Mother who, for some reason, has that Scandanoodlian accent Frances McDormand had in Fargo: Son. You’re thirty years old. It’s time for you to grow some wings, go out on your own, make your own way in the world. Leastwise, give me and your aged father use of our basement again. Ever since we moved the washer/dryer unit up here to make that there rehearsal space for you and your little friends in that music club, we can hardly get around the kitchen any more.

Irate thirty-something year old son: Mom, I told you. It’s not an emmer-effin’ music club. It’s a band. And if we don’t rehearse, we’ll never get a bitchin music deal and go on tour with the likes of Toad the Wet Sprocket and Stone Temple Purple Pilot Dogs.

Mother: Just hold up there, sonny. First of all, we don’t spell our swear words in this house. Second, I think it’s time for you to let your silly little dreams of playing with toads and dogs and whatever for the rest of your life go.

Son: But, mom-

Mother: Don’t ‘But Mom’ me, young man. It’s hard enough getting around this kitchen with your father’s wooden leg and iron lung already. It’s time for you to learn a trade. Or something. You’ve got interests. You just need to capitalize on them.

Son: Rock and roll is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do!

Mother: Well, you know, your father was the same way. All he ever wanted to do was fly them airplanes and drop bombs on people. But with his glaucoma and all, he couldn’t pass the eye test. So you know what he did?

Son: Yes, Mom. I know what he did.

Mother: I’ll tell you what he did. He got a job being the guy that made sure those planes could fly, is what he did. If it wasn’t for your dad standing out there on the deck of that aircraft carrier pumping gas, who knows how many of them bombs wun’ta got dropped on southeast Asia.

Son: Not that I don’t enjoy hearing that story, Ma, I don’t see how it applies to me.

Mother: You never were the sharpest card in the deck. I’m saying that if you can’t be the whatsitcalled-

Son: Rock star?

Mother: That’s it. If you can’t be the rock star, up on the, uh-

Son: Stage?

Mother: You betcha. The rock star up on that stage doing the, umm, whatchacallit…

Son: Bitchin guitar solo tribute to Randy Rhodes?

Mother: That’s the one. Well, what else can you do? They got to have the smoke. And the lasers. And that guy that checks the microphone, saying “Sibilance, sibilance, testing one two.”

And that scenario, or one very like it, led to the burning down of one dream from which arose the phoenix of this back up plan:

Which, I suppose from a branding standpoint ain’t half bad. I mean, I doubt I’ll be forgetting their phone number any time soon.