My Brain

It’s 3 a.m.

I’m still at work.

I think the worst part about this schedule is the fact that I’m missing so much quality TV. I mean, the new season of Queer Eye started, and I’ve missed every body waxing they’ve had so far. And I’m missing that new show Dancing With The Stars, which sounds just horrible enough for me to LOVE it. From my understanding these "Stars" (aka people whose careers have hit such a lull that waltzing seems like a good career move) get together with professional dancers and learn how to shake their groove thing. And then they perform in sequins and high heels. This all screams Dirty Dancing (minus Patrick Swayze and probably the sex too) and I can’t believe I’m missing it. Of course without Patrick Swayze and the sex I can’t imagine it’s nearly as good.

And then there is this show called Hit Me Baby One More Time wherein one hit wonders sing their one hit and then some other song. Or something. All I need to know about this show is that Tiffany was on it. That’s it. I’m sold. I still have my Tiffany tape from elementary school. And I still know all the moves to the choreographed dance routine we did to her song in the talent show. I can’t believe I missed my chance to hear her sweet songs once again. Damn movie making!

But I guarantee I would love Hit Me Baby One More Time. And I guarantee I would know every word to every one of the songs. Because that is the information my brain deems important – song lyrics. Why couldn’t it be physics that my brain absorbs? Or maybe even the periodic table? But no.

I found my old Alanis Morresette CD the other day. I listened to that CD for a good year straight when I was in high school. Alanis was my girl. She was angry and screaming and had one hand in her pocket and the other one giving a high five. Alas, I lost touch with Alanis and haven’t listened to the CD in a good 5 years or so. But the second I popped in the CD it all came back to me and I could remember EVERY single word. And those of you who know Alanis’ songs know that she is VERY wordy.

Do I stress you out
My sweater is on backwards and inside out
And you say howowow appropriate
I don't want to dissect everything today
I don't mean to pick you apart you see
But I cayayayan't help it
There I go jumping before the gunshot has gone off
Slap me with a splintered ruler
And it would knock me to the floor if I wasn't there already
If only I could hunt the hunter

Yet I know no geography past Nevada.

And then I found my CD with my Salt n’ Peppa song on it.

You’re packed and you’re stacked
‘Specially in the back
Brother want to thank your mother
For a butt like that
Can I get some fries
With that shake shake booty
If looks could kill
You would be an oozy
You’re a shot gun – Bang
up with that thing?
I want to know, how does it hang?
Straight up, wait up, hold up Mr. Lover,
Like Prince said you’re a sexy mother
Well I like them real wild
B-boy style by the mile
Smooth black skin with a smile
Bright as the sun
Wanna have some fun?
Come and give me some of that yum yum
Chocolate chip, honey dip, can I get a scoop?
Baby take a ride in my Coupe
Makes want to Shoop.

Yet I know no world history before like, oh, 1985. And even then it’s only the history that they bothered to make TV movies out of.

I could, if forced to, sing the entire Broadway musical RENT from start to finish. But I have somehow misplaced four years worth of Spanish classes and can now only say, "Donde esta el bano?" Which, actually, gets you most of the information you need.

Do you suppose if my teachers sang their lesson plans I would have remembered them? Or maybe if they added some dance numbers? If they had just taken that little bit of effort I could have been the one to be on Jeopardy for two months straight instead of the dorky guy. Instead I’d be lucky to qualify on Fear Factor.

So is the joy of my brain.