I spent the money on a Belafonte record.
This record has one piece about a father telling his son about the birds and the bees.
I think it's funny. Pop blows his stack.
"You're not going to play that stuff in this house!" he roars.
"Why aren't you outdoors, anyway? Baby-sitting! Baby-talk records! When I was your age, I made money on a newspaper-delivery route, and my dog Jeff and I used to go ten miles chasing rabbits on a good Saturday."
"Pop," I say patiently, "there are no rabbits out on Third Avenue. Honest, there aren't."
"Don't get fresh!" Pop jerks the plug out of the record player so hard the needle skips, which probably wrecks my record.
So I get mad and start yelling too.
Between rounds we both hear Mom in the kitchen starting to wheeze.
Pop hisses, "Now, see—you've gone and upset your mother!"