I get in from my homeland of Bismarck, North Dakota last night, and besides my neighborhood being sodden with loose gravel, nothing’s changed. What I hate most about going on vacation, or going out of town, or really going any place where I don’t have access to a computer, is how much catching up I have to do when I get back (which entails of reading every new music review published on the net, the op/ed pieces in the Strib, LGF, The Bleat, National Review, and a few message boards.) I was up far later than wished doing this catching up, but I wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise.

Nursing a wicked sunburn on my shoulders, I’m trying to think of any music related encounters I had in North Dakota, and the only I can recall is these two typical 11-14 year old boys with their boombox on the sandbar near us. What struck me about these two boys slouched in their lounge chairs 20 feet from where their parents were sitting, was how cool they were. Their knees spread wide, their baseball caps, the stoic looks on their faces, and of course, Eminem blasting on the boombox, told everyone within a 15/20 eyesight and 70 decibel radius that they just didn’t give a fuck. And that’s what irked me. I’m going to sound like an uptight, out-of-touch late teen here, but wouldn’t any sensible person, rebellious teen, or aged baby boomer, have some sort of inherent altruism that makes them stop for a moment and think before they twist that knob further to the right? And it’s not only the loudness, but the choice of music itself. The only imaginable thought process in their heads had to have been, “OK. We’re going to be around lots of other people, yet we want to listen to music. So, should we bring something that will be more likely to offend, something brash and cacophonous, or something that will be less prone to sneers and jowls?” 40 Oz. to Freedom was left on the shelf that day, my friends, and my party, which included some near senior-citizens, was left to grit their teeth and bare it.

I was tempted to quell my anger, and try to befriend the boys, try and be just another one of the guys. I would have done it too, but I kept imagining myself walking over and saying something to the affect of, “So…uh…I’m fully convinced that ‘97 Bonnie and Clyde’ will go down in pop history as, if nothing else, a very important song.” Then I’d ask if they’d heard the Tori Amos cover and what they thought of it and then I would get funny stares and I would scurry back to my side of the sandbar. I think most people would agree that the aforementioned conversation would have been nothing truly mind wracking or philosophical, nothing that would warrant a quizzical look, but
for some reason I was assured that’s what I would get. I’m not sure if it’s my problem or theirs.