap "music" was dope, I had no sympathy. My question: Why should I buy their CD and promote their talent when they can't even buy a toothbrush or promote literacy by correctly spelling the word little? Just a thought.
To me, Frank Sinatra was a god. Ben Folds may have been troubled, but whoever can turn a song consisting of only cuss words and sexual references into a beautiful piano sonata deserves honor in my opinion. Cake had horns and hidden meanings and that is all that mattered. Switchfoot had the ability to make you feel as if you were doing something to benefit the world as you sat in your car waiting for soccer practice to start. Lifehouse took you down to a safe level of depression and then brought you right back. Jack Johnson? Well, it is safe to say he is the only man that has made me want to own a sandbox. As bands went, as long as they had a talented drummer and a guitarist (or four) that knew what was up, I was a fan.
To sum up, I was a music snob.
As much as I hate to admit, my taste has cheapened over the past several years. I still shy away from all things twang and nasal, but there is something about the repetitious beat of hip hop that pulls me in. Perhaps it is the engrossing lyrics that deal with the true dilemmas of the world or the gifted artists that personify everything I want my future children to be, I do not know. All I know is, I am hooked.
The big news of my musical epiphany has yet to reach the Pleasant City. I come home at Christmas and the occasional weekend with dirty laundry so there hasn't exactly been an opportune time for such a bombshell.
Unless I am in a social setting where both getting low and droppin' it are the norm, I try to hide my passion for all things worthy of a good twerk. Most of the time I succeed, but every now and then a song comes on shuffle that I just can't force myself to pass up. Case in point, Lollipop.
Sunroof open and back windows cracked, I am driving down one of the many highways in this town (joke). On the way to my grandmother's house I go. A song by Ray LaMontagne has just finished playing so the volume is up a significant bit. I don't think to turn the knob to the left when, "I said he's so sweet.." comes through the speakers. In fact, as I slow to a stop at the light, I take advantage of my massive water bottle and begin performing with my cool new microphone. I may have mentioned before that I am white. Although my fluency in ebonics is impressive beyond belief, my whiteness remains constant regardless of what song is playing. Sometimes I forget this little fun fact. Either that or my hydrating microphone calls me into reform.
Lil' Wayne has done wonders with his debut of this song. Not only does it provide every girl with the esteem needed to engage in a legitimate relationship with a man of great wealth, but it shows the world just how wholesome the lifestyle of a rapper truly is. Evangelical to say the least. If we can learn anything from his long locks and pearly whites, it is that we would be a better people if we would just lose our inhibitions and lick the rapper.
Something spoke to me today. Maybe it was Lil' Wayne's immeasurable talent for enunciation or perhaps the very essence of world peace that this song represents. No matter the reason, I was on my game. Unedited versions of songs tend to have that affect on me. What can I say? Raw lyrics and raw talent make a beautiful team.
By the time the light changed and the long line of cars began to move forward, I had reached the instructions of calling Lil' Wayne so he could get it juicy for me. (I like to over analyze many things, but this song is not one of them. I prefer to think he is simply making a nice cold glass of lemonade and his intentions are moral and clean.) Not only did I utilize my steering wheel for an additional drum accompaniment during my number, I also employed some immaculate dance moves and back up vocals. I'm sure you can imagine. Shoulder pivots, head bumping and the occasional beatbox sound as I felt appropriate.
Again. I am white.
The light changes, the wheels spin and ding! I have a new text message. Oh, cool. It's a video message! I love video messages. From.... Lance? Uh, that's odd. I haven't talked to him in two years. Weird. Must be a chain text or something. I open it regardless and the clip begins to play. My heart drops to my stomach. The entire video is of my stop light performance. Awesome.
As tempting as it is to post the video here for kicks and giggles, I must refrain. However, the text that corresponds to the video I am happy to share (verbatim):
"hEY FiSHY u wuz TRiPPIN bak there!! ShAwty wanna WAT?? lol gurl u crazii. Imma send dat video to ALL ma boyz. They aint gunna bELIEve it. gurl u a hYPoCRIT if i eva see 1 ~ n U said u neva gunna listen to dat ish. u gotta lil col0uR n u!! y u neva tell nobdy? lol WHO IS LAUGHIN NOWW?? lol"
We will avoid the topic of my nickname in high school for a moment and focus on what is truly at jeopardy here: my pride. It took me a hot minute to decode his message while driving, but even with the painful grammar and desperate need for spell check, I got the gist. I was about to go viral. The many years I spent trying to prove to my peers that talented musicians did, in fact, exist were now swirling down the drain.
Ok, let's be real. No one ever really cared about my ambitions of changing the world one string instrument at a time. I realize that. However, this quest of mine contributed to my reputation. I was the epitome of naive white girl. I wore my oversized bows, played my sports and made inappropriate jokes that I never really understood the meaning of. I was awkward, but something about that intrigued this boy and all of his friends. I never understood why. When they cheated on their girlfriends, I threatened to tattle. I forced them to listen to George Michael almost every day. When they tried to dance with me, I would run away. I made fun of their pastel church suits. I corrected their grammar in mid conversation. Basically, I was obnoxious and ignorant. (My two greatest traits.) Their retaliation? Humiliation.
Good to see things haven't changed.
I embarrass myself a lot. I've mentioned that. However, I like choosing when I am going to be a public spectacle. By giving me a nickname that is often associated with something rather perverse, the door was swung wide open for many punch lines and remarks. It has been quite a while since I've heard any allusion to that beauty of name. Lucky me, that all changed today. After his video sharing, I received 12... count them TWELVE more messages from le brethren. Ten of which entailed aquatic name calling. I walk into the grocery store hours later and see the girl who used to sit in front of me in American History. Before I can go in for the awkward greeting hug she says, "I just saw that video of you dancing!" Since, believe it or not, there are many videos of me dancing available for any willing viewer, I ask her to elaborate. She does so. Yep, dancing in the car. She then thrusts her phone in my face to clear up any confusion. I take the waving phone from her so I can focus. I look closely. As the video continues I scroll up to read the text she received with it.
"Fishy got ghetto lol!! lo0k @ her go!!! pass this on."
Cool. Oh, too bad the message was sent to her by a girl that graduated two years ahead of us. That's not sad at all. Who said nothing exciting ever happened in this town?
I hope this is the end. Either I will be the next YouTube sensation right next to Metal Roze or I will be coming to a cell phone near you. Either way. Stephanie is back in town.
Word.
