Red Lights are the Enemy

You know what? Fuck this weather! Fuck it right good. I’m sick of people talking about how it’s sooo nice out and how it just makes them wanna get outside and show some skin, skin that probably holds a healthy shade of color. Fuck them, fuck this weather, and fuck their beautifully tan, well-moisturized skin.

I'd hit that.

Alright, I’m deflecting.

That’s not the real reason the hot weather is getting me bothered. The truth is, I don’t like this 75-and-sunny shit because it forces me to ride with my windows down. 

Stop yourself! Stop yourself right fucking now! This is not a blahg about my bitchin’ ride, the 1996 Buick Regal LIMITED who graces the world with her near-immaculate body and righteous name: Rainbow Satan. I will not have you defile her essence and beauty and badassness with your perverse presumptions about the subject of this blahg entry. Shame! You know what, you should leave. I’m serious, go. Go on. I’ll wait.

Did you enjoy this blahg post? Well that’s just sad, because it’s not even done yet.

This blahg is about one of my longest loves: music, and more specifically: singing. Nothing makes me want to sing at the top of my lungs more than singing at the top of my lungs. I love it. My closest friends know this about me. If they’re paying attention, my fellow gym goers know this about me. And now, thanks to this dickish weather, those driving next to me, or next to the car that’s next to mine, or across the street from that car, or maybe those working on their base tan in the park all know I love singing.

Huh, Paula Deen? Where you at? I bet you've never 

cooked yourself in butter.

So what’s the problem with singing in your car, Brad?

Jesus Christ! Put some pants on. How many times do I have to tell you? If you’re gonna interrupt the blahg, if you’re gonna screech my flow, wear. some. pants.

Oh yeah. Sorry. Got it.

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with singing in your car, but I get shy about a few things when I do. For one, I’m a loud singer. Two, my voice isn’t as smooth on the ears as Rainbow’s non-dented lady-like curves are on the eyes. And third, the music that breaks me into song isn’t always known as good music. In fact, for many it’s known as shitty music. But I love it so.

I'm trying!

UNO! I sing loud. How loud? 

Rewind to about a year ago. Wait, too far. Forward a bit. Back a lit—

Take forever!  

Oh, I’m sorry, I guess I want the scene to play at a point where I’m fully clothed. Speaking of fully clothed, pants! Put on pants!

Oh yeah.

And where the hell did you get Cheetos? I didn’t buy Cheetos. 

Anyway, I’m in my apartment, singing full blast because some notes are only reachable if you’re really pushing it, and a knock sneaks into my ear. It’s the landlady.

“Wait, was that you singing?” Meloby looks past me as if the source of the sweet sound is my life-size cut out of Uncle Jesse.

 Dear diary, I could not find a cut out of Uncle Joey 

and then the dollar store was out of razor blades. :( Brad

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh, I, ah, I just thought it was woman. Anyway, it’s really loud and we’ve gotten a complaint. Can you, ah, bring it down a bit?”

See? Told you. Me sing loud, me do.

“Wait, are you talking to me?”

“Oh, sorry, Meloby. Didn’t realize you were still there.” **awkward whistle** “Actually, I’m glad you are here. Something’s wrong with my door. It hasn’t been shutting properly. Back up for a second. I’ll show you.”

My hand grabs the door knob and shuts it.

“Oh, hey, look at that! It does work!”

Four Friday nights later. It’s just after 7pm. I’m getting ready to go out, probably to another street fight I will undoubtedly win, and I’m singing. 

Those were my fucking Cheetos! 

-Jean (also pantsless)

I’ve drastically reduced my volume since I am now fully aware that my neighbors can hear every question-mark fart that slips out of my sculpted buns. My jam session lasts roughly 10 minutes and I jet out the door.

Fast forward to five hours later. WOAH! You don't need to see that. Keep going a bit. There! I’m in bed and I get a txt message from my roommate. It reads something like:

“Dearest Bradlee, I hope this text message finds you well, in both mind and body. Our property manager has left a voice recording on my mobile telephone relaying that she will be giving us a citation for a rather loud bout of singing and/or chanting that was emanating from our residence earlier this evening. What? Almost out of characters? Fk tht!”

Yes, friends. I got a noise violation for singing. Do I think it’s complete bullshit that I got it for piping some passion on a Friday night at a reasonable volume for 10 minutes? Fuck yes. Do I still hold ill will toward that third string prostitute? Absolutely not (and I’m offended you would suggest such a thing.) Truth burger: I consider it a point of pride that I got a noise violation for strumming my angelic vocal chords for my neighbors.

POINT TWO! My voice is not angelic. It’s by no means shitty, no, and I’m def not tone deaf. I’ve competed in two live-band karaoke contests, placing second in one, and winning the other **flex!**. But I’m not clown enough to try out for American Idol because I know my voice isn’t great (and it has nothing to do with my perfect-for-radio face).  It’s because, as Meloby so tactfully briefed you on, I’ve been blessed with a range well above Celine Dion and at, or just below, Axl Rose. I’m not the most manly singer and I’m not ashamed to admit it. But admitting it to my six readers is a bit different than springing it on the sex blossom in the Beamer to my right.

TREEEEE! I like punk rock. Well, not even punk rock. Pop punk. Motion City Soundtrack, New Found Glory, Something Corporate, Fall Out Boy. Yes, the shit you may have dipped into your ears in high school is still tea bagging my drums. And I fucking love it. It matches my hummingbird heart, the notes are just the right height, and the lyrics embody all the angst I don’t feel for a former property manager. It’s my music and it makes me happy.

Favsies! Motion City Soundtrack. De Minnesota!

So, mis amigos del sacapuntas—

Wait, you know that means "pencil sharpener," right?

Duh! It just so happens to be my favorite Spanish word. You know another favorite? PANTALONES! 

Red lights are the enemy because I want to sing, I need to sing, and since Rainbow’s red-hot personality doesn’t allow for air conditioning, I am forced to be strategic. If mid-life-crisis on my left has the top down, up goes my left window. If white Rasta to my right be eavesdroppin’, up goes the right window. And if I’m practicing AC/DC’s Shook Me All Night Long for a live-band karaoke contest, I do so in the far corner of the parking lot with both windows up on a balls-hot summer’s night, sweatin’ (profusely) to an oldie, because that’s how much I love singing. But mostly because I fear being written up again by that skank-wench land labia who I am totally not still mad at. 

Did you enjoy this shit? If you did, post it on your Facebook wall so others can get a giggle from my me-ness. 

Ha! "Me-ness" rhymes with penis. 

Speaking of penis, I swear to God imma cut it off if you don't pants it up.