By Lorry Myers
I was riding along, singing that same old song when I heard a sound coming from the backseat. I turned the volume down in time to hear my grandson say, “Queenie, your music is old.”
With that, I had to pull over.
“What are you talking about?” I asked my six-year-old grandson, turning to stare him down in his booster seat.
“They don’t play songs like that on the radio anymore,” Ivan said, sounding like he knew what he was talking about.
“Hey, that was Conway Twitty! I saw him in concert!” I replied, trying to keep the sting out of my voice.
“Is he still alive?” Ivan snidely asked, like he was trying to make a point.
“OK.” I said, with the car idling in the background. “What should I be listening to?”
“The radio,” Ivan quickly replied, pointing to the console.
“That’s what I have on,” I answered back, just as quickly.
“No, Queenie,” Ivan said with resign. “The radio that plays new music, not old music over and over.”
Whose kid is this?
“So, who do you listen to?” I asked him, thinking he would say Alexa. Instead, Ivan rattled off a bunch of names like Masked Wolf, Tones and I, and someone named Niko Moon.
“Niko Moon!” I said with a scoff. “What kind of name is that?”
“Queenie.” Ivan replied in a way that conveyed that he was the adult in this situation. “You listen to bands named after bugs and rocks.”
All this from a kid strapped into a booster seat.
“Sing me something,” I challenged this self-proclaimed music connoisseur. “Sing me one song.”
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard