I hate being sick; it makes me anxious and depressed. But I got to watch six hours of Super Bowl pre-game coverage on TV, so there's that. I was half asleep at some point, when I heard my 13-year-old son say "Muzak? Why is he calling it 'Muzak'? Is that just a weird way of saying 'music'?"
"No," I said. "Muzak is a thing. It's hard to explain." So I tried to explain it and found that I was 100% right--it is hard to explain. My son was alternately curious and puzzled. "Did they only play it in elevators?"
"No," I said. "Elevators, and doctor's offices, and grocery stores--and other places."
"Why?" he asked. "Why did they have music in elevators? And why didn't they just play the real songs?"
"It's hard to explain," I said again. "But it was everywhere when I was growing up, and then it just became much less popular, and now you don't hear it anymore."
*****
So that's a lot of background for the next conversation with a kid; this time, the 16-year-old. I was waiting to drive him to a swim team event last week, and he decided to change his sweatshirt at the last minute. "Hurry up," I told him. "You're already running late."
"I know," he said, pulling off his red hooded sweatshirt. "But this sweatshirt looks weird. I feel like Little Red Robin Hood."
"Like who?" I asked.
"Little Red Robin Hood. You know--with the grandmother and the wolf?"
"You mean Little Red RIDING Hood?" I asked.
He scoffed. "That's not her name. It's Little Red Robin Hood. Isn't it?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's not. There's Robin Hood, and there's Little Red Riding Hood. They're two different people. Not related."
"Hmm," he said. "I've been saying Little Red Robin Hood for a long time. Someone could have told me."
*****
Back to the 13-year-old, on another day last week.
"Mr. R's jokes don't make any sense," he said. Mr. R. is his band teacher.
"How so?" I asked. "Give me an example."
He thought for a moment. "OK. Here's one. What do you get when you throw a piano down a well?"
"I don't know," I said. "What?"
"A flat minor," he said. "See? What does that even mean?"
I thought for a minute. "Are you sure he said well? Did he maybe say mine shaft? What do you get when you throw a piano down a mine shaft?"
"Yeah!" he said. "He did say mine shaft! But that makes even less sense. What's a mine shaft?"
I explained what a mine shaft is. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then the look of recognition dawned. "OH! So it's a MINER and a MINOR! Like a guy who works in a mine, and a FLAT MINOR, like in music! Ha ha ha! That's actually a pretty good one!"
*****
Frame of reference is everything. I read to my children all the time when they were little, but I guess we missed the Little Red Riding Hood. I'm not sure what happened with the 13-year-old and the mine shaft and the well. I know that mining is a dying industry, but he's also never seen a well in his life, so I don't know how his mind subconsciously substituted well for mine shaft. And I never did ask what prompted the Muzak conversation in the first place. There are just so many things that were household words when I was their age, which are now obsolete, no longer even remembered.
*****
Tuesday: Some things, however, don't change that much. I just helped my 16-year-old with a paper SAT registration form. You still have to fill in the boxes with block letters, and then color in the little circles. What's different now is that you have to supply a picture. We didn't have a picture that met all of the specifications (of which there are many) so we took one and printed it.
He's wearing a different hoodie in this one. I wonder who reviews the applications; which College Board employee sees the thousands of pictures of eager, optimistic teenagers with their hoodies and their floppy hair, and their sweet, barely formed faces.
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| Head and shoulders visible; full face view (required). Floppy hair and hoodie (optional) |
*****
Thursday: So I'm not much of a football fan, and I've lived in a Redskins household for many years, but I grew up in Philadelphia, among the hardest-core of hard-core Philadelphia sports fans. I watched the game from my sick-person nest on the couch, and although I'd been rooting for the Eagles all along, I was surprised at how happy I felt about the win. My grandfather was a huge fan, loyal through the franchise's worst years, when they made the Browns look like contenders. My brother and nephews are also dedicated fans. My brother, one of my sisters, four of my nephews, and my 72-year-old aunt all went to the parade today, which was patrolled by my cousin, a Philadelphia Police officer. I'm pretty sure that none of them punched horses or climbed light poles, but I saw some pictures of my hometown doing some crazy things. I'm happy for them. Fly Eagles Fly.
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