second round

(4) Ke$ha, “Tik tok”
spilled
(5) Kelis, “Milkshake”
183-110
and will play in the sweet 16

Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the song/essay with the most votes at the end of the game. If there is a tie at the end of regulation, we will play a one-hour overtime (and repeat until we have a winner). Polls close @ 9am Arizona time on 3/13/24. (Note that Arizona does not do Daylight Saving time, so AZ time now = Pacific.)

J. Nicholas Geist on ke$ha’s “tik tok”

“Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh,
There’s a party at a rich dude’s house;
Dananana nuh nuh nuh nuh DA NA NA NUH NUH
…
I threw up in the closet.” —Ke$ha, 2009

“If you asked me then where I wanted to be,
It’d look somethin’ like this, livin’ out of my wildest dreams|
…
But if you ask me now, all I’ve wanted to be is happy.” —Kesha, 2023

It is 2010, and Kesha does not exist.
Ke$ha does, of course. In fact, it feels a bit like Ke$ha is all there is. She dropped “TiK ToK” at the end of 2009, and by the end of 2010, it will become the best selling single worldwide. And it is a song about Ke$ha. In her first single, she tells us exactly who she is: a woman who wakes up in a place she has no plans to return to, who brushes her teeth with Jack Daniels, who drifts from party to party and boy to boy with a clearly defined–but also seemingly quite generous–boundary as to exactly how gropey a guy is allowed to get before she takes offense. 
That this is who Ke$ha is seems unquestioned, here in 2010. She sits down for an interview with Billboard, and the interview is called “Ke$ha: The Billboard Cover Story.” Describing the woman he sees on the red carpet at the 2010 Grammys, Bill Werde explains,

Everything in her body language, expression, and posture perfectly conveys one thought: ‘I’m not sure, but I may still be drunk.’ It’s not so different from the look on her face when she climbs out of the bathtub in the video for her breakthrough song ‘TiK ToK.’

The woman on the red carpet, the woman in the bathtub: they are the same; they are Ke$ha. 

*

It is 2024, and I am researching for this essay, and so for the moment, Ke$ha is all there is.
My wife, Megan, and I are getting ready for work. Somewhere in the house our two children are wreaking unknowable havoc, but we allow that to remain undiscovered until we both have pants on. 
“There’s a track on Animal,” I say, “where she rhymes the words ‘pimps,’ ‘Trans Am,’ and ‘handbag.’”
“Those words don’t rhyme,” Megan says. 
“I didn’t think so either, but I’m not from Nashville.”
Megan leans toward the mirror, checking her lipstick. She doesn’t seem as interested in this as I feel she should be.
Because in a way, this is Ke$ha: an entity who would see a need to rhyme “pimps,” “Trans Am,” and “handbag,” and who would even arguably succeed. Animal is fascinating to listen to because it simply cannot be separated from Ke$ha.
On paper, it seems like it should be possible to separate this particular art from this particular artist. Dr. Luke, Ke$ha’s producer, was perhaps the bona fide hitmaker of the late aughts and early teens, and he cultivated a fairly deep roster of female pop stars. One might imagine, with a producer like that, which track goes to which artist might be at least a little bit arbitrary. And when I listen to “Your Love Is My Drug,” the first track on Animal, it is for a moment very easy to swap out Ke$ha for, say, Kelly Clarkson. I can imagine Katy Perry singing “what you’ve got boy / is hard to find / I think about it / all the time.” The same goes for “Kiss N Tell”—I can very easily imagine a circa 2009 Miley Cyrus singing “do I make your heart beat / like an 808 drum.”
But I cannot imagine anyone but Ke$ha singing “my steeze is gonna be affected / if I keep it up like a lovesick crackhead.” I cannot imagine anyone but Ke$ha singing “before I leave, brush my teeth / with a bottle of Jack.” I cannot imagine anyone but Ke$ha singing “I’m down to get faded / I’m not the designated / driver.” In order to explain Ke$ha as an entity, one must be able to define both “faded” and “enjambment.” 
To listen to Animal in 2024, knowing the story of the last ten years, is to ask: what was Ke$ha? Was the entity Ke$ha a role that the woman Kesha was playing? A performance of an exaggerated self? Was Ke$ha a prison from which Kesha had to escape? Or an Animal into which she transformed? If Ke$ha is a construct, who constructed her?
I try again to explain all this to Megan. “Later she rhymes ‘smashed,’ ‘cans,’ and ‘mess,’ but it doesn’t work as well.”
“Hm,” she says, as if the ways in which our performance of our identity can come to consume us from within hold no terrors for her whatsoever.
“The hook for that track is ‘there’s a place in France where the naked ladies dance,’” I tell her.
“There are times,” Megan says, “when the distance between two people—who share a life, and a house, and a bed, and a bathroom, and two children, and most of a career—seems so great as to be almost insurmountable.”
“It’s Henry’s favorite song now, so heads up. I told him not to sing it at school.”

