My wife and I had this chat the other day. It went a little like this:
"Didja see where Johnny Lydon is living?" I asked.
"No," she replied, moving toward my point of reference: the screen of my computer.
"Can you believe that?" I continued, looking for something like affirmation.
"Well, what did you expect him to live in?" she shot back.
That wasn't at all the interaction for which I might have hoped. I expected her to be as incredulous as I was over the Malibu "fixer-upper" that the former Mister Rotten has put on the market for one point nine million dollars. I gasped a bit as I tried to respond to her query. Where did I expect the singer of "Anarchy in the UK," "No Feelings," and "Pretty Vacant" to be holing up? "I thought maybe something a little more urban, at least," came my flustered reply.
Here I was, thinking that I had a point of common interest between my loving wife and I, and instead I was defending myself for being a presumptuous twit. For the record, I truly was surprised to find out that Johnny Rotten had been living by the beach in California for all these years. It seemed incongruous to his image, which is why I'm sure the article was posted on Al Gore's Internet. Still, I suppose I should have approached the experience with a much broader perspective. This is the guy who sang "Holidays In The Sun," after all. And he was the leader of Public Image, Ltd. So maybe my wife was right to question my thinking. It is part of the reason we stay together. And who knows? Maybe we'll put in an offer.