Yesterday I drove across the state with my running buddy, Frank and Tassy. They were going out to the Jersey Shore to celebrate the long weekend and fourth of July. I joined them for the a ride across the turnpike to visit my folks over the weekend.
For those of you who don't know Tassy's story, or how he's become connected to my life, you can read about it here. The shorter version is that Tassy is 18, comes from Haiti, and has quickly become one of my favorite people.
Tassy has a terrific voice, and loves music, but it became quickly apparent to Frank and I that he has not had a lot of experience with classic rock. As he will be attending high school in the fall here in the states, we decided it was only necessary to use these couple hours to introduce him to Zeppelin, Hendrix, the Stones, etc. We set up a Pandora station and were having a great time singing along, drumming on the steering wheel, and generally waxing nostalgic about music, that while certainly not from our time, was what we were raised on nonetheless.
At one point, we turned around to ask Tassy whether or not he liked a particular song, also mentioning that is was great and famous, and therefor implying obviously that he should be loving this, when I realized.
"Oh my god," I said to Frank. "Do you know who we are right now?"
"Who?"
"Our parents!"
And there we were forcing this poor kid to listen to classic rock while we sang along and talked about how great it is on a road trip in the summer.
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