Seeing Rock on the Side... Hip-hop is gettin' jealous

I am rolling along in my 1992 Dodge Caravan. My little van, I refer to her as Etta Mae, rolled off the assembly line at the height of the hip hop era, the early 90s. Etta may even score some cool points in a grassroots kind of way. I like to imagine the group Tribe called Quest would have scrawled love epithets on her sides and ridden her over to the mythical Bonita Applebaum’s house before heading to a show at Madison Square. De La Soul would have piled on in along with rapper Too Short, and DJ KRS one. We would have had a party beat-boxing down the road rebirthing slick as we drew stares from folks who just couldn’t get it. Etta Mae is white with large rust spots in the original exterior paint, there is a primer painted trunk lid picked up from a junkyard and put on by my fiancé and his dad one lazy Saturday afternoon to replace the original trunk that a distracted driver on a cell phone in his car dented at a stoplight. She’s also a family car, meaning that hoochies and video hos’ are not allowed. I have two babies in the back middle seat and at times there are goldfish crackers and Thomas the Tank engine books tossed about. The entire interior is a conglomerate of torn carpet, aging upholstery and rusting mechanical ligaments that get me from point A to point B. She is old. She would never pass muster with modern hip hop. She doesn’t have any bling. Ahh..

I don’t use my AC because I am afraid that some invisible noxious fumes issuing from it might kill my little canaries as they bicker and slurp juice from their sippy cups. The cool air just isn’t worth the level of anxiety. Therefore you can spot me from National City to Escondido and all points between pushing my geriatric whip [car] with the windows rolled down and my stereo bumping loud melodies. I used to spend my days as I ran errands pushing buttons between the three hip-hop stations in my burg humming along to the constantly regurgitated playlist, this has changed.

It began slowly with a meandering search across the airwaves for something that fit my mood one afternoon. I was feeling low key, less bravado, more ...floating on a pink cotton candy cloud. The momentum of the change gathered speed when more troubling events occurred. There was the anecdotal evidence that my son began to provide. Instead of singing warbled versions of Raffi like most two year olds, he began to sing about strippers sliding down poles with no panties on. One can only imagine the tragically comic picture of a toddler dancing in their nonsensical way while singing, “She had boots with the fur, she got low low low… she ridin she ridin.. she slid her booty down the pole…” Yeah, yeah...I know...my thoughts exactly. My son did not learn this medley in an obscure den of iniquity. He did not find a secret adult stash in my home or watch late night cable TV. My son heard these songs in the middle of the day on one of the popular San Diego hip-hop radio stations owned by broadcasting corporation, Clear Channel.

More and more I found myself switching the channel to the two alternative San Diego rock stations. There is the well known 91.1 which I believe has some ties to the corporate thief of souls, Clear channel. Then there’s 94.9 which is not only newer but is trying to remain close with their independent roots. I've begun to take especial comfort in a segment on 94.9 in the evenings called “Big Sonic Chill” which featured little known acoustic and electrical selections.

I feel like I'm cheating on hip-hop or doing something incredibly naughty every time that I mosey over to the rock side of things...but hey at least I don't feel like I have to wash my kids' ears out with soap each time that we listen...I don't know, I guess I love hip-hop and rap enough to remember the days back when the artists were actually talking about something beyond what happened at the strip club last night and how much money they have...yeah well, that's my piece. Word!(hehe)