Hooray! The sun is out, the temperature is fast approaching eighty degrees, and the breeze is light. Summer’s beginning whisper is here at last and car windows are down. So why does the music from YOUR piece o’ crap car need to shout at me?
I don’t get it.
On second thought, yes I do. I was young once. Truly I was! I tell my kids stories of when I used to smoke pot and swallow just about anything that didn’t swallow me first; I share stories of keg parties in fields with bonfires that used to go on, even until the light of day. They look at me and say… “Sure Dad, like the book Go Ask Alice right?”
I do remember at around the age of 16, piling a record SEVEN people into my 1967 candy apple red sun-roofed Volkswagen Beetle and trying to shift into second gear while having my hand up someone’s ass on our way to a party at Westtown Mews. It was insane and I just had a problem saying no if others needed a ride. We would be listening to 8-track tapes of David Bowie’s “Suffragette City,” or Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” We’d have the windows down, with cigarettes ablaze while singin’ at the top of our lungs. Looking back now, I don’t think WE ever really cared about who else’s world we were invading with OUR sound.
Today though, I need to be more open minded and non-judgemental; more free-wheeling; more fly by the seat of my pants! Who cares if I’m stuck in traffic on Interstate 95 next to you with the base so low it rattles to the very core of my bones, while I feel my eyeballs slowly vibrating out of their sockets? Who cares if the words fuck, bitch, gun, kill and nigga literally rape MY ears? I’ll just start peckin’ my head along with your music and hopefully you’ll be freaked out enough to think that an older person likes it… and turn it off.