John, Paul, George, and Bonzo

"Na, na, na, na-na, na na
Na-na na na, Hey Jude"

It's Tertius's voice alone, but I'm assuming he's singing along with the Beatles on his iTouch.

It's a busy year to be a Brit, even a half-American expatriate, with the Dickens bicentenary, the Diamond jubilee, and the Olympics. And we're shortly heading into a slew of golden anniversaries for the Fab Four, kicking off -- pleasingly but utterly coincidentally -- on my birthday this year, with the fiftieth anniversary of the first photograph to include Ringo in the line-up.

Regular visitors to these parts will be satiated with my adoration of the Beatles, so let me instead send you to an essay for the BBC by that fine commentator, Adam Gopnik, that says it better than I could. But I note his point -- as Tertius demonstrates -- about the timeless appreciation of the group (the Beatles were never a "band," except when masquerading as Sergeant Pepper and his cronies):  If, like our children, we baby boomers had admired music that was coming to fruition half a century earlier, we'd have been singing songs from before World War I.

Yes, I'm often found in the shower warbling Vesta Victoria's "Look What Percy Picked Up in the Park." And who can forget Harry MacDonough's "When I Was Twenty-one and You Were Sweet Sixteen"? (Certainly not Harry, who got eighteen months without the option. At least John and Paul waited until she was just seventeen.*)

But in the way of things, another hit from 1912 was the American Quartet performing a barbershop arrangement of "Moonlight Bay." And somewhat later, with a somewhat different quartet, who had little use for a barbershop, unless of course it was showing photographs of every head the barber had the pleasure to know . . .

 

*Know what I mean?

What ho, er, me.

I'm doling out the breakfast Frosted Mini-Wheats for Tertius, who then requests more milk than my initial libation. I comply.

"Thank you, Jeeves," he says.

Is there such a thing as too much P.G. Wodehouse?

Naaaaah.

The Daily Insult. (Non-family version.)

The kids are with their mother on a visit to their grandparents. I get the opportunity to see a grown-up movie at the theater, the deeply satisfying The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Simply can't recommend this enough, just in case a cast that includes Judi Dench and Maggie Smith and Bill Nighy isn't its own recommendation.

A well attended show in a smaller theater, average age considerably in advance of my own. Those announcements about not talking during the show duly ignored, as all the best lines are repeated aloud with chortles and then repeated again to companions who couldn't hear them the first time. Also any words on the screen are read aloud. I wish this were just a joke about older audiences, but, alas, it's true.

The insult? Oh, yes. As I buy my ticket, the vendor double checks that I mean a full-price ticket. Yes, I know the movie is about getting older, but I have ten years to go before I qualify for the senior discount, thank you.

It's only rock and roll. I know.

Catching the season finale of "Saturday Night Live" on Hulu. (Well, it's past my bedtime to watch it live.) Our host and musical guest: Sir Mick Jagger. Who rules.

 I drag Tertius in to watch the second music spot, with Mick backed by the Foo Fighters doing a medley of "19th Nervous Breakdown" into "It's Only Rock and Roll." Does it get any better than this?

"What do you think?" I demand of my youngest scion.

"It's boring," he says.

"Boring?"

"Yes, they keep singing the same words over and over."

The Steve Jobs legacy.

I'm at the ophthma . . .  the opthfma . . .  the othph . . .

I'm at the eye-doctor for my annual appointment, and I have to complete one of those questionnaires before we begin. The name of my vision care insurance isn't on my medical card, so I ask the assistant to remind me whose coverage I have. She tells me it's EyeMed.

Despite standing in Rye Eye Care, surrounded by frames, with an eye-test in my immediate future, I write "iMed" on the form.

I guess Apple has me where it wants me.

The Daily Insult.

Over dinner at our local Asian fusion restaurant.

Tertius: Dad, what's on your bucket list?

Me: I don't have one yet.

Tertius (astounded): Why not?

Who needs Walmart?

In less than a year, I'll have lived in the United States for 30 years. It's already more than half my life. I'm an American citizen, as are my three kids. I even know all the words to the National Anthem. Well, I sometimes get the word order a bit muddled around that broad stars, bright stripes bit. . . uh, bright stars . . . white stripes . . . smashing pumpk--

(And, as I tell the offspring, even though they now dwell among the wicked investment bankers in the Marvelous Leafy Land of Rye -- "Greenwich Lite" -- they were all born in New York, New York. Manhattan. The center of the gosh-darn universe. In New York Hospital.)

