A few days ago, my usually not-so-talkative son was talking to me, trying to explain the psychological harm that I was inflicting upon him by not yet having purchased the new Wolfmother cd. I said, "Well, we've got the new Raconteurs cd--that's solid and you never listen to it." His response was predictable for his gender and his age: he rolled his eyes, walked out of the room (slamming the door behind him), and screamed "GOD!" so loudly that the neighbors surely thought that there had been some sort of apparition somewhere on the block.

Now that I am about to become the mother of a teenager, I am trying to hone my translating skills--here's my rough draft of what he was trying to communicate: he NEEDS both cd's.

I give him a hard time, but I really do remember what it was like at his age, especially when I think back about arguing with my family about music. My brother, mother, father and I were all VERY passionate about music, with the only problem being a lack of common ground amongst us.

I remember once, during my first year at the world's most socially oppressive high school (H B Plant), I opted to take the day off, a benefit my parents typically granted me in exchange for my good grades and my aptitude for covering my tracks when I'd stepped over the lines. That day, Dad asked me to pal around with him, going on one of those trips that started with a specific destination but that usually became nothing more than a meandering tour of Tampa. He handed me the keys so that I could start the the land-yacht that was the family car--which was way-cool since "he who gets there first controls the radio" (Rules of the Road, Book 4, Chapter 16, Verse 71).

The radio was treating me just right until my dad got in the car, scrunched his face into a prune, and said, "What in the hell have you got me listening to?"

With the ceremonial rolling of my eyes, I said, "Led Zeppelin" to my father who, with a single comment, had sunk below moron-status.

"Not in my car," he replied, as he took control of the tuning dial.

"Ok--but only if you can find something better," I bargained, knowing that I'd just given him, by definition, an impossible task.

I grew smug as he drove along, fumbling with the knob, trying to find something agreeable to his disagreeable ears...and when he was far south on the dial, I knew I had him. It was about the time that a smile began to push back my cheeks, as I was leaning forward, reaching to take command of the knobs, it was just then...that...he...found...Tchaikovsky. I was sunk and I knew it.

He pushed on the buttons to roll down all the windows in the car while simultaneously rotating the volume control, forcing his music on Tampa at such a volume that it was safe to assume that even people in other cars would suffer lifelong hearing loss. We were just a few blocks away from my high school. With a full grasp of just how dire my situation was, I responded in a reasonable manner: I turned, raised up, crawled over the seats, and crouched on the floorboard of the backseat.

"If I'd known it would be that easy to get rid of you......" he started.

"Dad, we're going past my high school--I am going to DIE!"

"Again," he said, "if I'd known it would be that easy...."

Crouching, I screamed, "Dad, how can you do this to me? I mean, you could just as well set me out on the side of the road in a polyester jumpsuit."

Oh my...I'd gone too far and I knew it. As I sat there, stewing in my brew of anger and humiliation, I heard the silent noise of his polyester jumpsuit shifting as he leaned forward in his seat. The stereo grew louder. I looked out the window and saw an opening in the sky--no rooftops, no trees--we were right in front of my high school. It was then that he absolutely blasted the stereo…and he started honking…over and over and over…as he flailed his arm out the window, conducting the imaginary orchestra in the sky. The worst thing was that it was all happening in slow...motion...my life... coming to an absolute...end...at...the....hands...of....my..........father.

Seemingly hours later (but probably much more like about the time he'd driven just past the high school), my father turned off the radio. Knowing it was time to make amends, resolve the matter, and move forward like reasonable, loving family members,  I climbed back into the front seat, looked at him and said, “Are you trying to kill me? You’re such an asshole.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, little girl.”

Equipped with a premature appreciation of irony, I smiled.

I flipped him off and moved my hand quickly before he snatched my extended finger from the air.

“You’re too slow, Old, Fat Man. Turn back the clock a few years and you may have a chance.”

Equipped with a necessary appreciation for saucy teenagers, he smiled.

We’re even! It’s a draw! Tie game! It felt like a victory.

He leaned forward, turned on the radio again, this time opting for a more moderate volume. And then he looked over and said, “There’s something you’re too young to understand. It’s really simple. Intelligent people like intelligent music. That’s why you don’t like my music.”

Dammit. He’d won. Dammit, Dammit, Dammit. He'd won again. He always won.

So now, on days when I’m driving around town and I’m especially missing Dad or when I’m feeling like doing something naughty, I crack my windows at least an inch or two and turn up my stereo a few notches, giving Tuscaloosa its much-needed dose of Marah. And since my son is somewhat ok with Marah, it doesn’t embarrass him. In fact, the only thing that really embarrasses my son is when I listen to the soundtrack of “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.” As much as I like it, it kind of embarrasses me too.