The contrast between the serious moment and the absolutely ridiculous song is so jarring that I snort. Andrew's mouth twitches.
By the time we hit "My anaconda don't want none unless you got buns, hun," we're both laughing—real, helpless, tears-in-your-eyes
laughter.
"If you want, we can—"
"No!" I slap his hand away before he can change the station. "We have to commit now. It's the law. No skips, ever."
So we sit there, two adults in a luxury car, while Sir Mix-a-Lot waxes poetic about the female form.
Andrew even drums his fingers on the steering wheel during "L.A. face with an Oakland booty," which might be the most
surreal thing I've witnessed in my entire life When the song ends, we're both still grinning like idiots.
But reality creeps back in as the neighborhoods continue to get rougher, the streetlights fewer and farther between.
"You don't have to see this," I say. "My life isn't… It's not oyster bars and Michelin stars."
