A COMPREHENSIVE EXAMINATION OF DESTINY'S CHILD'S "BUG A BOO" AND WHY IT IS THE MOST DATED SONG OF THE NINETIES

 

Back in 1999, my high school dance team choreographed a dance to the new hit "Bug A Boo" by a super vintage four-member Destiny's Child.  I never really listened to the lyrics, I just liked the beat and tried my damndest to remember the choreography.
In a recent spurt of nostalgia, I created a "high school dance" playlist, which includes Bug A Boo among other classics like the Thong Song, Ghetto Superstar and No Scrubs.  I may or may not listen to this playlist every day in my car.

Most of the songs have relevant themes - I mean, people still wear thongs and I most certainly don't want no scrubs tryin' to holler at me - but Bug A Boo made me feel about as old as those Buzzfeed lists of "toys you had as a kid" because THIS:

1) "You make me wanna throw my pager out the window"

Whoa, PAGER? Yeah, I had one, shut up.  It was awesome and transparent blue and it was used for such awesome things as my friends texting me "BOOBIES" in numbers (5318008, duh) and trying to find other words to spell because the only people who ever paged me were generally people I was already with. It was also necessary for everyone to KNOW you had a pager, so you didn't keep it in your backpack, you clipped it to your front jeans pocket like the pimp ass bitch you were, screaming "I AM SO IMPORTANT PEOPLE NEED TO REACH ME IN ENGLISH CLASS, FOOLS."

Pagers were a thing for like two years, because cell phones became more omnipresent and why would someone page you if they could just call a phone that was also clipped to your pocket?  We are a lost generation.  Probably only 30% of people alive even know what a pager is, since older people never had them and anyone younger than 30 skipped right from being a child to having a cell phone.  And yes, I know Ice Cube had a pager that kept blowin up, but pagers were also a thing in the illicit drug trade for longer than we're probably even aware.  Maybe Beyoncé's boyfriend was a clingy drug dealer.

2) "Tell MCI to cut the phone poles"

My next door neighbor worked for MCI.  I have neither heard about nor thought about MCI since the last time I saw said neighbor, which was likely around high school graduation.  A quick Wikipedia search told me that MCI changed its name to WorldCom in 2000, so if MCI is in charge of your phone poles, it's last century dude.

And let us not forget that phone poles are things that were used to bring telephone wires into your home so that you could PLUG ONE UP and ONLY ACCESS IT AT HOME.  Yeah that was a thing.  I understand her frustration, especially before caller ID was invented.  When was the last time I had a land line?  Um, probably my college dorm?  I used it practically zero times because I had a cell phone when I went off to college, and I don't think I could call long distance on my dorm phone.  LONG DISTANCE.  That was also a thing!  CALLING ANOTHER AREA CODE COST MORE.  What?!  Jesus I'm so old.

3) "Put your number on the call block"

Ok, serious question, can you still do this? I know it was a feature of landlines at one point, like the aforementioned caller ID, but can you block a number from your cell phone?  My own personal form of call block is the beautiful red "ignore" button on my phone, but perhaps there's an easier way.  But yes, CALL BLOCK. Some weirdo calling your house?  Block their number.  Boom, easy.  Phone stops ringing. 

I have a need for call block at this point because a dude I went on two dates with continues to call and text me every week or so even though we have not spoken FOR OVER A MONTH. I don't want to accidentally answer his call because I'm in a crowded store or something and thought I saw a different name on the screen.  SERIOUSLY, even I'm not that bad.  If a guy doesn't respond to my text twice, I assume he never wants to see me again.  It's a pretty safe assumption, since I'm now living that situation. 

4) "Tell AOL to make my email stop"

AOL, LOL. Those were the days. "You've got mail!"  If you still have AOL as your email address you're either 90 years old or a member of some crazy cult that doesn't allow access to the outside world.  I guarantee you if you put an aol.com email on a resume today you'd get laughed all the way into the trash can, even if you can build a robot that makes waffles in bed for you every morning and you're applying for a job of "robot maker."

