Fo Shezzy

Nothing gives a mother more joy than to watch the mensch she gave birth to 20 years ago tomorrow,  do something sensational.  It was kvell-worthy.  It was, how the young people say, off tha hizzy fo shezzy.  Many times, I've listened to the college boy do his rap thing, but I've never seen him do it in an actual recording studio, tucked into a very questionable part of Van Nuys, that, I admit, made me a little nervous.  "We're early.  Let's wait in the car," he said.  I viewed the dark alley behind us, and said, "Let's not."  So in we went, and for the next 45 minutes, I sat there on a sofa, watching the engineer fiddle with high-tech equipment, while Scott D stood behind the glass and took charge of the mic, rapping to, what else, the Rugrats theme, hip-hop style.  He rapped about social injustice and the debt ceiling.  He referenced Roberto Clemente and Harry Potter.  He spit divine rhymes.  He committed "no lyrical crimes."  Sophisticated stuff.  Way over my head.  I loved every minute.