*

It is 2010, and Kesha does not exist–at least, in the eyes of the media. Ke$ha is trying to tell Bill Werde about Kesha, but Werde doesn’t seem particularly interested. Everyone asks if she’s a party girl, Ke$ha says. Her answer, and Werde’s response, are so disconnected that it is worth reproducing them in full:
“If you mean ‘party girl’ like, at a club with a short skirt on with no underwear,” Ke$ha says,  “then no. I’ve gotten drunk before but never gotten a DUI. I don’t go to clubs. I try not to let my vagina hang out. I don’t do drugs, but I think I’m a walking good time and I talk kind of funny, so people think I’m messed up all the time. I’m not.”
But Werde does not hear this. “You can see where those people might get their ideas,” he says, and barrels into a conclusion he had clearly reached before starting: “the Ke$ha you hear on her songs is the Ke$ha you get in person.”
Except.
Except that two paragraphs previously, Werde told a story about the red carpet at the Grammys, where Ke$ha was worried that her complex designer dress was leaving her a little too exposed, and had to have a handler make sure she was covered to her liking. 
Except that Ke$ha seems to keep trying to bring the conversation back to her intelligence. She tells Werde that she was in an International Baccalaureate program. He puts it in quotation marks as if she made it up. (Twice.) She tells him that she got a 1500 on her SATs. He tells us that she was on The Simple Life. “The point being,” she tells him, “I’m not just a little pop moron.” He tells us what her burps are like. 
Except that despite Werde’s foregone conclusion, this is the interview where I first learned that Ke$ha and Kesha were two different people. It is where I first heard Ke$ha trying to introduce the world to Kesha, where I first heard a media voice actively suggest that there was no line between Kesha the woman and Ke$ha the construct, and most powerfully, where I first heard the story of the unsettling alchemy by which Ke$ha was constructed.
I am coming down hard on Bill Werde here, but as I said, in 2010, Ke$ha seems to be all there is. Scan the references list of her Wikipedia page and look at the titles from that time:

“Ke$ha tells us all kinds of awesome, crazy stuff: ‘Have I made out with chicks? Hell yeah.’” 

“Party Animal: Behind Ke$ha’s Big Debut.”

“Kesha – from Band Geek to Life of the Party.”

“Pop sensation Ke$ha gutsy, fearless.”

“Kesha and the Not-Quite-72 Virgins in Her Own Personal Heaven.”

“Kesha: Crazy, Sexy, & Too Fuckin’ Cool.”

“She’s a walking, talking, living dollar.”

“Make it $top.”

They don’t all include the $, but it’s there even when it’s not. That Kesha is Ke$ha, that the person and the per$ona are coterminous—in 2010, everyone agrees. 
Only Ke$ha seems unsure.

*

It is 2020, and—at least in my car—Ke$ha does not exist. 
My daughter, Violet, is an incredible force of will. When she wants something, she will not be impeded. If, in her toddlerhood, she decides a pair of pants are itchy—which she does on nearly a daily basis—the pants are gone. There will be no compromises about her outfit and no quarter granted to any parent so foolish as to try to reason with her. If she must crack the Earth to its very core and cast us all into the roiling mantle, so be it. 

ITCHY.

But that is later. For now, it is 2020, Violet is six months old, and for her, Ke$ha does not exist. We are in the car, and she does not want to be in the car, and so, in a polyphonic train-whistle scream jazz singers sometimes spend a lifetime learning, she wordlessly bellows her infant misery.
Megan reaches into the backseat and grabs Violet’s hand. Her brother, Henry, has headphones on, but absently pats her on her screaming head. 
“You’re okay, Violey,” I say. It’s strange: we’ve never really called Henry anything but Henry, but Violet became Violey—which looks a lot weirder written out than it sounds when I say it—almost at birth. 
“It’s okay,” I say, but it is not okay. There is only one path to calm for my cacophonic daughter.
We must play “Flik Flok.”
“Flik Flok” is not a toddler’s mispronunciation of “TiK ToK,” but rather a mashup of the beat from “TiK ToK” and the vocals from Dizzee Rascal’s 2007 track “Flex” which, unless you are an aficionado of the mid aughties UK garage scene, you have not heard. 