The still-packaged AOL CDs became projectiles, the most common form of litter on the streets, akin to a Jehovah's Witness handout that's thrown immediately on the ground upon receipt.  I wonder what happened to all the children in Asia who made billions of AOL CDs for years when AOL finally gave up on that idea. 

I mean, this is still a crazy lyric if it were Hotmail, but AOL just cements the 90s-ness of this song.

And as for the fashion in the video, I did have a furry blue leopard print cowboy hat because for some reason novelty cowboy hats were in fashion for approximately three months.  I remember thinking I was cool when I wore it to the pool. Nothing I did in the 90s was cool.  Nothing.

While the overarching theme of crazy stalker ex-boyfriends (and girlfriends) is timeless, nobody could pack in the obscure 90s references like Destiny's Child.  And for that, we thank you.

WOULD I EAT IT? PART 2

I have been a royally shitty blogger for a bit - I noticed I haven't posted anything in OVER A MONTH.  Dear lord.  I can attribute it to the fact that I've suddenly taken up cross stitching rap lyrics for fun and profit, and despite evidence saying women are natural multitaskers, I can't multitask for  shit.  I also frequently forget what I'm doing, or about to do, as this blog should have come weeks ago immediately following my friend's post over at This Fit Blonde. 

So Amanda, my completely insane yet awesome friend who runs FOR FUN and consequently made me run Ragnar for her bachelorette party (surely you remember my two-part tale of that adventure - Part I and Part II) decided to review running food - in particular something that goes by the incredibly creative name "Gu."

If it doesn't look offensive to you in the packaging, I'm sure it will once you attempt to take it out.  Gu is LITERALLY just flavored goo that you shoot into your mouth while running so that you can keep running further than a normal, healthy amount of energy would allow.

Pros:
- apparently it makes you run fast.  Or something.  I haven't tried it because I would never voluntarily run long enough to need food and NOT STOP FOR FOOD.
- the packages are fun to play with before you open them, kinda like a stress ball - squishy and oddly shaped.

Cons:
- I don't fucking run.  And when I was forced to, where the fuck was this shit?  She said it was pretty much pure sugar, which I REALLY could've used to attract bears or other carnivorous animals to eat me and put me out of my misery while stuck in Sonoma meth country.  I'd have covered myself in said goo, drawn a large gooey circle around myself and laid down in it awaiting certain death by a bear or mountain lion or gang of raccoons.  But I did not have any of this, I just had a cell phone that didn't work and a trail of my own tears.
- If I did run, the last thing I'd want to do at any point in said run would be shoot some artificially flavored "Espresso Love" down my throat (yes, innuendo intended) while STILL RUNNING.  "Hey, want to make this thing you hate even worse?  Here's something gross to put in your mouth!"


So, as obviously outlined above, I would NOT eat this.  Its only appropriate use is to lure animals into eating you, or perhaps getting in a really gross goo fight with a friend.  Also, likely most of those flavors look like poop.  The last thing I want to think about while eating is poop, especially if I'm running and likely HAVE TO poop, so no, these are just a big no.

During my unpleasant tenure as a Ragnar race participant, I ate a large variety of things.  I don't remember offhand much more than the burger that I kept burping up during my impromptu reenactment of the Temple of Doom, but the one greatest thing I ate during that whole race was the Klonopin I took immediately after removing my blood-stained shoes that allowed me to pass out for a really really ridiculously long time.

My recommendation: stop running, go get a steak, take a nap.  You do not need to eat Gu.

THE ZAGAT GUIDE TO THE FLU

Now I've had the flu before, quite a few times actually, so I wasn't expecting anything particularly spectacular when I found out that I would be trying out and reviewing this year's strain.  I had built up a considerable dent in my immune system, what with attending a three-day wedding drink-a-thon the weekend immediately prior, so I think I caught it at its best.

The initial impression I had wasn't akin to past flus, since they sometimes lead you on with minimal symptoms for days before smacking you in the face with the good stuff.  This one, however, came in like naked Miley Cyrus riding a sparkly wrecking ball - unexpected and a little too long.  Tuesday morning I felt fine, then suddenly around 3pm I must've walked outside, stood on the 101 and waited for a semi to hit me because it was at that moment that my entire body started hurting and I decided I was likely on the fast track to the county coroner's office.