But it's still a joy, every once in a while, to have a new classic American cultural experience. And a few weeks ago, my beloved goddaughter, Lily, celebrated her birthday in a Long Island establishment owned by a Mr. Charles (Chuck) E. Cheese.

Lily and her dad, my buddy Ryan

And it was great. Well-organized, clean, professional, decent pizza, plenty for the guys to do, well-trained and friendly staff. No complaints -- I just take my hat off, as I do for that other corporate Mouse, when a business sets out to do one thing well and succeeds.

So no satirical comments about the venue. Just a couple of observations. Like another first experience -- the observation of an amazing poufed-up and suspiciously dark-brown mullet haircut on a middle-aged customer, complete with a compensatory bald spot on the back.

And, as I was successfully bonding with Lily, whom I do not see anywhere near enough (and I'm sure my three other goddaughters, all teenagers now, could confirm my criminal elusiveness), having her little cousin come up to us, look at me critically, and ask: "Are you Lily's aunt?"

Make a joke and I will sigh and you will laugh and I will cry. Or vice versa.

We never forced the boys into piano lessons, but there's always been an available keyboard or two around the house, with frequent urgings to play and offers of parental guidance. Yet no instinctive, budding Mozart has so far emerged, even though they all enjoy music.

Which is why it was inspiring to catch 13-year-old Primus hammering out a riff on the family room Casio the other day (hey, dude, there's a Steinway in the living room).

Even more inspiring to recognize it as almost exactly the rhythm and chord sequence of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid."

I was hoping for Vaughan Williams, but I guess Ozzy in the blood isn't so bad.

Tales of the unexpected.

The young gentleman are going to Disneyland with their mother for the Easter break. As I drive them over, Tertius solemnly hands me a wooden rod from the back seat of the car, the size of a longish baton.

"What's this?" I ask.

"It's the handle from the toilet plunger," he says, with the "duh!" subtext clear.

"Well, how did it get here?" I splutter.

"Oh, I took it."

"Why? And where's the rest of it?"

He looks at me strangely. "In the closet where it's supposed to be, of course."

Duh, indeed.

I'm sorry, darling, but the part of Nana is already taken.

A true and wondrous shaggy dog story. Secundus's fifth-grade play is the musical version of Peter Pan, a hugely accomplished and enjoyable production, in which all the children in the grade take part. (S is the pirate Starkey.)

Having watched the first evening performance from the front, I had happily volunteered to help wrangle the large cast of ten- and eleven-year-olds behind the scenes for the next night's performance, a role that principally involves saying "Shhhh!" a lot. We're about halfway through the show, and the long corridor that runs past the stage entrance is momentarily devoid of pirates, Indians, or Lost Boys, who are either onstage or shut in the gym. It's a rare moment of peace.

I look up and see a dog, padding along the corridor toward us. A Golden Retriever. Alone.

Dogs are not allowed in school. Not even during theatrical performances. Even Nana, the Darling family's nursemaid Newfoundland, is played by a boy in this production.

A couple of us intercept the beast, who is docile and friendly and seems pleased to have some attention.

And then one of the girls recognizes it. "It's Hilary's dog!" she cries, referring to the talented young student who is that night's Wendy. An examination of the dog's collar reveals that it is indeed the redoubtable Scout. But how did he get here?

"Shall we tell Hilary?" another girl asks. "No!" the grown-ups respond quickly, not wanting to distract her from her performance. Nor, we decide, should we tell Hilary's mother, one of the two hard-working and inspirational moms who were the guiding lights of the show, now contentedly sitting with the rest of the family in the audience, unaware that she should have saved a seat for a late-arriving canine member.

One of the mothers backstage finds a necktie to use as a leash, and I keep Scout distracted while she tries to telephone the family's neighbor, who is able to come to the school and take him home. The play continues to the end, and Hilary -- unaware of the backstage drama -- gets to enjoy the well-deserved standing ovation, along with the rest of the cast and her mom.

Here's what we think happened. Hilary's family lives in a house next to a pathway that runs into the school grounds. Scout must have have gotten out, taken a fairly familiar route, and finding the cafeteria doors open to let in some air on this warm evening, trotted into the school looking for company.

Of course, we could be fanciful and believe he knew mighty things were happening that night, and he was determined to share in his family's triumph. (After all, if he'd chosen the previous evening for his escapade, he'd have seen a different Wendy.) So he took the second star on the right and went straight on till morning. Yes, that must be it.

Ah, but there's an even spookier aspect to this story. Because the cafeteria was set up for the cast party, which immediately followed that night's performance. And Scout managed to walk all the way across the room . . . without pausing to eat the cake!

(Cue Twilight Zone music.)