But let me back up first. My eldest and I had to go to Lexington yesterday afternoon. He had a couple of appointments, and we hit the mall in between for a little pre-vacation shopping. Normally, we would go in my car. It's the newest and most comfortable of the family fleet. My son's car is a couple of years older than my husband's, but we maintain it better. Why? Only someone who has never seen their child drive away for the first time would ask that question.
My husband, being the great guy he is, drives the POS car. The deal, to which I've happily agreed, is that we switch cars on days he has to drive a recruit around campus. Usually, that just means I have to make the short drive to work and back in the POS. I did not want to drive to Lexington in it.
Eldest perks up, "I'll let you drive my car as long as you fill it up afterwards."
Such a deal. I should have been suspicious when he insisted I drive. I've been down that road before, and I'm generally not stupid. But faced with a day in the POS or a day in son's nicer ride, I chose superficially.
Of course, Son's ride contains son's bitchin' stereo system. To make life even more interesting, he just bought Eminem's new Recovery album. (That link takes you to the edited-for-radio version. My son, naturally, has the unedited version.) As soon as we hit the interstate, he cranked the music. The opening to the first song was kinda nice, and loud music doesn't bother me.
Then he turned on the subs.
Yeah. Really, you haven't lived until you've had Eminem rattle your teeth and vibrate the hair on your arms. Let me give you a sampling of what I heard. For purposes of this blog, "Waaaaahhhhhh" should be interpreted as an ominous bass rumble you feel deep in the pit of your stomach. It calls up images of alien spacecraft, monsters from the deep ocean, the horn on a cargo ship getting ready to plow over your life raft. Those images are enhanced by the sensation of being electrocuted. When combined with Eminem's lyrics, it goes something like this:
Waaaaaahhhhhhhhh. Motherf'er. Waaaaaaaahhhhhhh. F'n bitch. Waaahhh Wahhhh Wahhhh Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh. F You!
The only words I could make out between sandblasts to the ear were the F bomb and bitch. Charming, huh? My son is almost 19, and in truth, I've never really censored their music. By the time they knew who Eminem (or any other artist) was, the genie was out of the bottle and there's no putting it back in. Anyway, I'm allergic to censorship.
I cut my eyes at my first born, wondering where I went wrong, and entertaining the momentary thought that I should have censored the hell out of his whole life. I trusted he could read my expression. Trying to talk to him would have been comical.
My expression must have been comical because he was laughing his ass off. He did turn the stereo down a smidge, and asked me to actually listen to the words. I was in favor of this because it meant he had to turn off the subs, so I could hear the words. I guess I'm an old fart because I don't get having the bass so loud you can't hear the song.
I did listen to several songs, and as Son predicted, I liked them. In spite of the motherf'n, f'n, F you bitch, the message was mostly uplifting. Eminem is in recovery after all, and he's a wordmaster. He throws the F bomb out there to shock you, then he says something profound...or crazy. Either way, it's interesting.
Listening to Eminem at an unhealthy volume with everything, including your ear canals, vibrating puts you in a certain frame of mind. As we wove in and out of Lexington traffic, the subs (even turned down) garnered some looks. I found myself staring right back with a "You gotta problem?" expression on my face. The other person almost always looked away first.
Yeah, I'm a badass. And that expression on their face just before I stared them down and they looked away?
"That woman really needs to grow up."
"That woman really needs to grow up."