June 2006. The Mojave Desert in southern California.
Bound for San Diego. Annual professional business conference. Networking. Schmoozing. "Nice to see
again!" Golf. Yawn.
Normally, I fly to these things. To make it fun, I invite my 21-year old son to come along. We rent a convertible and hit the road.
He’s dozing in the passenger seat.
I see the truck up ahead. Been watching for it. You see these particular containers a lot in the west. It was just a matter of time.
“Dude, wake up. Check it out.”
My son is reading my mind as I pull into the passing lane. He rolls down the window and picks up the camera.
Scott’s also brought along his new small hard-drive based music player he calls an iPod and some gadget that allows us to play its stored music through the car radio.
I’m introduced to 2006 indie rock. The concept and the artists. Death Cab for Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, et al.
“I don’t hear this kind of music on the radio.”
“That’s the whole idea, Pop.”
In San Diego, he takes me to a
at the Embarcadero. Scott’s in the mosh pit. I’m on the back row of the bleachers, feeling old.
Decent tunes, though. In fact, when I heard
Soul Meets Body
last night on
iPod while pounding out some treadmill miles (treadmiles?) it took me back.