When I was ten my family unwittingly drove me into the arms of hip hop and R&B. It all started during a beach trip when I discovered cable TV. I’d never been allowed to watch it before, but there it was, cable televison’s MTV, blasting away TLC’s “Red Light Special.” During the guitar break in the middle, I jumped off the couch and danced and jammed away until my brother walked in and said “turn this shit off.”
One year later I was at a hotel in Michigan for the international Future Problem Solvers competition (FPS). I was sitting on the bed flipping through the channels when I stumbled upon LL Cool J’s “Doin’ It Well” video. He was up close to the camera, those lips all moist and pulsing and I stopped dead in my adolescent girl tracks, staring at this video.
I started having feelings. It took me years to figure out what LL meant by “I represent Queens she was raised out in Brooklyn,” but fortunately the rest of the song was pretty straight forward.
Later I sought out other hits such as “Hey Lover”, and “Loungin” featuring Total which I would record on my tape deck, practicing the girl parts over and over.
Roughly 10 years later in 2006 I landed a job working on the most prestigious music awards show in the world.
The best thing about working this prestigious music show was the rehearsals. I’d been reprimanded already for staring open-mouthed during these rehearsals, for visibly crying when Beyonce hit high notes, and for lingering when I should have been making copies. So when my supervisor, handed me a document and said, “Take this to Melissa. Come straight back. Don’t get starstruck,” what he really meant was, don’t make me fire you.
Melissa was at a table behind a portion of the stage. I rounded the corner and saw that Melissa’s station was unrecognizable due to the fact that it was surrounded by virile men in high school marching band outfits. These were not high school students (that would be creepy). It was Kanye’s year. He’d been nominated for “Golddigger” and these were his dancers dressed in marching band uniforms.
They were everywhere — sitting on the floor, talking in groups, all red costumes and white hats and large brass instruments. I made my way through the throng, delicately violating one unsuspecting lad after another for when else would I get such a rare and focused opportunity? I handed Melissa the piece of paper and made my two handed effort out of the crowd.
Then the energy of the space changed. Throats were being cleared and whispers of “oh my god” and “there he is,” “he’s coming, he’s coming” were echoing down the hall. Who? What the fuck was going on?
I stood on my tippy toes craning out of the crowd and that’s when I saw: the unmistakable top of a Fedora, the glint of sunglasses, the tan linen suit.
It was LL Cool J.
A receiving line formed as he moved down the hall. I made my way to the edge of the crowd elbowing my way in line near a side wall, determined not to miss my BIG LL MOMENT. He got closer and closer… licking those lips and repeating “How you doin’, How you doin’ Nice to see you” to every single guy in his path. When he was within ten feet, I started to panic. I didn’t belong here. What was this 22 year old panting white girl doing standing with all these male dancers with big horn instruments? My childhood LL obsession flashed before my eyes and I was sure he could see it—me singing with Total, dancing to TLC… drooling. And then I distinctly heard my supervisor in the back of my mind: “Don’t Get Starstruck.”
No. He was getting closer and closer, and that face- and then he got to the person next to me and I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and faced the wall and let him pass right by. He went from one band dude, past the weird sweaty girl staring at the white concrete wall, to another band dude and on and on and on.
Useless. Because who cares if I shook his hand. He wouldn’t. You don’t care. The only person that would have benefitted in any way from shaking his hand and feeling that burst of “how you doing” right on her face– was me. I would have done it and known it happened and I could check it off my early 20′s bucket list. But, no. I chose to turn my back on my dreams.
Disgusted, I scampered away, staring at the floor, practically running down the hall and head on into a man. I bounced off of him looking up both of us echoing apologies even though clearly, I was to blame. It was Carlos Santana.
About half an hour later I was sitting a top a comforter in a well-lit bedroom giggling away with my friends. Suddenly I felt it. The unmistakable tummy rumbling—the realization that something’s going to shoot out of your body, you’re just not sure where. I excused myself and went to the bathroom and threw up. I recovered and rejoined my friends, thinking it was over. Little did I know, it was merely the beginning of the most prolific vomiting experience of my life.
I was on the third floor of the house and miraculously there was only one person on the balcony. James John. I didn’t know James that well. He wore tight jeans and flannel shirts and usually addressed me with one-word sentences or the occasional grunt. I was pretty sure he thought I was a big dummy and this situation was not going to help.
Ben and I exchanged a look, both knowing what was about to happen. I asked the boy if he was sure he wanted to take the test, praying he’d say no, but he nodded emphatically and said, ‘Yeth.” I told him to enter the pool by the wall and swim from one end of the deep end to the other. As he swam, I stood on the edge of the pool, holding my red padded flotation device.
So I did. As soon as my feet hit the pool I remembered exactly what to do. I went to the kid from behind, put the float between our bodies, scooped him up under the armpits and swam both of us to the edge. As soon as I grabbed him he stopped flailing. Kicking, splashing, nothing. He just relaxed and was like putty in my arms. I helped him out. The whole thing took about 20 seconds.
As soon as we started playing, I noticed my suitemate Ashlie walk by. I yelled out “Hey Ashlie, come play volleyball,” just as the ball careened across the net, hit me on the top of my head and knocked me over into the sand. I was stunned and mortified, realizing I had failed miserably at coming off as the cool “bump set spike” type I felt was at the heart of my personality. Stephanie waved politely from the other side of the net. Turned out she and I had Women’s Studies together so we got to bond over gender inequality and our professor’s lazy eye.
Hanging with Sarah was like a warm summer day. I had a tendency to be a little frenetic and I found Sarah’s lack of urgency to be calming, inspiring even. She had a propensity for shit talking, an appreciation for wine, and a record player. A few days after we met she introduced me to her room mate.
I hastily wrapped up my spiel and stood awkwardly in front of Sarah and Claire, my silent audience. I was a moron.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the first or second group selected for viewing, so I had nothing to do but use the playground for playing. I was pissed too, standing there in my culottes and Keds, watching the oak tree beyond the clearing. Girls were coming out from behind it in droves, whispering and cackling, screaming ‘Eww’ and falling all over the place having just viewed Dusty’s junk. I wanted to see what the big deal was, but there was a very specific selection process and I had to wait my turn.
I was a bit of an outlier—I’d had boyfriends, been drunk, and, though I hadn’t been arrested, I knew kids that had. I’d also never been a girl scout.When other trainees asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d roll my eyes and dead pan, “A porn star.” I had never seen porn and had no idea what starring in one entailed, but I figured it was something I could handle.
My friend Rebecca (see “the time I should have gotten my ass kicked”) was particularly resourceful in the paraphernalia department, and decided to construct smoking devices out of the plastic honey bear in the kitchen and some soda cans. This involved draining all the honey out of the bear, and taking a huge knife and carving the shit out of the bear’s face and body, in order to accomplish all the necessary openings required for smoking. Then, using the same knife, she stabbed precise little holes in all the soda cans, to create a homemade pipe. Aluminum foil and rubber bands was also part of the mix.
Like many southerners who move to other parts of the country, I have a love/ hate relationship with the south.
Yet, of all this sensory magic, the following takes the cake.
