Whether whips and chains excite me is exactly NONE of your business. Tipper, you win.

We've been spending a lot of time in the car, listening to the radio. Radio on Maui is pretty limited - we have a few amazing DJ's who really put their heart into it and support local musicians as well - which is fabulous. And every day, it's getting better - MUCH better. A landmark day for me was the morning that I heard Mumford and Son's for the first time while taking the kids to school. Blew my mind. The music, and also that I had heard it on a fairly sedate station that usually plays a lot of classic rock. The times, they are a-changing.

But a lot of it is still pretty lame. And heavy on the ukulele and the reggae.

So when we got to my hometown on the East Coast, I tuned the dial to the station I listened to most as a teenager. The one where you could call up and get on the air and make an attempt to be witty and coy with a bored DJ who is stuck there until midnight fielding calls from giggling 13 year olds. Mostly top-40, nothing too groundbreaking, and you hear a lot of the same songs over and over and over again. I wanted to know what the kids were listening to these days.

After a few weeks of hearing the same 40 songs in heavy rotation, I found myself humming along, really listening to the lyrics for the first time.

Houston, we have a problem.

I hate to say anything, because I am all about freedom of speech and I still think of Tipper Gore as that uptight bitch who tried to ruin music for everyone. One of my favorite songs in highschool was the Anthrax song with the chorus that began: "you fucking whore". I am not uptight, about music or much else, actually. A little OCD, sure. But I can live and let live.

However, my living has been dialed back a bit, now that I have kids of a certain age. Now that my 6 year old daughter keeps singing Katy Perry and Lady Gaga songs in the bathtub, I am starting to FREAK OUT A LITTLE BIT. I am just waiting for the day that she prances out of her room covered in roast beef from the deli drawer. The photos in my people magazine make it clear that life without MTV is a very good thing while my kids are young. I just don't want to answer their questions yet. I'm not ready. And what's more - I don't know the answers. However, because we are not living in a bubble, and because I am not going to listen to Raffi for one more minute of my life, it's getting harder to avoid addressing some stuff I would rather not address at the present time. This point was hammered home during a recent drive to Target.

I was cruising along the highway, listening to a catchy little tune by Rhiannon, when it hit me like that 18 wheeler that was passing me on the right. (Which, by the way, is a post for another time.)

Now, of course, I had heard a bit of the hype about her latest hit. Something about it being gratuitous and overtly sexual. And I thought "Whatever. Get over it. Call Tipper Gore, I'm sure she'll lend you her ear." I am an independent woman. A free thinker. I say "fuck" all day long and I can't see that changing anytime soon. I can handle some song about sex sung by that cute little Rhiannon. And since she is still linked to the terrible incident with that ex-boyfriend of heres, how bad could it be, right? She's JUST SO SWEET.

And then Rhiannon told me that sex was in the air and she loved the smell of it, and I stopped singing along.

Frantically, I tried to think of other words I could possibly sing instead, so that my daughter could grow up with the same skewed version of song lyrics that I did. (I mean, honestly - do you know the actual lyrics to "Iko Iko?" OF COURSE YOU DON'T.) Then while my mind was still reeling, Rhiannon informed my 6 year old that whips and chains excited her, and Lucy's eyes grew round. "WHAT DID SHE SAY?" Lucy's mouth was hanging open in the backseat. Max looked up from his video game. "What? What did she say?"

Great. Now I have the hormonal, prepubescent boy tuned in too. That is wonderful. This is just great. And Rhiannon WOULD NOT SHUT UP. She repeated herself, in case my children might have missed it the first time.

Just to be clear.

Just in case there was any question in their formerly innocent little minds.

I changed the station - which is exactly what I had suggested Tipper and all the other complainers should do. Don't like it? Change the channel. And I did. But there were still questions coming fast and furious from the backseat. And I will tell you right now - I had no idea what to say. Frankly, I was still trying to come to terms with the time warp I had just traveled - I was now the grownup, completely freaked out by graphic lyrics? HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED.

