Don't get me wrong here, I love quality time with the girls. A carful of talkative women isn't exactly my "happy place"on a sunday evening, but then again from their perspective, either is a barbecue-scented chauffer with a pension for changing lanes at high speeds. All things considered, this sunday was a successful trip. Nobody lost their tempers, everyone made it home.
I'm used to these trips. I'm used to carfuls of women, who like to sing top-forty radio and discuss fashion, ice cream, airfare, dream trips, plans for christmas this year, and their favorite Madona song at age sixteen. I may not be able to relate or understand on all levels, but that street goes both ways with all the shit I talk about. As long as we can keep the radio dialed to a volume of at least medium-low, I can make do. Shit I can make more than do, I'll be downright fucking pleasant. The ladies get to wind down from a weekend of good ol' christian sin and sun, and I get to hum my way through 3+ hours of poor Long Island driving and congestion. What I'm saying is, the system works.
But just when I thought we had amicably agreed upon the terms of travel, Kimi decided to throw me a curve. I could never hit the curve. You see, Kim's sister Sara busted out the old CD collection form Highschool (you know, Salt N' Peppa, Elton John, Garbage, Hole, Dixie Chicks, the Tank Girl soundtrack) as it is after all her car. And when the collective was just not feeling it, she took to the spotify app. Short of my own Ipod, you can't beat that. Now the hits were rolling, and I was making time.
At some point Sara lost the will to make decisions on the music, and looked for suggestions. I felt things were going well, so I kept my mouth shut. There were a couple of nice Jackson Five tunes, and some Amy Winehouse thrown in, so it was looking good. But about 20 minutes from the midtown tunnel, Kimi, the love of my life, screwed me. The next four words she said... oh, how they felt like a slow and painful stab to my middle (reference Saving Private Ryan), or a cigarette slowly put out on my forehead. Dramatic? No. For if you were in my shoes, you would understand the hell brought upon my very life. "What about Disney Songs?" she said.
Well I'll tell you what about Disney songs. It's scary what you remember from your childhood without realizing it. It was almost Pavlovian, and I was frightened beyond belief. First came "Under The Sea," from the 1989 Disney animated classic The Little Mermaid. Adapted from the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, something tells me the film took a few liberties. Sebastian the all-too-cliche Jamaican Red Crab was the balladeer of this Academny Award winning Best Original Song. Voiced by Samuel E. Wright (who also played Mufasa in The Lion King), it is a Caribbean performance of the gayest kind. And I mean that by both the colloquial/slang and "joyful" definitions. First, I found myself reciting the opening lines in my head. I thought to myself, "Jumpsuit, how do you know these words? How can you possibly remember?" Then by the second turn of the chorus, there I was, lightly mouthing "Under the sea (under the sea), Under the sea (under the sea)," fake Jamaican accent and all. I felt guilt for the undoubted shame my father would have if he saw me. Thelonious Ignacious Crustaceous Sebastian the Jamaican Red Crab, had brought to light a horrifying truth; I still remembered Disney Songs.
"Le Poissons" was next. Sara knew this one phrase for phrase, and belted it out with the strength of ten choruses. Thank science she's got a good voice. I remember the scene so vividly, as that chef scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. There I am, six years old thinking this mad frenchman is going to kill off Sebastian, the beloved tritagonist. It was also my first lesson in film: if someones going to die, the black guy goes first. Even Disney was ingraining this in my generation from a very young age.
Fearing for my sanity at this point, and still remembering the songs note for note with the images of the corresponding scenes flashing frame by frame through my mind, we entered the Midtown tunnel. Sara had by this point summoned "Poor Unfortunate Souls"to the airwaves which, Laura proceeded to belt out directly behind my head. And that was my breaking point. The rest is hazy as I was delusional, and had suffered a massive ear-raping, but I'm pretty sure The Lion King and Aladdin both made appearances. When I finally got home and into my apartment, I showered immediately. Then I kissed my girlfriend to make sure I still liked it, and filed the night in the drawer of repressed memories. The only question now, is do I leave proof of its existence here?
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