I just got back from the grocery store. Youngest daughter is putting away the groceries and I have reattached the record player to my stereo system. The staccato assault of the The Ramones Rocket To Russia album is blaring as I make a gourmet quiche. I’m in a bit of a fit, you see. While at the grocery store I spied a little Miley Cyrus/cooler-than-thou poseur, just barely teenage girl wearing a t-shirt with this album cover silk screened in punk glory. She was with her mother, but I was overwhelmed with the urge to stir up a little, you know, sh!t. So I pulled out a twenty and told the girl that the twenty was hers if she could sing me the chorus or even name just one song off of the album. She couldn’t. And she used the excuse “I don’t even have the CD…”. Her mom grinned.