Sex and the Radio: A Weekend With 97.9 The Box
For those who may not know, being a blogger and writer also means you sort of have to support yourself with a 9-5. Some chose teaching, others chose busting their ass at a prospective company.
Usher & Rick Ross.
Somehow I chose to be a town-car driver. An entrepreneur, a goddamn transporter of people. There are perks here and there, most notably the one where I get to be a certified night owl on the weekends and can seemingly laugh at those with regular 9-5s but aside from that it's a suit, a tie and a badge, dealing with the other side of airport security.
Since such a chosen life derails me from becoming the next (insert big-name writer here) and since I'm confined to the front seat of a car, I have few options for entertainment. Either it's sports talk or the music stations across town.
I decided to torture -- wait, let me say this correctly -- endure myself to one particular station for 48 hours during this past weekend, one that saw me awake at 4 a.m. and go to sleep around 1 a.m. the next night.
Yes, my job sort of sucks in the most awesome way.
4:30 a.m. (Saturday): On cue, I'm listening to 97.9. I have to be in the Med Center at 5 to take a woman back to IAH. She was sweet earlier this week, becoming the first customer I've ever had to tip me in Chick-Fil-A. Sorry, food goes a long way with this line of work.
Almost immediately I'm slapped in the face with Usher and Rick Ross' "Lemme See." I'm not immediately shocked considering Usher has the No. 1 album in the country, but good Lord, it's 4:30 a.m. -- the last thing I want to think about is Rick Ross' man-boobs sauntering in the air while around guy sings about his shirt off.
6 a.m.: Drake. I'm sitting at the airport by now, half sleep and then I hear the awkward crooning of Drake telling me something. I think it's "Take Care" with Rihanna. Somewhere a house DJ is still spinning this record to a thousand fist-pumps. Me? I'm sitting in a car wondering why in the hell is he damn-near whispering about being a shoulder for some woman. The Drake Whisperer.
7:15 a.m.: Ah, 2 Chainz. The aura of Teta Chico in the morning feels a bit weird. Like, he's the perfect club rapper: Nonsensical at times, yet fluent in crafting meme-worthy lyrics. Here's "No Lie" for example: "Got your car note in my cup, and your rent in my Swisher!" Exquisite.
Also, Drake's here as well, although he's not whispering at all. He's more purring and braggadocio about treating Grammy winners like nominees. I doubt he's ever had a sex with a woman who was India Arie and then treated her like Katy Perry.
I'm sleepy. We'll restart this in an hour.
8:15 a.m.: I'm awake. The car is cued back to 97.9. Oh shit, it's Waka Flocka Flame's "No Hands." This early? I mean, I'm all for strippers but at this point I'd be downing my Dreams of Houston sorrows in some Waffle House.
8:22 a.m.: - It's taken all of four hours of this experiment to hear a Beyoncé song. And it's "Love On Top," arguably the happiest, kindest and most gentle song she's ever done. Or in fact, in the annals of human history. I dare you not to want to dance to this record, period. Shame on you, 97.9, for making me wait this long.
8:30 a.m.: Holy diversity, they're playing the Justin Bieber "Boyfriend" remix. Or the moment where Justin Bieber's reverse-crossover move results in a faux "Like I Love You." 2 Chainz is here again, I think he'll be here a good damn while too, so is Mac Miller (who sounds like Justin Bieber if he were rapping (odd).
For the record, I like adult Bieber. His fans are still maniacal but he's still a swaggy little kid. Oh crap, I said swaggy. Time to move on.
10:00 a.m.: Usher and Rick Ross. Again. Shit.