“Da, da, da, da-da, da-da-da,” my 10-year-old son sang the other night as he played with his Legos on the dining room table. His singing was a counterweight to detailed work, a pleasant way to add a constructive distraction to the task of building a tiny rebel spaceship out of little plastic blocks.
“Da, da, da, da-da, da-da-da.”
The rhythm was familiar. I’d heard it before. It sure was catchy. What was that song?
Then, came the awful truth.
“Viva, Viagra,” my kid burst into loud song. “Viva, Viagra. Vivaaaaa, vivaaaaa, Viagraaaaaaaaaa.”