While often the flu hits me without warning, I do find that it hits me with everything at once - body aches, headache, sore throat, head cold, cough - but not this time.  This year's glorious visit was marked by specific days dedicated each to their own special, but wildly different, version of hell.  As with a multi-course meal, I shall review this flu in each of its "courses."

Course 1 - This Must Be What Dying Feels Like

My sudden crash into the flu's first stage had me laying in my bed and wondering if this is what cancer patients feel like in their last days.  My head ached, my body ached, my JOINTS ached - I couldn't even sleep because every position, other than "dead," was just too uncomfortable.  I was very thirsty, but my intent to hydrate was derailed by my bladder's intent to stay empty.  As I lay in my bed, convinced I had parasites eating me from the inside and that soon I would simply cease to exist, a mystery for my family and friends to solve and put on Dateline later this year, I wondered where the rest of it was.  You know, the sore throat, coughing, head cold, snot - the works.  But as we know, what is the answer to most dilemmas?  Patience.

Course 2 - Are You Fucking Serious With This Shit?

Course 1 lasted what I would consider slightly too long - both Tuesday and Wednesday were dedicated entirely to my bodily pain, while honestly I would've rather just skipped that altogether.  Thursday revealed a great surprise - my body once again felt normal, but my throat had begun hurting and I could feel the snot building a wall to block my breathing.  This flu was no multi-tasker - it put everything it had into each one of its reigns of hell.

At this point I called my parents to tell them that their initial hypothesis of my being hungover was wrong, and I definitely had the flu and how do I survive without my mommy?  My dad's answer to anything is "orange juice and aspirin" while my mom said a lot more things that I don't remember.  Suffice it to say, Thursday was also spent in bed, but only after a hearty dose of cold meds, orange juice, and a rousing game of "shoot saline up your nose and see what comes out."

Course 3 - Just GO Already.

Friday and Saturday presented themselves without a sore throat but with worsening snot problems, so I felt like I could venture out in to the world.  Not for anything spectacular, I just needed food and desperately wanted someone else to prepare it.  I thought getting outside would be good for me.  Instead, my three-minute drive to Chipotle combined with eating and my three-minute drive home proved to be more physically taxing than climbing the Himalayas, so I napped away the day out of exhaustion instead of my regular boredom.

I also got started on the most addictive medication on the planet - no, not morphine - AFRIN.  Nasal spray.  It clears you up oh so well and then when you feel the congestion coming on, nothing else will suffice.  I knew it was a gamble but I do so love breathing that I took it.  I have yet to know if I will regret this decision.

Now at the end of its run, I am currently only battling slight congestion and extreme exhaustion, which sounds terrible but based on the above is actually rather lovely.

Conclusion

This year's flu was nothing spectacular.  It didn't provide the 8-hour fever of the 2011 flu, nor did it have anywhere near the efficiency of any of the most recent strains.  Drawing it out to a week was petty and unnecessary, but those first few days did pack quite a punch.  My sore throat only made it to "mild" pain and my congestion was simply an annoyance.  Going forward, this flu should focus on extending its efforts to all areas instead of concentrating them at the beginning, or hell, just going for it all in a couple of days so I can get back on my feet more quickly.  Will it be remembered as a bad one?  Not particularly.  Mediocre at best, I'll likely forget about it in a few months.

I give this flu two thumbs down.

THINGS INTROVERTS HATE, PART 1

There's a reason I like writing - I can say whatever I want without someone stopping me in the middle to give their opinion or change the subject or whatever the fuck talkative assholes do.  Ever notice how *most* of my blog posts seem to have a point?  That's because I get to say everything I want to say.

I'm friends with both introverts and extroverts, but I find that the extroverts will interrupt me every time I try to breathe.  I don't know why this happens.  What the fuck do you have to say that's so important?  Do you ever wonder why my stories don't make a lot of sense and take ten thousand hours to tell?  YEAH, BECAUSE YOU KEEP FUCKING INTERRUPTING ME. STOP IT.

