When I had kids, I knew that it would come with the territory that I would have to listen to music that irritated the hell out of me. I might not have had kids ten years ago, but I learned from enough hacky Barney the Dinosaur jokes on sitcoms that there would come a day where a children’s album/act would make me grit my teeth.

Lila, a creature of habit, has albums that she demands over and over again. There’s a local singer, Randy Kaplan, who has a CD that we have listened to over and over on road trips, simply because after a while it is less trouble to listen to the same CD four times in a row than it is to listen to “Can we listen to Randy?” 400 times in a row. But Randy’s album is good, and only irritating the way anything would be after way too many plays.

But Lila has a new CD that I’m not even sure where it came from, but it has suddenly become number one on her hit parade, and it’s killing me. It’s a live album by a band called The Sippy Cups. From what I can tell from one album, their deal is to play rock standards that have refrains that, on the surface, sound like they could be kids songs. For example, their hipster lead singer says, “Hey, kids, how many of you love the sun?” and then they play the Velvet Underground song, “Who Loves the Sun,” first teaching the kids in the audience to sing along with the catchy, upbeat chorus. Now Lila sings along, too. And yes, just by the chorus, it sounds like it could be a Wiggles song in which they ask everyone who likes the sun, rain, wind, etc. But the rest of the lyrics are all about how the singer in question can’t enjoy the most basic things after his girlfriend broke his heart.

Obviously, the kids can’t grasp that, which makes me wonder, what’s the point of singing songs that kids can’t grasp? “C is for Cookie” doesn’t take a dark turn: C is for Cookie, and that’s good enough for me, and you, and everyone under the age of seven. End of story. We have spelled, now we will eat sweet treats. Should it go on to say that O is for Obesity, and that’s good enough for a self-indulgent society that eats its fear and loneliness?

I’m assuming that the Sippy Cups’ theory is that by playing classic rock songs, not only will it wean kids onto “good” music, but parents who are otherwise tearing their hair out over simplistic Raffi songs will also be entertained (and therefore buy more Sippy Cup albums). And yet, I find this far more annoying than any simplistic, overly cheery music written for kids. Because all they are is a mediocre cover band who, in between numbers, talk in ninnyspeak to kids, introducing characters like “Superguy.” It’s as if Captain Kangaroo was the lead singer of a wedding band.

Did I mention that they sing a cover of the Ramones’ “I Wanna Feel Sedated,” but change the lyric to “I Wanna Feel Elated”? What is the point of that? As a teenager, I remember constantly being filled in on the dirty subtext to rock songs. Some wizened tenth grader would lean in conspiratorially and say, “You know ‘Turning Japanese’ is about masturbation, right?” The Sippy Cups are the complete opposite of that: they take a song that is adult on its surface and strip it of all rebellion or adult themes. I’m surprised they don’t play “Dirty Boulevard” by Lou Reed, and intro it by saying, “Hey, kids, do you like to clean your room? No? Well this is a song about a road that gets really dirty, too! And Pedro likes it, because he likes to deal...cards! Yay, let's play dirty Go Fish!”

For the past couple of weeks, every time we get in the car, Lila has instantly asked for the Sippy Cups. And every time it plays, I've muttered to Christine a variation of what I just wrote above, while Lila would obliviously sing along to “Bennie and the Jets” in the back seat. Finally, the other day, Christine told me she never wanted to hear this gripe again, because A) she was sick of it, but more importantly, B) I should never complain about it in front of Lila. I got very defensive, saying that Lila wasn’t even listening, and I had every right to mock this ridiculous group. But Christine said, “If you start sneering at her music now, you’ll keep doing it. Then when she’s a teenager, if every time she says, ‘I want to listen to _____,’ you snort at it, then you’re turning yourself into the dad who has no respect for what she likes or what she is other than what you think she should be. Plus, if you want to know her and what she’s about, and yet you set yourself up as the guy who sneers at her tastes, then she’s not going to share it with you, because she doesn’t want to feel minimized when you dismiss it.”

Christine and I can both dig in our heels in an argument; a lot of it is that we're competitive, and don't like to lose. I think sometimes we automatically disagree with the other spouse’s point for the same reason we like to crush each other at Speed Scrabble. When she said this about Lila’s music, I found myself reflexively preparing to bat away her theory, and I opened my mouth, about to say that this was quite an absurd extrapolation based on one recurring joke about a kiddie album. And yet in the time it took me to say, “Jeez, Christine,” I realized she was absolutely right.

So it came out of my mouth, “Jeez, Christine...that’s actually a very good point, and you’re right.” I was already on a different track, so it came out with the same intonation that I’d use to say, “You couldn’t be more full of shit,” so it took a minute for her (and me) to register that I’d just wholeheartedly concurred. The car was just quiet after that (well, other than the Sippy Cups signing “Low Rider,” those fuckers) as we gained our equilibrium, so thrown off from agreeing.

I don’t agree that I shouldn’t complain about it to just Christine, mind you: part of the marital pact is that you will indulge your spouse as he or she repeats the same talking points about their pet peeves until the day one of you either dies or kills the other one. But I shouldn’t do it in front of Lila. I’m not saying I want to be the Dad who comes in and says, “Hey, those Jonas Brothers sure are ginchy! I enjoy their latest single as well, and will now dance awkwardly to it!” That can turn a kid off just as much. But if, as parents, you sit in the front of the car, rolling your eyes at the opening notes of every teenybop single, then you are instantly establishing and widening a formal Generation Gap that says, “Hey, young ‘un, just a heads up: eventually you will learn that everything you stand for right now is foolish. I have learned that. Me smart, you clueless. I will now impatiently wait twenty years until you figure that out.” I am sure that I will need to do multiple workouts to be able to control the muscles that will otherwise instantly cringe when I hear the pop music of the future; it's unavoidable that every generation will be sure that the next generation’s music is pointless. Same goes with comedy and fashion. I’m sure I’ll feel the same way, but if I want to have an honest rapport with my kids, I’d better learn how to lie about hating their favorite stuff.

