Dropping my daughters off at their special “summer intensive” (don’t call it summer school) school this morning, I finally had control of the radio (because both of them are sulking, and hate the world and boys and blah blah blah.)
“Won’t Get Fooled Again.” I turn it up a bit.
Julianna (she’s days away from turning 13): Daaad! Please turn it down!
Me: Honey. You need to know this song. Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss. Whatever they teach you in school today, this is the most important thing you’ll hear all day.
J: Yeah, but can you turn it down when we open the doors?
Old man music stink.
Me: Yes, Sweetie.
Kids are discharged. Someone else’s problem until 3:00. And, then, after Roger Daltrey does his last Yeah! Springsteen. Born to Run.
My poor Prius. The volume goes up to 10. We are at maximum capacity.
And, then, Boom-Boom-Chick. Boom-Boom-Chick Crap. Because it is not just one song, but two: We are the champions. Who tapped into my brain. Russians?
Let me find the longest way to get home.
Announcer guy: We’re commercial free for 90 minutes. Fuck.
Let me park somewhere. In the Target parking lot.
And, then, Bowie’s “Suffragette City.” Wham Bam, thank you sir.
I manage to find an 11.
Security starts circling. Was there an Amber Alert on this Prius?
And, then… How could I move?
Crap. I have to tell the guy. I’m just leaving.
Sometimes, radio doesn’t suck.