Every morning, I drive 40 minutes to work. This would normally be much more tolerable than it actually is, had my coffee not attacked my CD player early one day, and left me with mere radio as my sole companion. Rhonda the Honda, being the base model that she is, gets about 5 stations, and my commute is filled with a medley of soft rock, hardcore rap, and gospel.
On most mornings, I devise little games to entertain myself. My favorite game is when I pretend I'm in a music video, to whatever song happens to be on KOIT. This morning, that song was "Ain't Nobody", by Chaka Khan. This, being one of my favorite songs EVER, meant my twisted, psychotic pretend video had to rock. Don't worry. It did.
When I'm pretending I'm in a video, I'm not driving my car in the video. I'm in leather pants, I have a posse of scantily clad vixens, I kick men out of my way with my stiletto sling backs.
Oh, and I actually sing out loud. And by sing, I mean I belt it.
So, here I am, driving down Lombard Street, singing at the top of my lungs, hair flips abound, lost in my own vocal stylings and improvised riffs, and pretending I'm driving a Vanquish through the foggy streets of Manhattan.
Approaching a red light poses an interesting dilemma. I can’t just stop. I’m too invested. I’m lost in the music, the strobe lights, the dry ice machine. Red lights can't stop my video. I fall further into the fantasy.
“Now, we’re flying through the stars, I hope this night will last forever. Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh…”
And with this last key change, I turn towards the camera (driver’s side window) and open my eyes. Stopped next to me is a Land Rover filled with hot Marina yuppie scum, all staring at me. They’re not laughing. This is beyond merely singing along with the radio. This is beyond charmingly quirky. I can see it in their eyes. This is sad.
Suddenly, I was back in San Francisco, is my ghetto little car, feeling like a jackass.
I wish I had thrown a lit cigarette in their precious Rover. I wish I had laughed in their suburban Caucasian faces. I wish I had cranked up the Chaka, crawled on top of the car, and continued my video, before God and everyone.
But I didn’t. I sank in my seat, changed the station to some dreadful Usher song about impregnating people, and prayed for a green light.
The worst thing about this is, my retarded pretend Chaka Khan video is a million times cooler than the 1997 episode of Suddenly Susan they were obviously pretending to be in. And I’m the one that felt like an idiot.
I’m being judged by a 35 year old man with highlights, and I’m the loser.