Pop culture runs deep
Was putting Rebekah to bed the other night, which always involves an amount of pushing, prodding and cajoling. Hundreds of things that weren’t important in the 18 or so hours leading up to bedtime suddenly HAVE to be said or done before sleep can ensue. So I was getting a little snippy and direct: “Turn off the light.” “Climb in the bed.” “Pull up the covers.” Then to counter the snippy, I laughed and said, “I didn’t say ‘Simon says.'” She laughed and said, “Well, you’re not Simon. And you’re not Garfunkel, either.”
Other one (also known as “oven one,” because that’s how Bek pronounced “other” as a baby) was kicking herself that she had goofed up in science lab, where apparently when there’s spare time her teacher likes to play old songs and let the kids guess title and artist. Teacher is probably approaching my age, so Hannah has a certain advantage in that she’s been force-fed a steady diet of anything that resembled good music from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s. She was a little ticked that she hadn’t known the singer of American Pie (but really, how often does Don McLean’s name come up in casual conversation?) and stumbled on Jim Croce (whose name does often appear on the satellite radio display), but he wasn’t going to slip a Clash song past her, so she felt redeemed.
American Pie? Didn’t Madonna sing that? Thank heavens that Don McClean knew better than to sell the rights to his songs in order to get recorded. He actually makes REAL money when other artists record his songs or when they are used in advertising (at his discretion, because he controls the rights). That folkie is one smart MoFo.