We blast The Tragically Hip’s “50 Mission Cap” on the way to hockey.
My son loves the song because it involves two of his favourite things — hockey and fishing.
I love it because it’s about hockey hero Bill Barilko, and “the last goal he ever scored won the Leafs the Cup.”
(And they are going to win it again this year!)
Anyway, my son is eight and likes to test the limits, particularly when it comes to language and the words he’s allowed to say.
“Can I say the S-word?” he asks.
“How about the F-word?” “Absolutely not!”
“Well, can I say the M-word?” “Huh, what’s the M-word?” “You know,” he says, before mouthing it.
“NOOOO .... If I ever hear you say that you’ll be grounded until Donald Trump is no longer president, and God help us all if he gets a second term.”
“I can still say ‘poop’ though,” he says.
He recently asked Siri the same question and she told him to “keep it clean.”
As I said, he enjoys pushing the boundaries. My buttons, too.
Which brings me back to “50 Mission Cap.”
The next song on “Yer Favourites” — an essential album for every Canadian’s music collection — is “New Orleans Is Sinking.”
Lately, to my surprise, he’s been requesting that song.
As a Tragically Hip lover, that makes me smile.
The Hipdoctrination has been successful.
We’ve now enjoyed some great Karpool Karaoke to “New Orleans.”
I mean, seriously, how could you not let it all go at the verse, “I got my hands on the river, my feet back up on the bank, Looked up to the Lord above, And said, hey man, thanks ...?”
My boy was sporting an evil grin after one such jam last week.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I like that song because it lets me swear,” he smiles.
I fast-forward the song in my head. There are no bad words.
“No one or nothing lets you swear,” I say. “Which word?”
“The B-word,” he replies proudly.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “There is no B-word in that song.”
“Ain’t got no bitchin’ postcards,” he sings, “ain’t got no souvenirs.”
I resist laughing, and switch to Serious Dad Mode, explaining the words are actually, “Ain’t got no picture postcards” and that sometimes people mishear lyrics.
“Even Daddy,” I say without enough thought. “When I was a boy I believed the Trooper song “Raise a Little Hell” was “Raise a Little Owl.”
“So, I’m allowed to say, ‘Hell?’” he asks.
This phase is nothing but a curse.
Steve Bartlett is an editor with Saltwire Network. He’d love to hear your misheard lyrics. Reach him at firstname.lastname@example.org.