classic

Got smoked out last night, as the young ones say, and on my way home while  trying to drive without incurring incarceration, I decided to play a little game of chance to keep me alert. I decided to pull a random CD out of the console and just go with whatever it was. Knowing I only keep crappy CDs in the car, lest they be stolen. I was really hoping to get Dionne Warwick just for the soothe  factor. But the first one I pull out and plug in is some Rap group, a CD that was left at the library a few weeks back.  I don’t know which group it is as the CD is not labeled and I’m not that down with the Rap scene (see? I can talk street my peeps).  I tried to go with it as I was driving along through the hood but then suddenly,  as an old white chick blasting whoever the fuck these rappers were, I was transported back in time to Crayton Junior High,  home of The Crayton Satans…

There I am…. a tall, gawky, white girl with braces and glasses – stringy brown hair down to her waist, walking around with her cassette player (the kind with one speaker, mono) squealing out Sly and the Family Stone’s “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey”.  It was the first year of desegregation in South Carolina. I really believed at the naive age of 12 that this would make me known as a friend to my new classmates. But my childhood was troubled, as we know. Nobody knew what to make of me. Not the black kids and certainly not the white kids. I’m lucky I was punched only once during my entire Junior High and High school experience.

Back in my car, in real time, I decided to ditch the rap; it was not hitting home. I pulled out another random CD…. shoved it in….

And  it was a demo made by  my husband’s band. It was fucking magic. Like the fucking message was coming through….from god straight down to me. Yes! Eureka! These guys are the real deal. Gary has a voice that is incredible. And he writes all the songs and they are fucking amazing. So i decided right then and there that we must get back together.

Still listening to the music, I thought about how  I would love to be with someone I could write songs with, play music with.  Gary never let me into that secret place. I was not friends with his friends. He kept all of that seperate from me. How in the fucking hell could I end up with a musician who wouldn’t play music with me? ugggh…. So, with that realization (still careening down the road) I knew that it would never work and it never did, despite trying for 10 long and painful years. Too bad. I tend to end up with guys who are more like begrudging, resentful brothers rather than lovers.

That was a freaky realization.

I finally made it home,  and as I sat typing away in my THC haze I heard Telemundo blasting somewhere but was not coming from my house nor was it coming from the neighborhood.  It’s in my head.  Ahora!  Vamanos a la isla…… Arrrrrrriba!

I failed to mention that the car I drive is a “dark gold”  Volvo S60.  Sporty.  I always thought it looked a bit pimpish and in fact, nicknamed it the Pimpmobile.  After 6 years of driving it into curbs, buildings, other cars and small airplanes it now has a very different look. The passenger side rear view mirror is smashed out, the gas cap cover has fallen off and just yesterday the driver’s side (electric) window broke in the “down” position.  Today I taped plastic wrap over it with masking tape.  The final touches are in place. I’m going to get me some Lil’ Kim  and hit the road.