We’re off on vacation this week. The Wolk part of me (which I guess is the entire part of me) felt reluctant to announce that, as I grew up with parents that were sure that letting it be known that you are on vacation is the quickest way to get your house robbed. When we traveled, timed lights were set all over the house to simulate people being home. I’m surprised my father didn’t build a robot programmed to act like a shut-in, an agoraphobadroid. It would pace in front of windows, a prerecorded voice loudly booming from his chestplate, “I AM SO TERRIFIED OF PEOPLE I SHALL NEVER LEAVE THIS HOUSE AND MY BELONGINGS. BEEP. ALL I NEED ARE MY FOUR WALLS AND MY GUN COLLECTION. BEEP. I AM SO TERRIFIED OF PEOPLE I SHALL NEVER LEAVE THIS HOUSE AND MY BELONGINGS…”

(I will now preempt an email response from my mother, writing it so she doesn’t have to: DEAR WISE GUY: IT SO HAPPENS THAT THE X’S DOWN THE STREET AND THE Y’S AROUND THE CORNER BOTH CAME HOME FROM THEIR FAMILY VACATIONS TO FIND THAT THEIR HOUSES HAD BEEN COMPLETELY RANSACKED. SO IF YOU WANT TO GET ROBBED, FINE, LET THE WORLD KNOW. LOVE, MOM. There, so that’s covered.)

Anyway, I can make this public because we have friends staying at our house while we’re gone. Lights will be going on and off at completely unpredictable times, people will be coming and going. Hear that, robbers? Move on to some other sucker!

So the point of the story is that we’re vacationing on the North Fork of Long Island. Those of you not from the area have probably heard of the Hamptons, but not the North Fork. Well, if you’re driving east to the tip of Long Island, it forks; the southern edge is the fabulous Hamptons, summer home of Billy Joel, Howard Stern, and Steven Spielberg. If you stay to the north, it’s the North Fork, quiet area full of wineries and small beaches where the celebrities most definitely do not come to fun and frolic. It is like the Hamptons’ nerdy older brother whom the Hamptons don’t like to talk about, and say things to it like, “Uh…I’m having a party, but you probably wouldn’t like it. You should totally stay home and rent a movie, it’ll be a lot more fun!”

There is one main route to both of them, which is the Long Island Expressway. At one point, the route to take to the Hamptons splits off. During our drive out here, Lila had to go the bathroom, and I’d been driving for miles looking for a convenient gas station, and finally pulled off, coincidentally at the East Hamptons exit. We pulled into the Mobil station, and apparently this is a popular pit stop for everybody heading to the Hamptons. It is a waystation I have dubbed Asshole Junction.

The parking lot and pumps were clogged with the hipster versions of a clown car: tiny sportsters that disgorged crowds of of willowy women with Brazilian accents and tiny dogs, and guys with perfectly weathered T-shirts, sporting their weight in hair gel. They were all milling around, leaving one driver of each car behind to helplessly look for a peon to pump his gas for him. It was like a convention of douchebags. I took Lila inside, to what could possibly have been the filthiest bathrooms I’ve ever seen in my life. It would have been cleaner to actually take her into the sewer to pee. I wonder whether the owners of the station keep it that way just to appall the hipsters who stop in. Either that or these Hamptonites are the dirties people alive. I guess it’s hard to aim for a toilet when both hands are busy Blackberrying.

I’ve never been happier to be uncool in my life. It warmed my heart knowing that while all of them would be heading south, I would get right back on the freeway and head north, to a nightclub-free land where sunburned kids run free, and exhausted parents unloads colorful bouquets of Styrofoam noodles at the beach. And I don't have to worry about my eyes burning when I swim because I've passed through a hair gel slick.

I read this item in the NY Daily News’ Rush and Molloy gossip column today:

Wayne Brady wasn't wearing underpants when his trousers split during a performance of "Making It Up" at The Venetian in Vegas.

Wow. Any shock value that might come from famed improviser Wayne Brady splitting his pants is completely negated by the complete predictability that he would have a song in his act called “Making It Up.” Knowing nothing about his Vegas act – or even that he had a Vegas act – I still thought that if he DID have an act, there was a one-to-one chance that it would include a song called “Making It Up.” It’s completely on the nose: it’s as if Weird Al Yankovic had a ditty called “Coming Up With Silly Lyrics to Popular Songs.”

What other original numbers are in Wayne Brady’s act? Is there a love ballad called “Give Me An Emotion (And a Profession and a Common Appliance)”?

There was a lot of talk a while ago about how Wayne Brady was a triple threat: he could be funny, sing, and dance. And then he got a talk show, it failed, and he slinked off to Vegas. I think his triple threatitude put people off. It was one thing for him to sing and dance for a silly improv show, but once he wanted his talents to be taken seriously, everyone winced and turned away. I think that the age of the Triple Threat is over. I’m not sure if it’s the age of specialization or what, but people are annoyed by any show biz type who shows he or she can “do it all.” It’s fine if someone happens to have a side talent as a graceful dancer, a la Steve Martin (I know that’s not the most topical of examples); then it’s considered an impressive hobby. But anyone who flaunts their hyphenate talents, well, we just don’t like that at all. That may fly on the Broadway stage, but not in mass popular culture. That’s why people never buy albums by actors or actresses. That, or the idea of Scarlett Johanssen doing an entire album of Tom Waits covers is just an implicitly bad idea.

I have not road tested this theory yet, but I will be performing scientific experiments on Nathan Lane as soon as I get my funding.