A couple of weeks ago, my friends Lara and Steve came into San Francisco for a little business and pleasure. Wait, that doesn’t sound right; Steve was in town for a work thing and Lara had decided to join him since she’s a writer and can do her work thing from anywhere.
Cristoph, Isabelle and I—who live outside the city—drove in together to meet our friends for dinner. We lucked out and found parking in front of the hotel, but we were unlucky in that I was driving and the parking spot was a parallel job on the left side of the street. I’m actually not bad at parallel parking, but for some reason I can’t parallel on the left side to save my life. Maybe it’s due to the fact that I’m dyslexic, or maybe it’s due to the fact that I have horrible depth perception. Either way, after one attempt I swiftly gave up. My eyes were filled with humiliation when I looked in the rear view mirror and asked Christoph if he’d hop out and park the stupid car for me. Shocked, he obliged and hung his head in shame for me as he saved me from this embarrassing parking peril.
In front of Lara’s hotel, I texted her to let her know we’d arrived. Once she came down, we headed out to find Steve. Together, we walked to the bar at which he told Lara he’d be. We were all thinking of grabbing a drink at this place before moving on to a restaurant for dinner, but our plan was abruptly foiled the moment we arrived.
This bar was smaller than it looked from the outside and it felt as if we were reenacting scenes from a crowded subway car, in Tokyo, during rush hour as we stood there chatting awkwardly. Frustrated with the lack of breathing room, it almost seemed as if we’d all simultaneously–and silently–agreed that we wouldn’t stay long. Turns out, we were all to old to be standing around like sardines, drinking overpriced drinks and struggling to hear one another speak. Fuck. That. Noise.
Now that we had Steve with us, and he’d had a chance to close out his tab at this tiny joint, we made our way back outside. The restaurant that Lara wanted to go to was nearby, so we started walking. Even though it was a particularly chilly night, we were having a good time roaming the streets in the wind.
I’m not sure what we were talking about when it happened, but I’m pretty sure we were laughing and having a good time when it went down. What I’m damn sure of is that at some point on our walk from the mini bar to the more spacious watering hole, this song popped into my head for the 1,000th time.
“Talk Dirty” has been stuck in my head for some time now. To be honest, I don’t even know where I first heard the song. All I know is that I resented its catchiness the moment the melody first invaded my ear holes. I was initially put off by the tune because I knew this song would inevitably play in my head, on repeat, for months to come. My mind is a lot like the radio in that when it hears a song it likes, it plays it over & over again, until I want to perforate my eardrums with dull, No. 2 pencils.
I must admit that while the song itself is ridiculous and the lyrics are inane, it’s fun as fuck. As a matter of fact, I’m chair dancing to it right now, as I type. Aside from this song playing in my head constantly, there’s one other thing that bugs me about it, and I was glad it occurred to me while I had Lara around to hear out my rationale.
Sometimes, when I bring random stuff up—like my concerns about “Talk Dirty”—to other people, they fail to see the humor and my soul dies a little. It’s very sad really, so I usually keep these musings to myself. Today, however, I had the opportunity to think out loud with a likeminded pal and I wasn’t about to waste it.
“Have you heard that song that goes, ‘Been around the world, don’t speak the language, but your booty don’t need explaining?’” I sang-asked Lara. She looked at me, laughed and then nodded vigorously. “OMG,” I blurted out, “It’s been stuck in my head for-fucking-ever and that’s the only part I know. I don’t even know the name of the song. All I hear in my head is, ‘been around the world, don’t speak the language, but your booty don’t need explaining,’” over & over again.
That was when I sprang it on Lara—my main concern with this jam. I slowed my pace, as we were still walking briskly to the restaurant. Then, with sincere concern, I said, “I feel like the booty always needs explaining. When you don’t explain, that’s when you get the herp. No one wants the herp, ergo you should always explain the booty.”
Lara pondered for just a moment and then proceeded to do something of a hybrid between nodding her head at me (in ernest agreement) and shaking her head at me (in comedic disbelief). What matters is that she understood where I was coming from and agreed.
So there you have it, my advice this week and forevermore:
The booty always needs explaining because, ultimately, you never know where the booty’s been.