Friday, November 16, 2007

Lessons from The Wu-Tang

For two days straight, I have been subjected to music I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. There I am, on the bus trying to read, innocently minding my own business, when some young girl sits down next to me with her ipod on full blast. Not only that, but she is listening to The Backstreet Boys (don’t ask me how I know this). I turn to look at her, hoping she will notice the disgust on my face, but she is bopping her head around a la Stevie Wonder, eyes closed, fingers snapping to Larger Than Life (don’t ask me how I know this).

At this point, I’m really annoyed. I have read the same damn sentence tweny times, and I’d really like to move on. I oh-so-subtly stick a finger in my right ear, not to drown out the noise, which at volume 11 was a futile effort, but to show this girl how her music was affecting my Freakonomics reading pleasure.

I sneaked another look in her direction, but she was either oblivious to my suffering, or a real jack ass, because I swear the music level went up a notch, if it’s even possible to go up past 11.

The next day, another girl with another ipod sat down next to me, ipod blasting. Apparently this is no longer a rare annoyance but a full-blown epidemic. This girl, a pale, white thing with frizzy hair and unflattering glasses (meow!) was playing—and I swear I’m not making this up—The Wu-Tang Clan.

This time I looked at the girl not in disgust, but in pure amazement. There was no way that this plain Jane girl with the Buddy Holly glasses, who looked to be barely 24, was listening to Wu-Tang. Was she trying to intimidate me? Oh hellz no! She was messing with the wrong biotch. I would show her who’s a punk. I would grab hold of that frizzy, mousy brown hair…

Light tap on the shoulder. “Um, excuse me, would you mind turning it down a bit? It’s a little loud.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry,” she whispered, and turned down the music.

I could now hear crickets chirping outside. Aw yeah, this is what I’m tawkin’ about, biotch--you don't mess wit me! ‘Cause when I come I bring the ruckus, famous Ames ain’t nuttin’ to fuck wit.