While in the car this evening on the way to the first practice of fall baseball—because baseball is awesome, yo; also, a significantly lowered likelihood of childhood concussion is, yanno, a good thing—I had a conversion with the puddinpop that led me to believe there might, in fact, be some hope for the future.
*cues Whitney Houston*
Pp: Dad, have you heard a song called “Blurred Lines”
Me: *grimacing* Yes…
Pp: I haven’t heard it yet. What do you think of it?
Me: Ugh. Let’s just say I’m not a fan.
Pp: Huh. I guess I need to hear it.
*Blurred Lines comes on the radio*
*Father and son listen to the first verse*
*Father tries not to grumble audibly*
*Father changes the channel at the chorus and sighs in blessed relief*
Pp: That’s one of the most popular songs out there now? Um…how? I don’t get it.
Me: *eyes welling with tears* I know, son. Thank you. Just, thank you.
Now, sure, the day is coming (quickly) when he’ll undoubtedly play some God-forsaken ear-splitting noise (and much too loudly to boot), but for today, for this one late summer evening, father and son agreed that the radio belched forth some truly regrettable crap.
And the light of hope blazed on in the world.