When I was in high school, my father would blast country music on the way to our school while my brother and I groaned in our beat–up caravan. Being the oldest, I always rode in the front seat and would move the radio dial every time the light turned green. This action would often escalate into radio wars for the entire duration of the trip.
“All the songs are about some guy whining about how he lost his woman and his truck and his dog and now all he has is his booze and his guitar. Cry me a river!” I would complain to my father.
“It sounds like someone is kicking a dog!” he would quip back whenever we were on my rock-n-roll station.
Before we entered the school grounds, we would beg him to change the station for fear that some Garth Brooks crooning might escape through the windows and my brother and I would be held at the mercy of bullies in the senior parking lot. Most times he would turn it off, but every once in a while, he would blast it just as one of us opened the door.
Facebook
Twitter
eNews