I have heard it, though. Thousands of times, I would imagine. On the drives across the desperately boring country between my house and my in-laws, Violet wails endlessly and unignorably until the last fiber of our resolve snaps and we put on “Flik Flok,” and she finally settles—only and exactly as long as “Flik Flok” plays, over and over, for hours and miles and an endless eternity of identical highway.
For whatever reason, “TiK ToK” on its own does not work for Violet. We try playing the original, but the instant she hears Ke$ha wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy, Violet makes her disappointment known to us at impossible volumes. Nevertheless missing the backbeat of her infancy is the boxy synths and relentless bass of “TiK ToK,” looped and pounding and always. Ke$ha simply does not exist.

*

“Flik Flok” was created by the Kleptones, also known as DJ Erik Kleptone, the mad scientist (and singular plural) of the illegal music scene. Their special genius is their ability to put things in conversation with one another, and “Flik Flok” is, to my mind, among the greatest of their dialectics. We know, I hope, what “TiK ToK” is, but Dizzee Rascal’s “Flex” is its own fascinating contradiction.
“Flex” is a sort of horny ekphrasis: Rascal spends three and a half minutes celebrating the details of a woman dancing. He praises her timing, the way she controls her body. “Pure skill,” he says. He pauses to appreciate the movement of a drop of sweat. He catalogs her moves: the bogle, the butterfly. Drop it like it’s hot. Dip. Rock. Grind. Flex. “Your figure,” he says, “is so pleasing to the eye.”
And yet, woven in among the aesthete’s paean, Rascal makes sure to tell us he has a boner. “Got my tings rising,” he says, with only minor abashment. “What do you expect, that ain’t surprising.” Rascal’s appreciation is artistic, but it is also clearly visceral. It is about bodies. The wiggling. The jiggling. My heartbeat. My temperature. My blood pressure. “You could kill like that,” he tells her.
“Gosh,” he says, “you make a rude boy so shy.” 
It is this dualism that makes “Flex” such a good fit for “TiK ToK.” Rascal and Kesha are both attempting to live out the same superposition of states. They both are club kids and are not club kids. They are both animalistic and academic. They both are and are not themselves. Even the names—Dizzee Rascal, as you might imagine, is not the name on his library card, and in “Flex” he briefly refers to himself as “Dills,” a portmanteau of his “real” name, Dylan Mills. They create a space in the sweaty melee of the dance floor where they unquestionably belong, and yet keep themselves distant. It is easy, listening to “Flik Flok,” to imagine a sort of astral Dylan Mills and Kesha Sebert standing in the steamy haze above the crowd, watching Dizzee and Ke$ha dance.
This is why “Flik Flok” is so good: the braiding of these two artists, each of whom are already twinning with themselves, creates a helix of connection that is as meaningful thematically as it is musically.
Also, it fucking slaps.

*

It is 2005, and Ke$ha does not exist.
There is a 17 year old girl in Nashville with a single mom who knows some folks in the music industry. Her name is Kesha, but be careful: most of what we know about her—about how she snuck into Prince’s house to give him a demo, for instance—comes from stories Ke$ha will tell later. She thinks she might go to Barnard. She is studying the Cold War. Sometimes, her mom brings her along to the studio, and she records something, not really expecting anything to come of it.
One of those demos winds its way into the hands of Łukasz Gottwald, better known as Dr. Luke, who is well on his way to becoming a god of pop music production. (The power of Dr. Luke: when the time comes, and she writes the line “Wake up in the mornin feelin like P. Diddy,” Dr. Luke will get on the phone, and Diddy himself will that same day come to the studio to record a couple of voice lines for the debut single of an absolute unknown.)
On that demo, Dr. Luke hears two different people. Years later, he will play these two tracks for Bill Werde, who will write about it for Billboard, and I will learn about the utter fragility of identity. Werde: 

At Conway Studio where Luke works in Hollywood, he plays me two songs from the Ke$ha demo, each striking for different reasons. The first is a gorgeously sung, self-penned country ballad that hints at what could’ve been had Ke$ha pursued a different path. The other is a gobsmackingly awful trip-hop track. But at one point toward the end, Ke$ha runs out of lyrics and starts rapping, for a full minute or so: “I’m a white girl/From the ‘Ville/Nashville, bitch. Uhh. Uhhhhh.”

