“Hi, Mom.  Thanks for picking me up.”

“Not a problem.  How was school?”

“We listened to Pink Floyd in History of Modern Music.”

“Awesome!  Which song?”

“Great song.”

“I hate it.”

“You hate it?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you hate Shine On You Crazy Diamond?” 

“It doesn’t help when you hear the song every day of your life for your first sixteen years.”

“Oh, the radio doesn’t play it THAT often.”

“Not the radio.  You.”

“We did not.  We played Dark Side of the Moon much more often than we played Wish You Were Here.”

“Why would you know that?”

“Why would I know what?”

“Why would you know which album the song was on?”

“Because that’s how music should be listened to.  By album.  Track by track.  In order.”

“That’s rigid.”

“That’s how music is supposed to be recorded and it’s how it’s supposed to be listened to.  It’s not just a bunch of singles and A-sides.”

“What’s an A-side?”

“Don’t push your mother.  Besides when you were a baby, you preferred Aerosmith to Pink Floyd.  Your brother liked Queen.”

“I’m SO glad you exposed us to the classics.”

“I did.  You knew who John, Paul, George and Ringo were long before the rest of your friends.”

“Thanks.”

“We had classical music on, too.  Your father and I liked Mozart a lot.  Beethoven, Vivaldi, Tchaikovsky but never Wagner.  It’s Nazi music.”

“Wagner is not Nazi music.”

“It is so.  The only time I will allow Wagner is if it’s in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.”

“What IS this song with them hitting a wood block?”

“Well don’t ask me what I think of you, you may not give the answer that you want me to.”

“What?”

“Oh, Well by Fleetwood Mac.”

“Whatever.  What else is on?”

“Stop!  That’s ‘Retha!”

“So.”

“ARETHA FRANKLIN SINGING CHAIN OF FOOLS IS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE AND SHOULD BE TREATED AS SUCH.”

“You don’t have to yell.”

“It’s ‘Retha.”

“And?  At least she wears cool hats.”

“Mm, hmm, the woman can hat wear.”

“Mom, you know the only REAL music is classical.”

“Let me tell you this: if Mozart was alive today he would write guitar solos that would melt your eyeballs.”

“Now THAT’S something to look forward to.”

“Really.  And Beethoven would probably be Goth and Strauss would write pop and…”

“Stop.”

“Bach would probably do rap.”

“Now that’s just mean.”

“No, really.  He would be Yo-Yo Bach2Bach.”

“We also heard a country music song in History of Modern Music.”

“I’m calling the principal.  The Geneva Conventions specifically prohibit torture.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not that good, either.”

“You don’t even know which song it was.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It had guitar.”

“Doesn’t help.  Is this guitar player on the radio right- or left-handed?”

“How would I know?”

“It’s a Strat.”

“So.”

“It’s Jimi.”

“Left.”

“Good.  Glad you learned something of value.”

“Yeah, that’ll really help my college resume.”

“You never know.”

We get home and she brings in the mail. 

“What’d you get from Best Buy?”

“It’s here?”
“What’s here?”

I look at the cover of the game and there they are.  All four of them.  Alive and adorable and impossibly young.  The Cavern Club.  It was still all ahead of them, then.  We hadn’t yet learned that money can’t buy me love, someone wanted to hold my hand, it won’t be long but I should have known better because you’ve got to hide your love away.   Forever in our minds would Lovely Rita always follow When I’m Sixty-Four because it just doesn’t sound right in any other order.  Our submarines would be yellow, trees would be tangerine and skies would be marmalade that we saw through kaleidoscope eyes.  We could take a sad song and make it better, the movement we needed would be on our shoulder and sometimes we would just have to let it be but the bottom line was: the love we take is equal to the love we make. 

“Mom, you don’t even play video games.”

I sighed happily and said, “You know, honey.  It really doesn’t seem to matter.”