Monster Mash
I grow old, I grow old, and I know it because I don't get the music those crazy kids are listening to these days. It's only a matter of time before I'm standing in front of the Bunker with my squid up in giant pink rollers, shaking my fist and demanding that the kids get off of my lawn. First, I'll need a lawn.
I do not "get" the mash-up. I thought that I understood it when there were just two songs playing at once -- look, it's Sting and 50 Cent! James Brown and Christina Aguilera! Trent Reznor and Prince! Country and Western! Only, when I walked into the club last night, the DJ's seemed to be operating on the principle that if they played half a dozen songs at the same time, they will eventually play one that even you, the jaded clubgoer, are fond of. I know that there must be more to it than this. No, my failure to comprehend is merely proof that I have fallen behind the cutting edge. I might as well pack up my trip-hop albums, wave good-bye to my beaded cardigans, and wander off into the frozen tundra, where I will eventually be eaten by polar bears.
But even the old can shake some bootie and I don't have to understand the music (is that from Grease?...they've just mashed-up Grease) in order to dance to it. So I danced to Sting/50 Cent/James Brown/Christina Aguilera/Nine Inch Nails/Prince while the golf cart inexplicably parked in front of the club was towed away, while a man in a sparkly blue dress covered Bjork, while people that I go to school with tried to talk to me, while some hippie with horns on rolled joints in a dark corner. K's boyfriend tried to show me how to bellydance, and somebody wanted to tango, and J and I did the dance where we just hold on to each other and jump up and down laughing.
It's okay. It's okay. I don't have to get it. I don't have to wear a white belt or ludicrously low-cut pants. I can show up and dance. I can stumble across the street and buy a Nutella crepe from the guys in the mobile home. I can walk home through the cold, clear night. I can fall into bed with my clothes on.
It's a good thing, too, because I don't think I could get my hair into those big pink rollers. No, not at all.
I do not "get" the mash-up. I thought that I understood it when there were just two songs playing at once -- look, it's Sting and 50 Cent! James Brown and Christina Aguilera! Trent Reznor and Prince! Country and Western! Only, when I walked into the club last night, the DJ's seemed to be operating on the principle that if they played half a dozen songs at the same time, they will eventually play one that even you, the jaded clubgoer, are fond of. I know that there must be more to it than this. No, my failure to comprehend is merely proof that I have fallen behind the cutting edge. I might as well pack up my trip-hop albums, wave good-bye to my beaded cardigans, and wander off into the frozen tundra, where I will eventually be eaten by polar bears.
But even the old can shake some bootie and I don't have to understand the music (is that from Grease?...they've just mashed-up Grease) in order to dance to it. So I danced to Sting/50 Cent/James Brown/Christina Aguilera/Nine Inch Nails/Prince while the golf cart inexplicably parked in front of the club was towed away, while a man in a sparkly blue dress covered Bjork, while people that I go to school with tried to talk to me, while some hippie with horns on rolled joints in a dark corner. K's boyfriend tried to show me how to bellydance, and somebody wanted to tango, and J and I did the dance where we just hold on to each other and jump up and down laughing.
It's okay. It's okay. I don't have to get it. I don't have to wear a white belt or ludicrously low-cut pants. I can show up and dance. I can stumble across the street and buy a Nutella crepe from the guys in the mobile home. I can walk home through the cold, clear night. I can fall into bed with my clothes on.
It's a good thing, too, because I don't think I could get my hair into those big pink rollers. No, not at all.