Sometimes my mouth goes faster than my brain (that's what she said) so I have to pause and take stock of where I am.  Inevitably, someone sees that pause as a time to insert either a) an opinion on the subject or b) something entirely unrelated that they just thought of.  Once I get them to shut their filthy pie hole, it takes me a second to remember where I was in the story, thus MAKING IT TAKE LONGER.  Then interrupters want to interrupt more because they think I'm taking too long.  WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?  YOURS.  IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.

Things that make me happy:

- Those types of meetings or groups where someone is only allowed to talk if they're holding the talking stick.  Not only do I hate being interrupted, I hate listening when someone else is interrupted.  It breaks my train of thought, and I was trying to listen to something.  The sound of people talking over one another is like fingernails on a chalkboard to introverts, and they really need to make talking sticks both mandatory in life and bigger, so I can smack the people who don't understand how to TAKE TURNS.

- The courtroom.  Oh, the glorious rules of speaking while in court.  Think about what would happen if there wasn't required silence by the opposing party in a case.  It would probably end up with someone being hauled off to jail and another person on a gurney.  That's why there are these lovely little rules that allow me to speak when it's my turn without being interrupted.  And if I AM interrupted, it's simply by "Objection!" at which point both of us stop talking and the judge decides who is to speak.  The defense attorney can't just sit there during my opening statement and start screaming "That's not true!  He wasn't even driving!  The cars were different colors!  He couldn't have been there at 7am, because he was here!"  And, even though you are technically allowed to object during an opening statement, rarely is something considered prejudicial enough to warrant an objection and generally you make it through without interruption.  It's an amazing feeling.

If I'm not very talkative, it's likely because it's a "talk over each other" situation or I have been shut down by multiple interruptions and have no more energy to communicate verbally.  So take note.  Not only is it rude to interrupt people, ANY person, not just an introvert, it makes our lives a living hell just to explain something that would've taken three minutes but your incessant talking drug it out to ten minutes and you have the balls to tell me I tell bad stories.  So, in conclusion:

WHY YOU SHOULD TREAT PEOPLE IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY LIKE GODS

There's a saying that goes something like "If you treat people who serve you like shit, you're a giant dickbag, even if you treat everyone else nicely."  Well that's probably not the exact quote but you get the point.   The vast majority of people have worked in restaurant or retail work at some point in their lives, including me.  It's absolutely awful.  If anyone needs to be treated nicely, it's these people, for multiple reasons.  It's part of why I'm such a condescending bitch.

1) Their lives suck. Or at least this part of their life.  The number of assholes you run across as a waiter or store clerk in just one month of work is enough to make you think the world is full of ungrateful shitheads.  Which, now that I think about it, it probably is, but at least once you're past this point in your life you will be dealing with them from a different perspective, i.e. perhaps their boss, or their equal.

You may very well be the nicest person a server has seen all day. Seriously.  The fact that they get one table out of 50 that doesn't complain about something and says "thank you" might literally be the one thing keeping them from running through a plate glass window into the middle of the street. 

2) They're getting paid shit.  Servers work on tips, and most retail clerks don't even get commission, so they have to put up with your bullshit without any bonus.  They just do it because they need a job and they're 19 and at the moment that's all they're qualified to do. 

When I was 19, I worked at Abercrombie for two months.  This being my first job, I didn't ask  how much the position paid in my interview, because I thought that was presumptuous, or rude, or showed I was only interested in money.  I was, and the clothing discount, but I didn't want them to know that.  My first paycheck came and it turned out I was making $5.25 an hour.  One hour of work won't even buy me a combo at McDonald's.

People would ask me ridiculous things.  They'd look at me and think "Oh, she's probably in control of this whole operation, I'm sure if I tell her my problem she can fix it."  At the cash register, ironically my favorite spot, one woman came up with three XL men's shirts and asked me if we had any XXLs.  I politely said that Abercrombie doesn't make XXLs and that I was sorry.  She decided to tell me that "You guys need to start selling XXLs.  You're losing out on a big part of the market.  Why don't you make XXLs?"