Luke and his producer friends were smitten by this bit of screwball-gangsta improv. His face lights up even now as he remembers. “That’s when I was like, ‘OK, I like this girl’s personality. When you’re listening to 100 CDs, that kind of bravado and chutzpah stand out.”

This is how I remember the story—how I think about Kesha, and about Ke$ha: a girl gave a man two versions of herself and asked him, “who do you want me to be?”

*

It is 2023, and Violet is 3 years old. 
She has started giving us concerts at bedtime. Once she has her pajamas on, she will go into the playroom and fish out an old toy guitar that I have had for 25 years, and she will bring it to the living room. She will ask us to put on Train’s “Drops of Jupiter” and she will stand in the center of the room, strumming the guitar, and singing the lyrics, which she almost knows. It is always “Drops of Jupiter.” There are other songs that she loves—“Flik Flok” still among them, and now that she has the more developed palate of a toddler, “TiK ToK” as well—but for the concerts, it is always “Drops of Jupiter.”
I watch her dance, graceful and proud, and I think about “Drops of Jupiter,” and Violet, and Kesha. “Drops of Jupiter” is a song about a woman who leaves, drifting unmoored from earthbound stability, to try to find herself. (The song is best if you imagine it is about Elizabeth Gilbert circa Eat, Pray, Love.) The speaker asks this woman about her travels: whether she found what she sought, whether she escaped being scarred, whether she flew, Icarine, too close to the sun, and what it cost her to do so. And because it is a song that is written and sung by a man, the speaker of the song feels that the woman owes him answers to all these questions, and that the most important question among them is did you miss me, despite the fact that he estimates his own value as a human being as approximately equivalent to that of a really good soy latte.
Her little voice sings out an approximation of this story, this man who feels he has a right to tell a woman who to be, and then we say prayers, brush teeth, and settle in the rocker in her bedroom. 
This week, she has been playing with nicknames–among other peculiar experiments, she is trying to get Megan to call me “Mump,” for reasons nobody really understands–and so today, she has had an argument with her brother, who insists always and only on being called Henry. She wants to call him Hens. Personally, I think that is the cutest thing in the whole damn world, but Henry is insistent: his name is Henry. 
I sing to her as I rock her, and as I sing I call her Violey.
“I don’t want to be called Violey any more,” she says.
“You don’t? I’ve called you that your whole life,” I say.
“No. Just Violet.”
This makes me instantly sad. It feels as if I am losing something, a connection with her I have had since she was born. But, like, what am I, the guy from Train? Should it be up to me to decide who she is? Of course not. 
I don’t want to let go of “Violey,” because Violey is my daughter. But she will spend the rest of her life deciding who she wants to be, and I never want that to be contingent on what anyone else thinks—least of all a man worth little more than a cup of coffee. 
So sitting here, holding this tiny blonde dynamo who is already so many women when she is still only barely a big girl, I say, “Okay, Violet,” and I let her take one of the million tiny steps she will take in her life away from the image of her I hold in my mind, and toward the person that she wants to be.

*

I do not think we can know each other.
I don’t just mean that I cannot know Kesha, or Ke$ha, that two people as distant as a pop star and a listener a decade and a half later cannot know each other. I don’t just mean that I cannot know Violet, or that the churning storm of mystery at the heart of a three year old is beyond the comprehension of my meager dad brain. I do mean those things, but that is not all I mean. I mean you and me: I do not think that any two people can know each other.
Here: can you tell me who you are?
Not “can you tell me things about you.” Can you communicate your completeness? Put your entire self into words that I can understand? Can you put your entire self into words that you can understand?
A friend has read this essay, and she keeps saying: Violet will tell you who she is, you just have to listen. Kesha, after all, tried so hard to tell us who she was, but we could not—or at very least did not—listen to her. But if Bill Werde had listened, had struck the $ from the title of “Kesha: The Billboard Cover Story” and told us without ambiguity that this woman was not the character she was playing, would we have known her? 
I am afraid that Ke$ha was born because a man named Łukasz heard a woman sing two songs on a demo, and thought “I can understand this person.” And “I can understand her” led to “I understand her,” which led to “I know her better than she knows herself,” which led to “I know what’s best for you,” and this is how Ke$ha was made. 
I do not know this with certainty. But I do know that Ke$ha was born because Kesha trusted that Dr. Luke knew what was best for her, and Dr. Luke did not deserve that trust.
Listen.

