A few weekends ago Seth, Eliza and I needed a break from the smoke, from worrying about the fire that was crawling toward our house, from the pre-evacuation orders that seemed to be heading in our direction. So we left one fire-choked valley for another and went to a wedding where all we had to do was show up and celebrate.
After the ceremony, Seth and I were standing just off the dance floor when the band took a break. Eliza was falling asleep in a backpack on my back and I gently moved my hips to the familiar synthesizers of the hip hop coming from someone’s ipod.
“Does the name Sir Mixalot mean anything to you?” I asked Seth.
“No,” he said with a look that said even more. It was an I-had-far-better-things-to-do-with-my-youth-than-listen-to-cheesy-hip-hop kind of look and I knew it all too well.
“Did you own Thriller? The album that folded out with Michael Jackson dressed in white with that cat or tiger or whatever? Do you even know what Thriller is?” I asked.
“Yes, I know what Thriller is,” he said. “I just didn’t think it was that good.” [Read More]