Some things are not meant to be remembered.

You sneak on your Dad and his friends while they play soft jazz in the garage. Everything smells funny. They seem to be having a good time. Your father is holding down the beat on the drums. When he sees you, he calls you over to stand next to him.

“You see, son,” he begins. “An old jazz shuffle, like I’m playing now, isn’t that different from what your generation calls ‘rap.’ Here, let me show you.

“First I’m going to emphasize the back beat…

“Now I’m going to add the kick drum to the first and third …

“Then I’m going to switch to the high hat and simplify the beat. I want to keep the swing feel under it …

“You feeling that? Now Frank over here is going to use a deeper bass line …

“Ah yeah. You feeling it. I’m feeling the flow. This shit is tight, dawg. You know what’s about to happen? A rappin’.”

Your Dad unleashes what may be the worst thing you’ve ever heard. You will always look back at this moment whenever anyone asks you when the most embarrassed you ever felt was, but you’ll never mention it. You won’t – can’t – begin to try to explain the horror that you feel listening to your father freestyle about a local grocery store over a bunch of his jazz musician friends trying to play hip hop music.

Dad. Dad. Dad! Please stop!

The music grinds to a halt. Your father and his friends don’t even make eye contact with each other afterward. A half-minute of silence passes. Then Dad says, “Let’s never talk about this again. Let’s pretend like this never happened.”

From then on, you feel relieved whenever your father sticks to playing smooth jazz.

(Special thanks to the people that contributed to this affront to all that is decent in music.)