*

It is 2008, and Ke$ha does not exist, but be patient: she is about to be born.
Kesha has signed with Dr. Luke, and he has already told her which of the girls from the demo he wants to sign. He wants the party girl. Flo Rida is in the studio recording “Right Round” with Dr. Luke. Luke tells Flo that he thinks a female vocalist would round out the mix, and he has just the person.
Kesha comes into the studio, lays down a vocal track, and Flo likes it. Likes it enough, in fact, that he’ll use Kesha again on “Touch Me” in 2009. 
Here’s Dr. Luke, moving his artists like chess pieces. Here’s Flo Rida, who’s already been in the Top 40 several times. And here’s Kesha, young and broke and nameless.
“Right Round” spends six weeks at #1. 
Kesha doesn’t get a credit. Kesha doesn’t get a dime.
“I was so broke and on the No. 1 song and it was being played everywhere all the time,” she tells Vibe. I imagine her working a register somewhere, hearing her own voice over the store sound system, and watching someone use her tip jar to break a $5.  Kesha changes her name to Ke$ha. “Just kinda making fun of myself,” she says.

*

Here is my question, the question of the father of a daughter who is so strong, so sure of herself, so unstoppable, but who is nevertheless only three, and who will someday be 17, and 21, and 27 and will enter a world where women do not always get to decide who they are, or who they will be, the question of a father who has never been a woman, and who somehow has to help this small fireball decide who she is going to be when she is 17, and 21, and 27, and being pushed against by men who have their own ideas about who she should be, the question of a father who will, inescapably, be one of those men, here is my question:

how do I help her decide who she is?

*

Not long after “Right Round” topped the charts, Ke$ha would release “TiK ToK,” which would spend nine weeks at number one, under her own name. Ke$ha would become what Ke$ha became, and Kesha would fade, and Dr. Luke would help her launch not one but three #1 singles—which, incidentally, is the same number Flo Rida has. The version of Kesha Rose Sebert that Dr. Luke chose was incredibly successful, even if he kinda ripped her off with “Right Round.”
Except.
Except the thing I have not yet said: ripping her off is not the worst thing Dr. Luke ever did to Kesha. 
In 2014, she filed a series of lawsuits against Dr. Luke, accusing him of “sexual assault and battery, sexual harassment, gender violence, civil harassment, violation of California's unfair business laws, intentional infliction of emotional distress, negligent infliction of emotional distress, and negligent retention and supervision.” She said he drugged her, raped her, and caused her eating disorder, among other things. 
The lawsuits were not settled until 2023, but they were settled—nine years after they were filed, but only a month after Kesha released Gag Order, her last contractually mandated album on Dr. Luke’s label, Kemosabe. I do not and cannot know what happened—about Kesha’s allegations, about the settlement, or about any of this. I am just another man trying to say who Kesha is, and was, and speculating about the shape of her authentic self, and how well it fit the container that was Ke$ha, and who built that container, and if she chose to get into it or if she was put into it by Dr. Luke, and I do not and cannot know any of that.
But I have listened to “Praying,” and it seems obvious to me that it was written by a woman who was deeply, profoundly hurt, who is healing, and who is trying to forgive someone who has done her incredible harm. And, while this is perhaps an unusual standard of evidence, I know that the Wikipedia page for “Praying” features a picture of Dr. Luke next to the words “fuck you.”

I do not know Kesha, and I do not know Ke$ha. I do not know Łukasz Gottwald, and I do not know Dr. Luke. I do not know Dylan Mills, and I do not know Dizzee Rascal. I do not know Eric Kleptone, and I do not know the person who bears the name on Eric Kleptone’s birth certificate (although I do have a pretty high degree of confidence that that name is not “Eric Kleptone”).
What I know are the stories that are told about them, the stories that they tell about themselves, and the story I piece together from those stories.

