I listen to her sing along -- and I pipe in with my own feeble warbling of those random lines and the chorus -- and I wonder how many times she has listened to the damn song in order to memorize it. I imagine her sitting at her computer, singing along with a YouTube version that has the lyrics scrolling along. She intently listens and stares and backs up the video when needed. Eventually, she knows it as well as the Black Eyed Peas do.
"What a waste of time," I think.
After the song ends, Don McLean's "American Pie" comes on. Daughter knows the chorus, of course, but only only only because her boyfriend was in the car with us once when the song came on the radio. I sang along then, of course, because, hell, it's "American Pie." Daughter bitterly complained, not just over the embarrassment of her mom singing IN FRONT OF HER BOYFRIEND, but also because the song is so lame.
Her boyfriend, however, is an aficionado of classic rock, and he informed her that "American Pie" is fabulous. So Daughter, while still embarrassed to death that her mom is singing IN FRONT OF HER BOYFRIEND, no longer complained about the song itself. She even learned the chorus.
All of which leads us back to last night's "American Pie," when I sing every single solitary line of that song -- and Daughter chimes in at the chorus -- and we even drive around the block so as not to arrive home before the song is complete. And I am transported back to the days of 45's and playing a song over and over and over until I know it as well as Don McLean himself does.
"Maybe not so much a waste of time," I think.
At the end of the song, as we are pulling into the driveway, I tell Daughter that "American Pie" is the only non-Springsteen song I want played at my funeral. She agrees to remember. Here's hoping she has to remember for a very long time.