Megan Stielstra's Blog

So we're stopped at a red light and the car next to us is all bumpin' bass (apparently, there's a bumpin' bass song which sampled my beloved Nancy Sinatra. The one from Kill Bill that goes: bang bang, I shot him dead, bang bang. You know it. Now it's a rap song, like how Eminem used that Eighties song I love, Toy Solider. By Martika. Yeah). Boom-boom-booming bass and my car is vibrating, it's so damn loud. I am vibrating, like I put a quarter in the passenger seat (has anyone ever been in one of those put-a-quater-in-the-bed vibrating beds? Are they as fun as I imagine them to be?). So anyhow, the bass is boom-booming and Nancy's bang-banging and then (hee hee) Christopher reaches over and turns our stereo on as high as it can go. Our stereo is set on NPR. The news is on. They're talking about the pope. We sit there, in all our dorky glory, nodding our heads to the news like it's the kickin'-est of all ass-kicking rockin'-out "Ain't this the shit!" shit. "Papal authorities have informed us that ... " BOOM-BOOM-BOOM " ... I shot my baby dead. Yeah-yeah ... " BOOM-BOOM. I smile my big, goofy smile at the guy with the bass (so obviously he can't be pissed at us for interrupting his groove, I mean, how can anyone be pissed at my big goofy smile?) and think, for about the thousandth time, that my boyfriend is the coolest guy in the universe.