Summers at my house are soundtracked by the oldies. It’s something that I credit most of my random music history knowledge to, just my family sitting with each other around the pool, talking about songwriters from the ’60s and ’70s, listening to soul and rock and, of course, The Beatles. There is a shirt my dad occasionally wears to these parties, partly as a joke and partly for its shock factor. He bought it as a gag, I imagine at an airport, or in Venice, CA., where jokey t-shirts hang from store vendors like bananas off a tree. Sometimes, my stepmom will steal it from him and parade through the house in her pajamas, but its slogan isn’t serious to them. I always question the words, and they laugh and throw their heads back, saying, “It doesn’t really matter, does it? It was all their faults.” On the front, in big white letters, the t-shirt says one thing: I blame Yoko.
Source: Clara Scott Daily Gender & Media Columnist/michigandaily.com