HELP! Or Are You a Scorekeeper?
So I’m fifteen years old and I’m in the car with my father and I’m blaring mad. I can still feel it: We’re on Greentree Road in Bethesda, Maryland and my father is driving me against my will to get a haircut. It’s 1968 and I don’t want a haircut. The Beatles are playing on the radio, singing the song “Help!” My father shuts off the radio, claiming that all this long hair nonsense began with those beach boys and so it was their fault to begin with. (more…)