Stop Making Sense

Stop Making Sense ★★★★★

my father had an old car. it stunk of a dirty bike and sweat. my friends used to groan whenever he would pick us up from swimming practice and referred to it as the "cow car" (it smelled like a cow... get it). it made hissing noises and the air conditioner never quite worked the way it should.

my father and i ran together. it began when i quit the swim team and told him i didn't want to be in organized sports anymore. he was looking to enter a more healthy life style that didn't just include biking. i just wanted something that didn't require me to be at the local rec center at 6 pm in the freezing cold anymore. (okay, it wasn't really freezing but it felt like it!)

my father used to play music in this old car, which carted me to school and to the trails and to the sun-kissed neighborhoods we used to run in. he was a 70s baby: he grew up on the rolling stones and the beach boys. he used to get in arguments with my mom, who would rather listen to madonna or bruno mars.

he put me on to a lot of different music. i made a lot of new friends with big hair rock-stars from the 70s and the 80s. but most importantly, he was the one who introduced me to the talking heads and that remains my favorite band to this day.

we used to scream "road to nowhere" at the top of our lungs. we changed the lyrics from "girlfriend is better" in honor of my pets. i once did an impromptu dance routine in my seat to "burning down the house". i heard the first half of remain in light in that car and then had to rush to my bedroom to hear the rest. we were frequently sweaty and exhausted from our runs and it became the soundtrack to every biathlon we anticipated and every mountain trail we traversed.

somehow, that D- i received on a math test didn't matter when i got in that car. the girl that made fun of me or the debate captain that ignored me ceased to exist. i was free and with my dad and in his smelly car listening to the talking heads. there was no place i would have rather been. the beauty of art is not in the solitary genius. it is in the scope of the world that can hear the music.

i am afraid i cannot talk about the artistic merits of this movie the way i should be able to. i must confess, i was too busy dancing.

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