The Sunday morning before we took Liam to camp, Val and I had had a discussion concerning the rap music Liam had purchased with a gift card he received for his birthday.
“Val, let me just read these lyrics to you. Perhaps you don’t know what our son listens to these days.”
“I know,” she said, “but is it really that much different than when we were kids? The magazines are calling that artist a genius.”
“Hon. This guy has a song called ‘Rape My Dick.’”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure it’s no big deal.” She returned to her much-more-important gossip magazine.
Then I went to his room and found him trying to set the world record for slowest packing job ever.
“So, son. I’ve read through some of the lyrics of your favorite song. And I quote, ‘Come on, come on. Come on, bitch/Come on, come on. Rape My Dick.’ Poetic. It may be copyright infringement though, son. I feel like that may have been lifted from A. R. Ammons…no wait. Rita Dove. Definitely a Dove.”
“Who are those people?”
“Dad. You know I don’t really care for the lyrics, right? I mean, is it that much different than what you liked when you were my age?”
I hated it when they teamed up without my knowledge.