Man, this is a real tough one for me. I honestly can’t think of something off the top of the dome that I can’t do, but REALLY wish I could. Like, singing? I don’t really care that I can’t sing. If some dude in an alley led me to a trunk full of the ability to sing, I wouldn’t exactly turn it away, but I’d do some hardcore negotiating, which happens to be one of my many talents.
Why? I think I’m just happy with the talents I do have. Like, really happy. In fact, I wanna play a little game of make-believe right now. I wanna make-believe that I’ve just received a beautiful gold trophy for, well, my multitude of talents. There’s a mic in front of me and I’m on a stage with a guy holding a sign that says “wrap it up” a few feet away while Kanye’s in the ”ready, set, go” position next to his seat in the audience. Alright, here it goes.
Um, wow, this thing’s heavy. Hey, everyone. (Waving to the camera) Hi, Ama. Hi, Apa! … Uh, hey Kanye, listen, I may have agreed with every word that came out of your mouth the last time you did this, but I’m gonna tell you right now that I AM NOT Taylor Swift, alright. (Removing the mic from the stand and now holding it like a weapon) Try that shit, I dare you. … (Watching the back of Kanye West as he returns to his seat) Alright, cool. Hey, I wanna have your new album’s baby, by the way! (Giving him the thumbs up) Love those sneaks, too!
Anyway, um, I want to thank my parents for using faulty condoms. I want to thank Jake for having such amazing hair. And, I wanna thank my brother and sisters, without whom I would’ve been a happy only child whose Barbies had actual Corvettes, not shoe boxes pretending to be Corvettes. And my cheerleading costume that one Halloween probably would’ve had two pom-poms, not one! You know what? Never mind about thanking the siblings. You can edit that out, right?
Uh, let’s see, I wanna give big ups to the W.V.C. Thank you for being so ghetto for Utah that I merely had to say I was from there to make Park City girls cry.
What? Wrap it up, are you serious? OK, OK. Seventh and foremost I want to thank God for making me far less than a klutz with most any ball, but the big orange one and for making me far less than an idiot with a pen and for making me far less than awkward when I act out the big scene and for making me far less than clumsy on a dance floor and for making me far less than, um, modest? Yes, thank you for all that! You’re the man, God! Er, you’re the God, man!
(Music starts playing me off and I go into a long “thank you” ramble a la Cuba Gooding Jr. circa 1997 that includes every hampster I ever owned, my babysitter when I was 4 years old, the babysitter who once had to fill in for that babysitter and the lunch lady who always gave me extra large helpings.)
Alright, here’s the truth. I wish I could paint. I really do. Sometimes, when I can’t explain something with words, I can see the perfect painting that would describe what I mean. That’s when I want to grow out my mustache, pencil on a unibrow, throw the hair into old Mexican-style braids and channel the Frida in me. ‘Cause I know she’s in there.
I actually can draw pretty well when I put my mind to it. If I would’ve had proper training, I’d be a dope painter. I feel the same way about playing the piano, ballroom dancing, snowboarding, archery, fencing, yodeling, unicycling, ventriloquism and clogging. If I wanted to do it, I’d be doin’ it and, like that chick in L.L.’s song, I’d be doin’ it well. And, there I go with the modesty again.
Your turn. I wanna hear what talents YOU wish you had.