*

It is 2024, and Kesha/Ke$ha superposition fills my car. She hasn’t used the $ for nearly a decade now, and Apple Music knows this. They have dutifully removed it from the artist name in her metadata. But the album art cannot be so easily changed, and so it is that Kesha and Ke$ha both ride with us as I take the kids to school.

We pull into Henry’s school, listening to “Take It Off” for the third time. We both get out, and I sign him in, give him a kiss and send him on his way. When I turn back to the car, Violet is gesturing frantically at me from the backseat.
“Henry,” I holler, “did you forget to kiss your sister?” One of Violet’s many insistences: if she does not get the affection she believes she is due, there will be problems. He runs back to the car, climbs into the backseat, and is instantly rebuffed. 
“She doesn’t want a kiss,” Henry says. “She wants you to pick her a flower.”
So, of course, I do. The school garden butts up to the parking lot, and some of the marigolds they have planted to keep bugs away have grown through the fence. I pluck the prettiest bloom from among those scraggly stems, and I hand it to Violet as I get back in the car.
“You got me an orange one?!” she says, and it is unclear to me if this is surprise, delight, or disapproval. By now, “Take It Off” has given way to “Kiss N Tell,” which is not Violet’s favorite.
“Not this,” she says. “Something else.” I push the previous track button twice.
“Wake up in the mornin,” Ke$ha says, “feelin’ like P. Diddy.”
In the backseat, Violet slowly, deliberately, raises her hands in triumph. “TiK ToK,” she says quietly.
She has grown and changed in the last three years, and has come to love “TiK ToK” as much as, if not more than, “Flik Flok.” Because she is a person, she is new and different every day; tomorrow, she will respond to the same song with “NOT TIK TOK, I DON’T WANT TIK TOK.” Today, though, “TiK ToK” merits this small celebration.
We arrive at her school, and I unbuckle her seatbelt, and she takes her flower and tucks it into the cupholder in the backseat. “I don’t want to tell anyone about my flower,” she says. “I’m going to leave it in the car.”

*

It is 2041, and Violet is 21 years old. She is in college in Montana, and she texts me during her boring night classes to make fun of her professors, but I do not know her. 
Or it is 2041, and Violet is 21 years old. She calls me on her commute from San Francisco to Manteca, to tell me about how Galinda is leaving the production of Wicked she’s been understudying, and how she’s pretty sure she’s going to get to move up, and she’s so excited and I am so excited for her, but I do not know her. 
Or it is 2041, and Violet is 21 years old. She collapses onto my bed in tears because of a fight she had with her partner about something her partner’s cousin said about her brother, and I have no idea what she is talking about, but she is so upset, and so with one hand I rub her back while she cries, and with the other I text Megan to see if she can make sense out of any of this, and she says she cannot, so we agree to sit down later and make a flowchart or something, and I ask Violet if she wants to get some air, and we sit on the front porch in the dark and the fog and the cold and she leans against my chest and I remember when she was three and she would sit on my lap and play with my earlobe until she fell asleep, and she says “Dad can we go inside? It’s fucking freezing,” and I start to say something but don’t because I know that she’s old enough to use grown-up words now, and we go in and she goes to bed, and when I come to check on her later she is asleep with a book in her hand, and I remember all the nights before she could even read when she couldn’t fall asleep unless there were at least a dozen books in her bed, and I love her every bit as much as I did then, but I do not know her.
It is 2024, and Violet is 3 years old, and I know Violet as well as it is possible to know a three year old, but I suspect that is not very well. She is miserably sick, and she is hungry, and she is so, so mad, because her mother and I have made her peanut butter sandwich, but she wants us to cut it like a clock, and I have tried to cut it like a clock but it is wrong, no, that is not like a clock, NOT A CLOCK, I want it like a clock, so Megan tries, no, Josh, it’s not a circle, a clock is a circle, and she cuts a circle, and Violet becomes incensed, NO NO NO NOT LIKE A CIRCLE LIKE A CLOCK CUT IT LIKE A CLOCK, and she shoves the sandwich across the table, and Megan asks ok, honey, i’m sorry, we’re trying, would you like daddy to make you a new sandwich and cut it like a clock? and Violet sniffles, pitiful, exhausted, feverish, and says uh huh, and so I make a second sandwich, and I take it to the table with the knife, and I let her direct me cut by cut, do you want me to cut it like this? and then here? like this? okay? and step by step I cut the sandwich, first vertical, then horizontal, across the diagonals, until it is divided into eighths like pie slices, and she sniffs and says see, daddy, like a clock, and I say I see, honey, because this is exactly how I cut the first sandwich twenty minutes ago, but she is 3 years old, and I do not know her.
 All of these Violets exist in my imagination. Even the one I dropped off at school this morning, who made me sit in the parking lot until we got to the end of “TiK ToK.” I have been with her since the instant she entered this world, and I will share with her every moment she will let me (although for transparency I must disclose that at this particular moment she has been sent to bed early because she threw a book at me for unclear reasons). But still, I cannot hold her completeness in my mind–even now, when her completeness is not quite tall enough to ride Jumping Jellyfish at Disneyland.
I can hold her in my heart, though. Not perfectly, but completely. There’s room in there for all the people she might ever decide to be.

