It was my daughter’s birthday and I watched her twist and sway to the noise that could only be called music in the loosest of definitions. I knew that I was in danger of becoming my father, but my saving grace was that I had yet to actually articulate my low opinion on the quality of this band. I wanted to understand, I truly did, but it was difficult because I couldn’t comprehend more than three consecutive words of their non-rhyming lyrics at any given moment. Still my daughter was enjoying herself, immensely from the look of her gyrations, and I tried to make sure that my presence didn’t intrude upon her merriment. And then the band broke into their rendition of Sweet Child of Mine and all former transgressions were forgiven as I suddenly began to rock out, jumping and banging my head, to my daughter’s favorite band. She looked at me, giving me the slightest measure of a smile, and I realized that I wasn’t as out of touch with today’s music as I’d originally thought.