Dear Window Pane, Do You Remember...

Our first year of grad school I was madly in love with Missy Elliot's "Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)." I just adored that song. So, imagine if you will, a rainy night in a small North Carolina city famous for tobacco, and Miss J and I and a couple of other folks are sitting in a hundred year old house just at the foot of the same interstate that runs by my house now. The floorboards were creaky and the front of the house seemed to sag in the direction of the big front windows, under which were hundreds of records. The kid who was housesitting pulled one out and dropped the needle on the record and, at first, there was just that familiar hiss and crackle, and then "I can't stand the rain, against my window." Wow. Ann Peebles. Not just the sample that Elliot uses, but the whole damn song. It's a sad song, at least the lyrics are sad. But the horns let you know that there's something else going on--defiance, anger, and, deeper than that. . . movement. I hear that song, and I want to move. I want to drum my fingers on my steering wheel. I want to pull cute boys close and let one hand rest on their shoulder and let the other just sway by my side. I want to walk towards the kitchen to get another glass of wine and, as I'm walking by Miss J. I want her to take my hand and spin me around once and then let me go on my way. How can a song that has lyrics more fitting for laying alone on your bed in the dark make you have to dance? I don't know, but it's incredible.