*

“Bring it back,” Dizzee Rascal says at the end of “Flik Flok.” “Bring it back.”

*

It is 2014, and Ke$ha does not exist. Kesha is 27 years old. She has just left rehab for her eating disorder, and she decides that is done with the front. “I let go of my facade about being a girl who didn’t care,” she’ll explain at SXSW next week. “My facade was to be strong,” she’ll say, “and I realized it was total bullshit. I took out the $ because I realized that was part of the facade.”
But that is next week. Today, she is getting off a plane at LAX.

She is wearing a sweatshirt that says “IMA SURVIVOR,” and she looks so unfathomably young. If you told me she was 17 and not 27 in this picture I would believe it without question. There is something about this young woman, who is deciding so intentionally who she wants to be, who is deciding to leave Ke$ha behind and to become again the person she was ten years ago, someone I do not know and someone she might not know that well any more either, that I cannot help but love a little tiny distant bit.
I do not know her, and I have no right to feel any kind of way about her, and she is not 17 or 27 but almost my own age, but none of that matters to my dad heart. I cannot help it. I am so, so proud of her.

*

It is 2023, and Ke$ha does not exist. Kesha still performs “TiK ToK,” though, because why wouldn’t she? It is today what it has always been: an absolute banger. Two days ago, though, singer Cassie Ventura filed suit against Diddy alleging that their musical partnership was fraught with years of abuse, emotional manipulation, controlling behavior, and even rape. It is not hard to understand why Kesha would take this very seriously.
The Ke$ha of “TiK ToK” is eternally 21, one boot on the floor of a stranger’s bathroom, emerging half drunk from the tub like a scrungly Venus, cheap jewelry on her wrists and a cockeyed trucker hat on her soul. The first thing the Ke$ha of “TiK ToK” tells us about herself is that she wakes up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. And why not? The Ke$ha of “TiK ToK,” after all, doesn’t mind a little light groping. But it is 2023, and Ke$ha does not exist. She has been gone for a long time now.
Kesha must have decided the instant she heard: tonight, she will not say his name. 
The synths haven’t changed, boxy and wobbly at the same time. The bass is no different, round and rough and boneshaking. But this is not the same woman.
“Wake up in the morning,” she sings, “feeling just like me.”

J. Nicholas Geist is an essayist. Josh’s print essays have appeared in Ninth Letter, Creative Nonfiction, and the much-mourned videogame journal Kill Screen. His extracurricular essay for March Fadness 2023, “The Essential Whiteness of One-Hit Wonders,” was included in Sight and Sound Magazine’s list of the Best Video Essays of 2023. If you are reading this on Day 1 of the tournament, he hopes that you will wish Kesha a happy birthday on Twitter, where she has recently begun cataloging her experiences playing Fortnite.