A few minutes later, we went back to the radio station, and thankfully, another song was on. Apparently, this clown woke up with a tattoo that looked like Zach Galifianakis. I just shook my head. You had to admire the brass balls of writing those words - never mind having them rhyme.What the HELL rhymes with "Galifianakis"? "Pocket", apparently. The fact that I have now heard this song approximately 6 THOUSAND TIMES IN TWO WEEKS says a lot about the music playing on top 40. Super catchy, but these lyrics are going to put me in an early grave. I think I am going to start a satellite radio station - because this is too nuts for terrestrial radio - where I edit all the song lyrics and play these hits - over and over again - in a vacuum of G-rated lovliness. (No g-strings required, thanks.)

As I was dreaming of what a huge market I could reach, intentionally misinterpreting hit songs for the masses, another song came on. This one is celebrating laziness, by telling us, in chilling detail, exactly what goes on behind closed doors when a guy is home alone. I think we all know what happens and frankly I think men should attempt to keep this on the down-low. Because honestly? It's just not that attractive, what you all do when you think no one is watching. And this song celebrates every disgusting detail. "Turn the TV on, throw my hand in my pants.....cause in my castle I'm the freaking maaaan."

Well. You just keep telling yourself that, chief. You tell me you're going to find a really nice girl and have some really nice sex - but really nice girls don't want you singing about it on the radio. And they certainly don't want the sounds that they make broadcast for all to hear. My 10 year old thought it was hysterical, however. Thanks for that. Here's a hot tip for you - if some girl is screaming out "This is great" during sex, than you are either 1. paying her or 2. doing it wrong. Because I have had some great sex - and I have never screamed out anything coherent, ever, when it was any good at all. But I guess that would really rhyme with p90x, would it? And what exactly is that, anyway? Is it like Viagra? because honestly, I would be advertising that either, man.

I cannot believe I am going to say this, but it's true. I miss "Baby Beluga". I really, really do.

This is why I shouldn't be allowed out

Went to visit a friend today, and while I was sitting on her sofa having a lengthy discussion about whether she was going to buy a bigger car - and if so, which one she should buy - her husband came home from work. I had met him at least once before, but it had been a brief meeting and he certainly wasn't expecting to find me on his sofa. His sofa, after all, is a long way away from Hawaii.

I smiled and waved. "Hi, nice to see you again - sorry, was I parked in your spot?"

He smiled and closed the door. "Hi, yes, nice to see you." He paused. "Do you have an accent?"

I was confused for a moment, and he seemed confused too - he was standing there in the doorway looking at me, waiting for an answer, and then suddenly it clicked. I get this a lot, actually. I have this feather hair extension, and at least once a day someone will ask me what that is in my hair. Is it a highlight? A clip? A barrette? I mean, it was sort of unusual for someone's husband to notice, and no one had ever called it an accent, but hey - he's married and has 3 daughters. Maybe he notices these sorts of things? Sure, I have an accent!

"It's feathers" I explained. "Braided into my ha-" "No, honey" his wife spoke almost simultaneously, as we both looked even more confused than before. "An ACCENT."

"Oh." I paused for a second. What had we been taking about? Oh yes, the car. Parked in his spot. But it wasn't a Hyundai Accent, it was an SUV. How weird. Had we been talking about Hyundais? No, definitely not. Huh. Was there one in their driveway? Who the hell parked an Accent in their driveway? "OH. Sorry, no, I don't have an Accent, I have the green S-"

"NO." Now, she was laughing at me, and I was completely confused. What the fuck was going on? The husband was still standing in the doorway, and now he was looking at his wife as if to say "Your friend, here? Is a moron."

And really, who could blame him. But wait a minute.

DID HE JUST ASK IF I HAD AN ACCENT?

Oh, if only I had some exotic accent.

Or a Hyundai.

But no. If I understood his question - which now, I think, I finally do - the "accent" is part Rhode Island, part Boston, part Texan (don't ask, but he was a cute boy who left his, um, mark, as it were - a mark that also includes a secret love of country music) and part island pidgin.
I don't pee, I shishi.
I'm not done, I'm pau.
Futhahmoah, I pahk my cah, and I like my cawfee extrah extrah (extra cream, extra sugar).

In short, when I open my mouth to speak, you honestly have NO IDEA how I will mangle what is going to come out. But now? I am intrigued. And so, in the interests of maintaining an air of mystery, I am now going to develop my "accent" even further, so that when I return to Hawaii I can really wow them with my missing r's and lilting "ayuh"s and any other wicked pissah shite I can scrounge up to keep them guessing.

Meanwhile, I'm taking this damn feather hair extension out. I'm tired of explaining it to people.