Welcome ladies and gentlemen to music flight 104, heading from East Lansing to the other side of the world.

Back in the day, I could be known for slipping my shirt on backwards and zipping my rear up in my jeans as I tried to pull off the Kris Kross look. Zipper marks hurt.

And my mom loves informing me whenever "Walk Like An Egyptian" by the Bangles blares through the radio, that classic, strut-changing tune was one of my favorites when I was a wee-little lass.

But possibly the weirdest, most uncontrollable action I've ever performed during music was when I was so young I can't remember the details.

The story starts with my grandmother's infatuation with Elvis Presley.

When my mother would drop me off in the mornings at my grandparent's house, I would plod my tiny body onto the kitchen floor and do whatever kids that age do.

But, as soon as my grandma placed the needle on the vinyl of Elvis' hits, I would wail at the top of my youngin' lungs until, like magic, she would stop playing Elvis.

I guess I had a personal vendetta for him when I was tiny, but now, I take my Elvis like I take my coffee - the more, the better, and preferably in the morning.

Today, I'm more prone to turn off the radio and float away in my own mixes as I cruise down the street or sing in the shower. (Seen "Psycho"? The classic scream from Janet Leigh resembles my beautiful, resonating voice. Har har.)

Seriously though, the caliber of music, for me, unfolds behind head phones blasting anything from Bj?rk to Bob Marley, Sade to Jeff Buckley, and Daft Punk to Chris Isaak.

I've been known to cry listening to Etta James, dance my pants off to Bad Boy Bill, feel world peace with Cat Stevens, try out goth with Marilyn Manson, and chill on the couch with Portishead. And all of this was last week.

And I pre-party with all the rappers out there -?Xzibit, Kanye West, Snoop Dogg, Twista, 50 Cent, Ludacris and G-Unit. There's nothing like a solid hip-hop beat to make me feel gangsta.

Oh, how I've grown.