Well, as the 19-year-old cashier at one single Abercrombie and Fitch store out of hundreds, I am absolutely able to make that change happen.  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  Do I look like the CEO?  Do I even look like the manager?  Do you have any concept of how few fucks I give?  I don't even care if you buy THAT shirt.  I'm not making any more money.  I don't care if Abercrombie gets a whole new market share with big boy shirts, they won't give any of that to me.  I'm here to pass my time, take your money, give you change, and get your annoying ass out of here.  People thought I was an intern when I was actually a full-fledged DA, do you think I looked any more important when I was 19??

I quit after two months because the pay wasn't enough to justify the ridiculousness.  People complaining about their clothes falling apart when they exchanged them, as though I cared even as much as I cared about what color socks you're wearing.  I became the sounding board for anyone who had problems.  Eventually I just heard 3 words and said "let me call a manager."  It's their job to deal with idiots who want to complain, and they don't get paid enough to deal with it either.

When I was 22, I was a hostess at California Pizza Kitchen.  I never applied nor asked to be a waitress.  The managers thought it was weird that I was about to go to law school yet I wanted to be a hostess instead of a waitress, and kept asking me if I wanted to train to be a server.  I flat out told them that I'd get fired in one day, because I'm mean and I'm clumsy.  They didn't ask after that.

The hostess is actually a pretty shitty job, especially in a new restaurant that has a wait list.  You're keeping people from their tables, the one thing they want.  You're the gatekeeper, and everyone hates the gatekeeper.  Since this was the first and only CPK in Austin at the time, it was almost always on a wait.  Some people were nice and just dealt with it.  Others were giant douchebags.

In the back we had two-person booths.  One day, on a particularly long wait, a woman came up and said she had a party of 6.  I told her it would be about 30 minutes and she sighed loudly and gave me her name for the list.  About three minutes later, a couple, as in two human beings, walked in and we happened to have a few two person booths in the back, so I grabbed menus and walked them back.  When I returned to the hostess stand, the party of 6 woman was standing there.

"Why did you just seat them?  They came in after us!  We should've been seated first!"

In my most condescending voice, I pointed back to the two-tops and said "Ma'am, they were a party of two.  You have a party of six.  If you would like to try and fit your party of six in those two-person booths back there, you are welcome to, but I was under the impression you wanted six seats for six people."

She had no response, and huffed back outside.

Then there were the people who said we weren't "kid friendly" because the fire marshall wouldn't allow us to put high chairs at the ends of booths, only at a table in a chair's spot.  "If I put you in that booth with the high chair, I will get fired. Not only that, but immediately after firing me, they will take the high chair, put it back, and you will be in the same position you are now."

Some of the stories I heard from the waiters made me wonder how they didn't pour drinks on people.  Which is exactly why I never became a waitress.

So here's some advice - waiters have the power to do a lot of gross things to your food.  If you're a dickhead about something where you could've easily been polite, they will likely adulterate your food somehow.  At least I hope they do.  The waiter did not cook your steak, make your pasta, bake your cake, or put too much spice in your food.  He is also not allowed to taste-test it to make sure it matches your standards, so when it comes and doesn't taste right, he's not the person to yell at.  Really you shouldn't yell at anyone at all, because mistakes happen and if you don't like your food that's likely your own personal opinion and not that of the hundreds of other people who order that same dish all the time.

You are not better than people in the service industry.  Likely you were once there yourself, and if you weren't, consider yourself lucky.  Obviously there are bad waiters and waitresses and people who don't listen or slack off, and those people are fair game.  But most people just want to do their job without getting yelled at for putting too many beans on your burrito.  It's not necessary to tell a restaurant they should "never run out" of something.  Yeah, that's kind of a given, but likely they have little to no control over that.  If everyone orders something one day, they'll run out.  Shit happens.  And it's EXTREMELY not necessary to drive back to a restaurant and yell at the manager because someone didn't fill your FREE SIDES OF SALSA all the way to the top of the container.  Yes, that happened today while I was eating.  I wanted to punch that woman in her throat.

