We walked with daughter Rebecca and four grandchildren up to the noisy yogurt shop. Off-key vocals blared from hundred-watt karaoke speakers as teenagers took turns singing pop songs. We stopped, watched and listened.
My tweenage granddaughter Libby, who mouthed the words of every song, shouted in my ear over the noise, somewhat aghast, "Grandpa, the song they are singing has the 'B-word' in it--but it's okay because the guy singing changed it to 'Johnson.'"
Hum... changing "my bitch" to "my Johnson..."
Sweet innocence.
Sweet innocence.
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