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Sunday, May 28, 2006

Random childhood memory:

I am somewhere between the ages of 10 and 13. Mom is driving me and my sister home in the Astro van. Houston traffic is hot and slow and terrible. Mom's new-age music is playing softly. The air-conditioning doesn't work, and the windows are down. We're puttering along at about 15 miles an hour. A giant sparkly green lowrider creeps up on my side, blaring graphic bass-filled gangsta rap. I study the car, fascinated. Mom hates it when cars blare their music so loudly. I hope she'll ignore them.

She doesn't. Looking over, she notices the car. One of the guys in the car notices her.

"How nice of them to share their music with us!" mom says. She cranks up the new-age music as loud as the Astro van's speakers will take it.

"Whoo!" she yells.

"God, mom! Stop it!" I plead.

At this point, everyone in the passing lowrider is staring at my mom, who is dancing wildly to synthesizers and bird sounds. The guys chuckle, and they pass us. I want to die.1

1In retrospect, I suppose this was entirely possible, since my mom was a hardcore Blood, and these guys appeared to be Crips.


Blogger Cibbuano said...

your family sounds like the family of that Running with Scissors guy.

6:32 PM  

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