Mature Music Tastes

It was indeed with a heavy heart that I googled it: “Porno Graffiti.” I have started asking some of my kids what kind of music they are into. I have almost entirely given up on the girls as they spew forth candy sounding JPOP sweetness that is as about as appealing to me as an enema or a shampoo cocktail.

Occasionally a girl will ask me if I know of something as mainstream as the Black Eyed Peas or Ashley Simpson.

“What’s your favorite song?” I ask one girl.

“MY HUMP! MY HUMP! MY HUMP!” She responds enthusiastically.

Ah, the old classic “My Hump.”

In my need to better the world and expand the vocabulary of these children beyond phrases such as, “My name is Keiko,” “My favorito foodo is rice” and “I don’to knowo,” I desperately want to sit her down and explain the etymology of the phrase “my hump.” If the etymology of such vulgar slang does not excite or interest her as it should, then at the very least she should know what it means. The lack of curiosity in some of these children startles and saddens me.

The boys will sometimes come up with something I can recognize – perhaps some generic pop punk band from California; the kind of band whose shirt one can find in any old Hot Topic at the local mall next to that cute little nasty bunny that hates everything. At least I know what they’re talking about and my ancient twenty-one year old self can again feel hip, down and connected to the immature Japanese youth.

“So what kind of music do you guys like?”
“JPOP.”
“Ah. I see. Well, what’s the name of your favorite band?”
“Poruno Gurabiti.”
“… I beg your pardon?”
“Po-ru-no Gu-ra-bi-ti.”
“… I’m sorry. Can you please write that down for me?”
Porno Graffity

My eyebrows lift slightly. I look at him to see if there’s any indication that he understands what he has just written down. He looks back at me with big innocent brown eyes.

Right. Porno Graffiti. According to a quick google search that involved some sorting through, the band picked the name in the hopes that it’d have an ‘impact.’ Impact, no doubt, upon unsuspecting foreigners who ask innocuous questions to little, angelic-looking, fifteen-year-old boys. Once again the urge to ask these kids if they understand these words welled up inside of me.

But then it occurred to me – what if they asked the knowledgeable New Yorker to explain, or worse yet, to draw them a demonstrative picture, or act it out in a friendly game of charades.

I stopped mid-sentence, swallowed the lump in the back of my throat and let it slide.

“Porno Graffiti. Of course, well thank you for the lovely recommendation.”

I’m thinking maybe I should burn him a New Pornographers CD. At least he’ll be able to pronounce it and perhaps it will teach him that the word can be morphed to form a profession as well.

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Published:
10.6.06 / 5pm
Category:
classroom antics, culture