This was me at an age that I apparently got the calling to be fashionable. And my parents still kept me on the music of their own coming of age…I mean, I’m sure that Tupac or Snoop Dogg or Styx or whoever I was supposed to be listening to had just as bad of lyrics as Jimi Hendrix and his purple haze all up in his brain, but that said, I remember alot of singing taking place. Okay, so what if mom can’t carry a tune, or remember the lyrics, I remember dad grabbing the nearest wrench and singing into it while tinkering with his Jeep. Regardless of how good we were, these were memories, and I loved them.
Okay, except John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. I hate this song. My sister played it OVER and OVER and OVER. I wanted to slit my wrists. I didn’t, obviously, but I’m here to tell you…my parents may have passed alot of great music on to me. But I’m not passing that one to my kids.