One interesting thing about getting older, other than the attacks of gout and the desire to go to bed at 9:30 on a Friday night, is that you eventually turn into your parents.
This is especially true if you have children, because you realize you are doing and saying exactly the same things to your kids that your parents did and said to you. And of course your kids ignore you, the same way you did your parents.
I clashed with my parents over the music I listened to. I was a pretty normal, well-behaved, clean-cut son that every mother would be proud of – and then, when I was about 14, I discovered Kiss.
I mean the band, not the activity. Sadly, that took another couple of years. But I was a huge Kiss fan, and my poor parents had no idea what to do or how this could have happened to their sweet little boy.
Looking back on it now, I can totally understand my dad’s consternation. He grew up on a farm in South Georgia during the Depression, he served in the Navy in World War II, he worked for years on a General Motors assembly line, and he was a faithful church-goer. And suddenly his son is infatuated with four men who had long hair, painted their faces and wore platform boots and costumes on stage. Oh, and one of them spit blood and blew fire.
I had to convince my parents that Kiss was not a gay band, and they were not Satanic, and the letters in their name did not stand for “Knights In Satan’s Service,” as some preacher had told them. They gave me the benefit of the doubt, though I don’t think they were ever really convinced. But I didn’t drink or smoke or skip school or torture kittens, so they probably figured, all things considered, they could live with it.
They did put their foot down a couple of times. My mom walked into my room once just as I was listening to my new Ted Nugent Double Live Gonzo album. She heard Ted drop a couple of F-bombs, and that was it. I had to take it back to the store. In retrospect, she probably did me a favor.
One night, the new preacher was coming over for a visit, and just to be safe, my mom slipped into my room and took down three posters – one of Kiss singer Paul Stanley on a motorcycle, one of Led Zeppelin, and one of Suzanne Somers in a fetching blue one-piece bathing suit. I thought that last one was going a bit far. The preacher should have been worried if a 14-year-old boy WASN’T in love with Suzanne Somers in 1978.
This is especially true if you have children, because you realize you are doing and saying exactly the same things to your kids that your parents did and said to you. And of course your kids ignore you, the same way you did your parents.
I clashed with my parents over the music I listened to. I was a pretty normal, well-behaved, clean-cut son that every mother would be proud of – and then, when I was about 14, I discovered Kiss.
I mean the band, not the activity. Sadly, that took another couple of years. But I was a huge Kiss fan, and my poor parents had no idea what to do or how this could have happened to their sweet little boy.
Looking back on it now, I can totally understand my dad’s consternation. He grew up on a farm in South Georgia during the Depression, he served in the Navy in World War II, he worked for years on a General Motors assembly line, and he was a faithful church-goer. And suddenly his son is infatuated with four men who had long hair, painted their faces and wore platform boots and costumes on stage. Oh, and one of them spit blood and blew fire.
I had to convince my parents that Kiss was not a gay band, and they were not Satanic, and the letters in their name did not stand for “Knights In Satan’s Service,” as some preacher had told them. They gave me the benefit of the doubt, though I don’t think they were ever really convinced. But I didn’t drink or smoke or skip school or torture kittens, so they probably figured, all things considered, they could live with it.
They did put their foot down a couple of times. My mom walked into my room once just as I was listening to my new Ted Nugent Double Live Gonzo album. She heard Ted drop a couple of F-bombs, and that was it. I had to take it back to the store. In retrospect, she probably did me a favor.
One night, the new preacher was coming over for a visit, and just to be safe, my mom slipped into my room and took down three posters – one of Kiss singer Paul Stanley on a motorcycle, one of Led Zeppelin, and one of Suzanne Somers in a fetching blue one-piece bathing suit. I thought that last one was going a bit far. The preacher should have been worried if a 14-year-old boy WASN’T in love with Suzanne Somers in 1978.
Kiss is not the only band I was into at that time. I rebelled against the disco craze during my teenage years by liking any and all “hard rock" bands, which put me in league with the rednecks at school, or as we called them, the “hoods.” All of the hoods smoked, and they wore Army jackets. That’s how you identified them. Oh, and they didn’t wash their hair.
They would write the names of their favorite rock bands on the backs of the jackets with magic markers, but would frequently misspell the names. I can’t tell you how many times I saw a jacket with “Linnerd Skinnerd” or “Arrowsmith” or “Ted Nugget” or “Almond Brothers” written on the back. I mean, didn’t they own the records? Couldn’t they have just looked at the album cover and copied the name? I’ve never understood this.
So now, many years later, I’m a parent, and I clash with my kids over what they listen to. I’ve gone through my daughter’s I-pod a few times and made her delete an objectionable song, which is something no other parent in the world does, to hear her tell it. And I once vetoed a poster of Usher because he wasn’t wearing enough clothes to suit me.
But for the most part, what they listen to is pretty tame, unless they’re sneaking something past me, which is possible. After all, I’m the guy who hid his Sex Pistols album under the bed. There were some things mom just didn’t need to know about.
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