I think this discovery may be important for the entire future of mankind.
Conversation in the car with Natasha, age four:
“How come Antoine doesn’t have his leash on?” (Antoine is a 9.3 pound English poodle.)
“Because he doesn’t need a leash when he’s in the car, Honey.”
“Why?”
I thought about this for a second and decided it would be hard to explain, and the result of most any explanation would be an endless sequence of "why?"s, so I decided to improvise.
“Forty two,” I said.
“What’s forty two?” Natasha asked.
“Forty two is why Antoine doesn’t need to wear his leash in the car, Honey.”
Hm. Interesting answer. I don’t think I would have bought it, though.
Here’s one of my favorite stories from my own history of being a parent.
When my two older daughters were about 7 (Sarah) and 5 (Angela), I’m driving the two of them around one night in the minivan. Angela is playing with my flashlight and shining it in her own face. Sarah, ever the little mother, says, “Don’t do that, Angela. You’ll go blind and have to learn sign language.”
So, I’m in the front seat trying to keep from busting out laughing. After a few minutes, I look in the rear-view mirror and see Sarah has this sort of confused look on her face. I say, “What’s wrong, honey?” and she says “There’s something wrong with what I said but I can’t figure out what it is.”
What I’ve noticed with Natasha is that any answer will satisfy her if it doesn’t provide ammunition for another “Why?” I often think of how to explain something simply enough so she’ll understand my answer, but then I remember that it doesn’t matter.
Like:
“What are you doing?”
“I’m adjusting the soundblade.”
“Why?”
“Because the upper register doesn’t work right.”
“Oh.” (perfectly satisfied)
In fact, if I try to explain what I’m doing in terms she might understand, which takes much longer, she gets bored and starts fidgiting.
I was kind of thinking, if it’s the answer to Life, The Universe and Everything, it might be a suitable answer for all those “Why?” questions. So I tried it, and it worked.
Whenever a recording artist is innovative, we tend to be more forgiving, allowing for the special challenges of the uncharted. We give them a little headstart. We spot some points. But true genius is often found in those who tackle the more familiar and mundane and adding that special creative touch that sets their work apart.
And here is where we find the work of Donovan. Not that namby-pamby hippie “Hurdy-Gurdy” pansy from the sixties, but the New Donovan, a bold new artist who is at once minimalist and complex.
In “Pickles” we find a fresh voice. Fresh because he is a new artist and fresh because he is young. Really young. Preschool young. This makes all the more audacious Donovan’s choice to record live in his father’s home studio, dismissing the use of overdubbing, digital trickery, backing vocals and, yes, even instruments. This is–Do we dare coin the term?–Preschool/New School Existential a Cappella.
Young Donavan’s boldness is apparent here. He rejects the image, the metaphor, the oblique modes of expressing his most basic desire. “I like pickles,” he intones, with a cheerful abandon that says, in so many words, “I like pickles.” Notice: He doesn’t “dig” them. He doesn’t long for them only to find that longing unrequited. No. He likes pickles. He tells us nothing of the history of his…liking. Has he liked pickles before, been hurt, and is only now able to reassert his like for pickles? We’re not allowed to know. What we know, is that this artist likes him some badass pickles.
I have seen the future of music and its name is Donovan.
Oh…
And, again, not that gown-wearing, pale long-hair flower child that must be hiding out in the same mountain commune cabin with Melanie or somebody. But the Donovan for our time.
Or more accurately, the time of, like, these kids today.
Arleen tells of the time she went to visit her friend. She happened to arrive just as the friend was putting her two year old son in the car to go somewhere. The two year-old was screaming at the top of his lungs. Arleen asked, “What’s his problem?” Her friend answered, “He wants to drive.”
I just can’t get gushy, “isn’t he cute?” all over kids. Kittens, yes. Kids, no. I tend to talk to them with grown-up words, and as a result, I’m sure, my Darling Daughter scored in the 99th percentile in verbal skills while in school.
But I did find a cutie when I went to a house party hosted by a co-worker. His little tyke, somewhere around 2 or 3, was headed toward some steps that looked a little big for him. I was already there, so I wordlessly stuck my hand over within reach. He gave me a once-over and took it until he was down the steps and then went pelting off.
Then he comes back later, and I was led down some other steps and off to explore the yard. When we got to the cooler I opened a juice box for him.
His dad came by later and said he’d never seen the kid take to anyone like that. And last week he claims the kid sent his greetings to me.
Okay, I like some kids. But at my age, better you than me!
