Welcome to the first in a blog post series called "The Problem With..." where we'll immerse ourselves in pop music, tackle a noteworthy piece of the racket, and tell you why it sucks.
So. Ke$ha's kind of a catchy musician. And she wants me to tag along to some party? Looking back, I should have seen the signs: This party would turn out to be all kinds of wrong...
It all sounded so promising: She's got this song
with a title that may even reference one of the Wizard of Oz book's sequels! I'm thinking, "Here's this woman
who reads--and she must like video games!" Or so I though, because all I kept hearing was some 8-bit noises in the background somewhere.
Even her drunken enunciation that I first mistook for an ethnic accent was also a good pitch--ethnic parties tend to have better music.
Only, turns out, she was actually drunk. And she kept saying weird things. Like this: "The dudes are lining up cause they hear we got swagger / But we kick em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger."
And, like most guys, I don't.
And then she explicitly asked the DJ to ruin the party's sound system ("Boys blowing up our phones, phones... DJ, blow my speakers up")? Guys who were not getting any attention from the hostess started detonating random electronic equipment just to get Ke$ha to pay attention.
As if my weird name and dark complexion weren't enough reason, suddenly, my associating with these sex-starved bomb makers has likely entered me into a terrorism investigation as a person if interest.
And Ke$ha didn't even care. Literally: "Ain't got a care in world, but got plenty of beer / Ain't got no money in my pocket, but I'm already here."
Bitch expects me to front her bills! I guess I should've seen that coming, what with that dollar sign in her name. I loosely recall a modern lyricist who shares my subsequent thoughts on this matter: "She will not likely fraternize with a plebeian Moor," or something like that...
And now Ke$ha just won't shut up: "Tonight, I'mma fight 'til we see the sunlight."
I'm supposed to be all gentlemanly as Ke$sha started fights with everyone the whole rest of the night? Most parties tend to burn out irrecoverably after a fight ends--because everyone just keeps talking about it.
Long story short: I got beat up by Ke$ha. I guess I learned a valuable lesson of combat against West-Coast party girls; either you run away, or you take it. In an attempt to maintain the moral high ground as a male in this gender-varied match, I struggled to remember any Aikido moves I learned in my youth. Aikido is a peacenik form of Japanese martial arts where you direct the attacker's momentum to subdue but not harm the attacker. I learned that night that Aikido, while predicated on good intentions, has limitations. Safe takedowns will do harm in a crowded living room with empty bottles on the floor, so arm-locks were the only option in this fight.
When I locked one of her lanky arms behind her back, she dislocated her shoulder, turned around, and unleashed a torrent of strikes to my face and nether regions. Her thinly-insulated bones struck more painfully than than any male, beefcake fist out in the world.
The moral of this story: When Ke$ha fights, you will get put down.
And then the police will, apparently: "Police shut us down, down..."
And shut us down, down, they do, do. Movies may make party-hopping after a bust look fun and adventurous, but, know what? It's not. You're outside in the cold, paranoid that the police will pursue you, and your friend doesn't remember where the next house party is.
Fine, let's go to a bar. And try to drink this memory away. Because, let's face it, this night sucked. To sum up: I got beat up by an intoxicated girl, was snubbed for the unreasonable standard of Mick Jagger and I may have my identity entered in to a terror watch list for associating with bombers. Worst of all, there was no Nintendo to play and Ke$ha hates books.