Cooked Goose

Awhile back, I caught myself humming a line from a Taylor Swift song. Yes, I am a man. A forty-two year old man. Certainly, not a pretty man. You’re right, I should not be doing anything Taylor Swift. After some well deserved self-flagellation, I went to where lots of people go in times of self-loathing. Blame. “Why do my kids have such horrible taste in music?” They do, forgive me. And they bring this, this KIIS FM into my world. It bores a hole into my brain. Seeps in. Sounds of Taylor Swift, Usher, and Katy Perry take up residence. And while I’m engaged in mindless activity, guard down, it slips or … uh, hums out.

It’s rather disappointing. Where did it all go wrong? I tried to expose them to my taste, my eclectic pseudo cool: Dylan, Hendrix, Coltrane, Marley. Yeah, there was some Country there … well, truth be told, a lot of Country. Once again, gonna blame. With Country, it’s my wife’s fault. But even there, we tried to mix in some good with the Rascal Flatts: some Cash, Alison Krause. Despite all this, our kids want to listen to something you can dance to from some dude who decided to go with Bruno Mars as a stage name. Bruno Mars? C’mon man, really?

Then it hits you. Maybe your idea of cool isn’t so cool anymore. Maybe just like your Dad who couldn’t understand Prince and the Revolution or Run DMC, you can’t understand the Black Eyed Peas or, yeah, why not, Taylor Swift. …She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts. She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers … nana nanaa nana nana nanaa … what your looking for has been here the whole time. If you can see me…da, da, dada, da da. Yeah, I guess it’s kind of a catchy tune.

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