So the lesson is simply "don't be a dickhead."  Or at least, "wait til someone has been a dickhead to you, THEN you may be a dickhead back."  I have in the past and will not hesitate to call someone out for being a dickhead to someone who is trying their hardest.  So you might be humiliated in front of everyone AND get spit in your food.  Have a nice day.

A LETTER TO 18-YEAR-OLD ME FROM 30-SOMETHING ME

Yo, 18-year-old self -

So I heard some shit about this bitch I used to know... no wait, those are Dr. Dre lyrics. Please disregard.  Anyway, I'm here from the future to help you out, and perhaps let you in on a few secrets that might save you some pain, time and money.

First of all, I know you're dying to know - no, you're not married yet; no, you did not get fat; yes, you did finally grow boobs.  Sadly, however, you're also not super rich or famous, nor do hoverboards exist.  I'm sorry to break it to you this way, but it's better to be prepared.

In the last 15 years I've learned a little bit about life, and I thought it would be nice of me to give you some tips seeing as the ride has been a little bumpy.

1) You will not marry your high school boyfriend, no matter how great and awesome he is, even if you are still friends with him and his wife 15 years later (Shit, that reminds me, I need to text her...).  The 1% of people who married their high school sweethearts that don't get divorced are like unicorns, and no amount of magical thinking will make you as a teenager able to make decisions about your future romantic life because you are legitimately a completely different person in 15 years.  So go get those meds, cry it out and keep on truckin' because you don't need to transfer to a school you don't want to go to and get stuck in places you don't want to be for 10 years.

2) You have no idea what you want to do with your life. Trust me, it will change about five times AT LEAST in the course of the next 15 years, so just roll with it.  Get a liberal arts degree.  Yes, I said it, LIBERAL ARTS.  Take lots of courses in lots of shit and learn about yourself.  Figure out what the hell you want, who the hell you are and what you enjoy doing instead of getting an advertising degree that, due to technological advancements, has a shelf life of approximately two years because Facebook did not exist until a few months before you graduated, Twitter wasn't even a mere gleam in the eye of its founder and Instagram was probably a name for an IKEA shelving unit in 2004.

3) Go to law school.  Yeah, you heard me, I'm not telling you not to go.  I'm also not saying you will want to be a lawyer for the rest of your life, or even for part of your life, but right now your shy ass is getting stepped all over and you need to nut up.  Why go to law school?  Two reasons - first, you make amazing friends and have an amazing time and for the first time figure out how to be independent; second, because law school gives you the somewhat over-the-top confidence that can legitimately get you WHATEVER YOU WANT.  Yes, law school will turn you from a shy girl with a smart mouth into a bitch that gets things done.  A whole magical world will open up for you, one where you can skip the line at clubs to being the only person on your "weather delayed" flight to get a free hotel room because you won't take no for an answer.  The ability to terrify someone without cursing, raising your voice or threatening bodily harm is a beautiful tool and it works OH SO WELL.  Take comfort in the fact that you may or may not get three people fired who, for various reasons, definitely deserved it.

4) FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT TAKE THE WILLIAMSON COUNTY JOB.  If there were three doors, one being a garden of flowers, one being a palace made of ice cream and the last being THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF BLOODTHIRSTY ZOMBIES this job is the ZOMBIE DOOR.  AVOID THE FUCKING ZOMBIE DOOR AT ALL COSTS.

5) You know how you drive a beautifully restored 1966 Mustang that embodies all that is glorious and good in the world?  Yeah, now you drive a Honda Civic.  And you fucking love your Honda Civic.  It fits all your friends, it's reasonably priced, it gets great gas mileage - yes, you will turn into an adult in all ways, including understanding the term "unemployment" and "blogging in bed on a Saturday night."  Shit gets real, man, but if you're prepared, you can handle it.

6) Those people you're about to meet when you go off to USC and go through rush?  You're going to see them all in two weeks at a wedding for one of your best friends.  Yes, 15 years later.  And listen to Meredith - she seems too cool for you, and she is, but she is the secret to learning how to have fun in college.  So when she wants you to play drinking games like "Kings Cup," beer pong, and "chug this because I told you so" JUST FUCKING DO IT.

