When I was a kid, back in the good old days, when you wanted to drive your parents crazy you blasted your stereo or your radio full blast. If they hated the music you were playing, so much the better. I have fond memories still of my perfectionist musician step-father clenching his teeth as I played the off-key Bay City Rollers at top volume. Oh, my god, did he hate the Bay City Rollers. (I couldn't fess up that I liked a lot of the same music he did. I had my pride). I'll admit that as teenage rebellion goes it was pretty stinkin' tame, but even so I knew it was a sure fire way to get his ire up. My teenage years were not what one might call "typical", and most avenues of traditional rebellion were of no use to me. I think it's safe to say that I've given my poor step-father a life- long tartan phobia and an irrational fear of S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y nights. My work here is done.
I thought of this the other day when I asked Sasquatch if I could look at his iPod to see if he had anything on it that I wanted to download onto my new one. You'd have thought I asked the kid to take off his underwear and hand them over. My wanting to check out his music was an intrusion to his privacy. His privacy. Does he not see that he has this totally backward? He's supposed to impose his questionable musical tastes on me just like I did to my parents at his age. It's a rite of passage, damn it. I'm supposed to be able to yell about high volumes and dodgy lyrics, and even say things like, " You call that music? It sounds like he has his hand caught in a carburetor."
Instead, I watched him slip in his earbuds and bob away to a beat heard only by him. Now where's the fun in that?