Thank you for the music (even if I did not really dig it)

Soundtracks to your youth are not produced by the esoteric choices your sub-conscious reaches for in that epic quest to be ‘cool’.

Instead, it’s the blaring sound of shameless popular music that really is accompanying your misguided attempts at finding your place in the world.

So while I’d like to think it was Roy Orbison and Rare Earth that defined my youth, it was in fact, to some extent, Whitney Houston and Madonna.

I cringed at Madonna’s Superbowl performance (while the world, was, for some reason impressed).

And I almost cried for Whitney Houston. I did shed a tear.

Come back home, come back home to me

All of three, the little lady,

Wept like the baby she is.

Across a million miles, on the phone she cried,

Dada, when are you coming back home?

She wailed and howled, when I said girl, not now,

Not for some time, but soon, you’ll see…

Ok, she said, her sobs full of dread

Of a daughter left to hurt and feel…

A pain that no child, should ever have to cry

For a dad not there to be.

Come back soon, come back now
Come back when, come back how
Come back home, come back home to me