JESSICA BELL ON KELIS’S “MILKSHAKE”

When I entered the lottery for the March Danceness (00s Edition) Tournament, I must admit that it was only as a half-joking attempt to have bragging rights over Matt Bell if I went further in the tournament than he ever did. Being that I’m not a writer AT ALL, I know that will only happen if people think that Kelis’s “Milkshake” is a better song than whatever song we’re up against. But I also wanted to defend my honor against Matt’s Creed essay that appeared in the March Plaidness Tournament, thinking he shared a secret of mine—that when we met, my computer background was a picture of Scott Stapp sexily slinking across a piano dripping wet. Today I went back to read his essay and found he'd decided to leave this detail out, and now it's me who's shared one of my many college-era embarrassments.
I was excited to be included in this particular version of March Xness because the early 2000s was my prime musical era. This was the music of my college experience. Nights at the club, me expanding my sheltered little corn-fed mind. Music was honestly my life from my early teens on, as I suspect it was for most latch-key kids. I grew up in the era when MTV actually played music videos, and I have vivid memories of being mesmerized by Dr. Dre’s “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” and Beck’s “Loser” videos. Thanks to YouTube, I can go back and revisit those memories (and trust me, I do). I was an only child, and I spent tons of time in my room listening to music or playing name-that-tune on the radio with my then-teenage uncle. Fast forward to my sophomore year of college: It was the time of Napster, and my school had a T1 internet connection. I loved downloading and making mixed-CDs of club music. I loved dancing. I thought about being a DJ in my spare time, a fleeting thought that became a reality just once, when I drunkenly scratched some records at my best friend’s wedding reception. (I guess I achieved DJ status?)
When I found out that I had been chosen to write this essay, I was ecstatic. I already had a song picked out, but due to a minor email snafu, it was taken by the time I was notified. I didn’t have any real thoughts about what I was going to write, no brilliant insights. It was just tied to strong memories of one of my best friends from college saying “I love this song” every time it came on while turning it up (It was on ALL. THE. TIME.) She was my up-for-anything friend. She was my club and concert-going friend. As I mentioned, I loved music, and I loved making mixed CDs. I had an extensive CD collection, started when I won 103 CDs from my local alternative rock radio station at sixteen. I amassed more from my mom occasionally letting me use her BMG Music selection and a sporadic trip to the Target over an hour away. Then I added in the Napster content. Hundreds of CDs. I once loaned the entire collection to the same friend who loved my first-choice song. She would go on to lose the entirety of that collection, and I would be heartbroken. I would later go on to lose her to mental health issues and suicide, and I would be heartbroken on a whole different level. (If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org).
So here I am, telling the stories I wanted to tell anyway, all to get to my backup song choice, "Milkshake" by Kelis.
Kelis’s "Milkshake" made it to number 3 on the US Billboard Hot 100 in 2003. Its chorus continues to be an earworm more than 20 years later. When "Milkshake" came out, I didn’t give much thought to its meaning, I just danced to the thumping music. Actually listening the lyrics and watching the sultry music video makes it seem pretty self-explanatory, but when you look at interviews with Kelis, she widens its scope, stating that “It means whatever people want it to” and that “a milkshake is the thing that makes women special. It's what gives us our confidence and what makes us exciting.” I suppose the meaning is clearly there in Verse 1—"I know you want it / The thing that makes me / What the guys go crazy for.” Perhaps we’d label it as mojo, or as Dr. Evil would say in Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, my favorite movie from around that same Napster era: “the libido, the life force, the essence, the right stuff, what the French call a certain ‘I don’t know what.’”
Growing up, all that I ever heard was, “Be confident.” Confidence is sexy. If you couldn’t be confident in life, then “fake it ‘til you make it.” But when you search, “Do men think confidence is sexy?” you get mixed messages. Be confident, but not so confident that you’re assertive. Be confident, but not so much that you’re arrogant or that you convey hubris (see one of my favorite raunchy episodes of The League, S1:E2). What if your milkshake is amazing but it makes you intimidating? Apparently, men need to be needed and to be the hero in the story. They don’t want to have to compete with their significant other. What’s a girl to do except not be too much?  
One of my favorite memories as a child that continued into my teenage years was watching meteor showers with my dad. We’d lie down on the warm hood of his car and talk about the stars, science, and life. Living life as a sporty nerdy girl without a date, let alone a boyfriend, he’d reassure me that someday I would meet a guy who would love me for who I am. It would take several more years before I met that someone. Someone who not only appreciated who I was but challenged me to become even better. I guess you could say my milkshake eventually brought the right boy to the yard.
But still: I do hope my March Xness essay beats all of Matt Bell's.

Jessica Bell is not a writer. She’s a scientist with a focus on climate and health. She’s also a gardener, cat wrangler, naturalist, craft beer enthusiast, birder, and nature lover. She is married to three-time March Xness loser Matt Bell. This is her first published essay.