My daughter and I on a road trip en route to see the soldier. I had been listening to this band of hers for oh… about six hours non-stop with her analyzing the lyrics of his songs from all angles.
“I have another question why you don’t like this guy,” she said. “What’s wrong with his songs? What don’t you like?”
“Oh, well they all sound the same to me. He’s always complaining. He’s always a victim. He’s always angry at everyone and everything that has done him wrong and it’s not real at all. He’s a big star for Godsakes. He’s not oppressed! What’s he got to rebel against when no one is oppressing him? I don’t get it but just listen to him go on and on.”
She laughed. “Well, he does do that. He does go on and on and whine quite a bit.”
“Yep. Song after whiny song about his fake oppression and after awhile I can’t even hear what he’s saying. Know what I hear? If you want to know I’ll tell you.”
I raised my voice and started singing loud and proud: “My, my, my, my…me, me, me, me…I, I, I, I… me, me, me, me.. my, my, my, my, me, me, me, me!”
We both snorted.
“Yeah babe. That’s what he says over and over again. MY problems. What they do or did to ME. Look how bad and hard MY life is with all society does to ME. What I want or what I am going to do. It’s all a little nauseating. Or it’s a lot nauseating but this is just how I feel about it. Obviously you connect with him better than I do. I don’t connect with him at all. I run screaming from the room when I see him. I loaaaaaaaathe him,” I said with my face crinkled.
“My, my, my, my…” she started to sing herself, laughing all the while.
“Yeah, that was a pretty good one. Every once in awhile your old mom is amusing in spite of being this cranky and not hip. So I am glad you like my song. You deserve something for driving all this way. This is a long way to drive don’t you think?”
She didn’t answer. More singing instead. “My, my, my, my, me, me, me, me….”
I looked over at her and chortled. “Yeah, that guy is something else.”
To be continued.
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