The Looney Tunes of a May-December Romance

When it comes to music, for better or worse, my girlfriend and I can’t seem to get it together

As cliché as it may sound, I recently fulfilled a long-held dream — I snagged an extremely young girlfriend. How did I do it? Perhaps it was my long pauses to Kim's questions that made me seem wise, as opposed to the reality of being on the cusp of senility.

More likely, though, is that we enjoy each other's company, are similarly wired emotionally and plain-old like the same type of things. For example, we both love "The Great Gatsby," "Groundhog Day" and the paintings of Matisse. There's only been one little hitch, and get your mind out of the gutter because it has nothing to do with sex.

When it comes to music, for better or worse, we can't seem to get it together.

It's been mostly worse. I like everything from the Stones to Eminem. Kim, however, falls in love with a weird new band every other day with names that sound like they were made up by software geeks stoned on Mexican weed.

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Like last week. We were hanging out at her place chitchatting, which was totally cool by me, and after a few minutes, she started nibbling on my ear as if she was a sexy Mike Tyson. Also cool by me. But did she want to listen to Van Morrison, The Smiths or PJ Harvey in the background? Um … not exactly.

She put on a band called Wormbag instead, and the name pretty much says it all. They're actually not so bad if you like punk, even if the lead singer does sound like he recorded his vocals backwards. Let's just say that their music isn't exactly conducive to talking, kissing or for that matter, breathing.

I know what you're thinking: "Dude, why are you complaining? You're dating a woman almost half your age. Music, schmusic!" And you're not entirely wrong. But I've been a music lover for all of my life and trying to talk or, more specifically, make love while a band called Gunga Galunga is blasting away in the background is decidedly a young man's game. So after twenty minutes of this racket, I called a timeout.

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I looked Kim straight in the eyes and admitted that it was hard for me to feel romantic when she wanted to listen to Agnes Morehead or Abstract Penis Brigade (I swear I'm not making any of these names up). I asked if we could maybe broker a compromise.

If she doesn't want to listen to, say, Morrissey while we cuddle? We don't. If I can't deal with seeing Amish Meth Lab, she goes with her friends. The last thing we both wanted was for rock and roll to break us up.

She readily agreed. And that of course made me like her even more. After all, people once laughed at my favorite band, too: Mott the Hoople. I remember what it means to be young.

We hugged. We kissed. We headed for the bedroom. Kim put on a CD of "Abbey Road," followed by Alien Sex Fiend. And all was right with the world.