7) In 2003 you will get to see Robin Williams do standup live.  Don't ever underestimate the awesomeness of that moment.

8) Remember when I told you that you have no idea what you want to do?  I was wrong.  You were right.  You've known since you were eight.  You know it right this second.  You wrote it in your senior bio in the Hyline yearbook - you're going to go to LA and you're going to write comedy.  What would happen if you actually followed that dream RIGHT NOW?  Or maybe you really need the journey to get there.  I don't know, but I'm telling you now, 15 years later, that you were right. 

I remember what it was like to be you, and no offense, I'm SO MUCH BETTER NOW.  I mean, you could eat an entire pizza and not gain a pound, practically kick your own face (note: take up yoga before you lose your flexibility, asshole) and get through all of college without knowing how to study (pro tip - learn the summer before law school because, well, everyone else already knows how and that's kinda important there), but now you have confidence, a way better sense of how to properly dress yourself and a cute, functioning nose. 

Oh, and you maaaaay need medication for the crazies but don't you go worrying about that just yet.

- You, from the future.

PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXPLICIT LYRICS

Have you ever listened to songs you heard as a kid years later and realized that you had absolutely no idea what they were talking about because it was WILDLY INAPPROPRIATE?  There are cases of misheard lyrics (Starbucks lovers, anyone?), but I'm talking about hearing the lyrics correctly and thinking they have an entirely different (and more innocent) meaning.

Sometime in the early 90s whoever makes rules over music started putting labels on CDs that said "WARNING: Parental Advisory, Explicit Lyrics."  According to the CDs I had at the time, this pretty much meant the following:

"Do you say 'fuck' at any point in your album?"
"Nope."
"Alrighty then, you don't need a label, have a nice day."

Back in 1993 my favorite singer was Janet Jackson and my favorite album was her "janet." CD - you know the one where she's topless and an unseen guy is holding her boobs from behind?  Yeah maybe that should've been a tip-off at the time.  Anyway, it's a fucking fabulous album, still to this day.  It was back in the days of music videos and a couple of the songs had the best choreography in the history of music videos, so even if you didn't own it you're aware of some of the songs.

The popular ones were "That's the Way Love Goes" and "If" - which to me were just simple love songs to a good beat.  I thought such lines as "go deeper, baby, deeper" meant EMOTIONALLY deeper (I'm not kidding here, I was a REALLY naïve 11-year-old).  Seriously, go look up some of the lyrics.  I'll wait.

One particularly hilarious memory was brought up when I re-discovered the album sometime in law school and listened to it with adult ears.  "This Time" wasn't a single, but I liked it because it was very epic - with an opera singer (who I was convinced was Janet at the time) and what sounds like a full orchestra in parts.  But the best part was the lyrics:

"You runnin round with those nasty hos, how long did you think I would take this?"

Obviously the song is about her boyfriend cheating on her and her leaving him.  I caught on to the part that he was a shitty boyfriend, but not for the reason she claims.  I actually legitimately thought he was assaulting her with garden tools.  Hoes.  I'd never heard "hoe" in another connotation, and I was aware of abusive relationships, so I just thought he happened to be a little more creative in his abuse tactics.

11-year-old me was like "Yeah, you go Janet.  You leave that guy - no one should take being beaten with a hoe.  You're such a good role model."

25-year-old me was like "Well then. Probably best I didn't know what that meant."

As I listened to the whole album, there were probably two songs on the whole thing that were actually appropriate for all ages, and one was sad (fuck sad songs, man, fuck sadness).  The rest were pretty explicitly about sex, but without saying "this song is about sex" my young brain turned them into relationship metaphors.  It turns out that pretty much everything I heard on the radio or really anywhere before high school I had absolutely no idea if something was inappropriate unless I could hear the words "fuck" "shit" or "ass" (and ass has always been questionable).

So when Tupac, reasonably angry because he got shot, screamed "Fuck Biggie, fuck Mob D, fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a motherfuckin crew, and if you wanna be down with Bad Boy, then fuck you too" I probably shouldn't have been as shocked as when I basically listened to Janet Jackson eloquently describe her sex life in 1993.

Ignorance is bliss...