One of the first things Jack claims to have fallen for was my vastly original record/tape/CD collection. I’ve got everything from Japanese plink-plonk to African hum-hum to Library of Congress yee-haw, as well as a big chunk of stuff so suicidal-nerd-punk that he just laughs at it. The names just kill him, never mind the music. So last night we were driving to pick up a pizza at Giovanni’s (they don’t deliver, we don’t care) and I popped in a CD. Jack listened to it for a moment or two and then said, “Who’s this, The Velvet Steamirons?” “Why, yes!” I replied, “It is The Velvet Steamirons.” (It was actually Coldplay’s first, which is mildly depressive but also relaxingly babylike.) We got our pizza and stopped in the liquor store so Jackson could peruse the beer case and I could browse the porn (man, I thought we as a nation were over Freakishly Big Tits, but I guess I’m out of touch, and as punishment now I’ll get seventy hits from jerkoffs looking for Freakishly Big Tits. THERE ARE NO TITS HERE. GO AWAY. And take the weirdos looking for pictures of forced diapering with you). We got back in the car and, as usual, Jack just wouldn’t let it go. “You can’t fool me,” he said, “this isn’t The Velvet Steamirons, it’s the Pumpernickel Pimple People.” I was trying to make a U-turn at this point and just about ran into a light pole.
The good news is that Sunday night is now Pizza Night, and Jackson likes it with ham and mushroom but he dinks off the pineapple. I’m like, “You liked pineapple at lunch, what’s wrong with it now that it’s warm and has oregano on it?” And I get a look that says, “Pineapple on a pizza? Where do you think we are, California?”