Chromeo, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, and Flo Rida
Guest author Strummer LaVassar
As punishment for ruining morning snuggle time (for you non-breeders, it's the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 in the a.m. when the 'rents are still sleepy and I get to hang in the big bed and watch Sesame Street) by cold clocking mommy upside her face with the remote control, I have to use my timeout to write this blog post.
I don't regret it and will probably do it again because: a) I have another year before I develop impulse control; and b) let's face facts: sometimes a baby's gotta smack a bitch.
Even though I'm not yet two, Yo Gabba Gabba has taught me about sharing, eating my vegetables and now the importance of hipster hygiene.
The key is to only look like you smell.
Mommy saw some band called the First Communion Afterparty at SXSW and now she's always loading the machine with these shiny, silver discs that aren't my Elmo movies, dancing around our kitchen like a doped-up spaz and raving all about "partying with the BJM" back in the day.
As much as I love her, sometimes mommy is an acronym-heavy, name-dropping heiress to the Massengill fortune.
Though we only really listen to this song in the car, it's MY JAM! I do a mean car seat bop. It involves rolling your neck side to side, working your shoulders back and forth, shakin' that diapie and kicking out the beat on the seat in front of you. Every time it ends, I have to shout "again, again, again". Fortunately, due to the current depravity of commercial radio, around 12 minutes later my wish is obliged and I'm getting my groove back on. Oh, here we go now! "Apple Bottom jeans, boots with the fur".....