"I was the lead man in a struggling band. Chef told me to wear funny hats. I thought he said "bite the head off a bat." - Ozzy, South Park

This was a picture taken by The Boy. It took me a while to figure out what it was, but it turns out it was a picture of an egg whisk in hell. No, actually, that's the springy little thing inside a cheap red flashlight that he took a picture of. I would love to have the time to do that, but, hey, drugs are illegal, and that's what he's for, to see things I can't. Go, The Boy!

I was sitting at my computer the other day, contemplating the potential integration of the entire personality of a human, a mechanism to allow a person to overcome all fear and thus become unlimited in their potential – a revolutionary new way for mankind to put fear, hatred and war behind them. Either that or I was thinking about getting a piece of jerky from the kitchen. I can’t recall which.

Anyhow, as I pondered, weak and weary, I heard the familiar strains of Tony Iommi’s guitar, playing Black Sabbath’s version of “Paranoid.” I believe that this song was written before Ozzy had enough of his brain removed by brain termites so he sounds like he’s fifty years older than Wilford Brimley.

I was alone. The Mrs. was doing, well, whatever The Mrs. does when she’s not with me (I think she was training a bunch of Green Berets sixty ways to kill a man with a whiffleball bat). Pugsley was digesting his latest meal, six steaks and a baked potato, not bad for 19 months old – he gnaws his way out of the crib at night for snacks. The Boy was in bed, theoretically sleeping.

I decided to investigate.

It was The Boy. The Boy had taken his Sony™ Micro-Cassette recorder and recorded a bit of radio from the local classic rock station.

Why is The Boy listening to classic rock? Well, there’s exactly one of classic rock station in Houston, but about seventy-zillion rap stations, several stations in Spanish, and one (I think) in Arabic. The Boy doesn’t speak Arabic, nor does he speak Spanish (though he can do a stream of consciousness gibberish that he calls Spanish), so the three choices are rap, country, and classic rock. I don’t mind rap, in a strictly academic sense, but as a practical matter, the subject matter is a bit stronger than PG-13, most of the time. The Boy hasn’t been in prison with his mamma while his dog was stolen by the woman that done him wrong, so he doesn’t listen to much country. Given that The Boy is six, well, I’d much rather he be listening to classic rock, where I know the worst of it is listening to Bob Seger whine about people being mean to him because his hair is long. Stupid Bob Seger.

As such, The Boy’s been grooving lately to KKRW. He’s gone so far as to take his Sony® Micro-Cassette recorder and record stretches of radio. Thus, Ozzy Osbourne was letting The Boy know what it was like to be finished with my woman because she couldn’t help me with my mind. Apparently, people think he’s insane because he’s frowning all the time. Can you help him?

I don’t know. Black Sabbath may have been music that I tried to scare my parents with (didn’t work) but, then again, I wasn’t listening to that when I was six. I was listening to Alice Cooper instead. “It’s just a phase, dear, he’ll grow out of it.”

Following The Boy’s taped version of Ozzy, came Fleetwood Mac, complete with Stevie Nicks singing (is it just me, or does it sound like Stevie is gargling with marbles on all of those songs?). The Boy apparently loves it. There he was, sprawled out on his bed in his PJ’s, listening to his songs.

I reached down and turned the cassette player off.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“You’ll kill the batteries if you leave this on all night. I’ll turn on your radio. That work for you?”

“Yeah.”

I closed the door to the room, Steve Miller singing about how he’d like to take the money and run. The Boy resumed his slumber and all was right with the world.

Now, was I interested in solving all of humanity’s problems via creating a method wherein people could eliminate war? Or was it the jerky?

It was the jerky. Mmmm. Jerky tastes good.