Everybody loves Dean Martin and big-band music sometime

As I walked to my car in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant, the distinctively low bass notes from a teenager's car stereo vibrated my eyebrows.

Nothing makes you feel more like a crusty old man than being annoyed by the thump, thump, thumping of what today's youth have somehow mistaken for music.

It scares me that grocery stores are now playing a lot of the '70s rock that caused my own parents to shake their heads in disbelief. If tomorrow's grocery stores begin piping in today's license-tag-rattling rap, we can expect a lot more cleanups on the pickle aisle.

The closer I got to my car in that parking lot, the louder and more annoying the non-melodious vibrations became. The disturber of the public peace, as it turned out, was parked right beside me.

To further enhance my misery, the guy had backed in so that his opened driver-side window was directly in line with mine. I shot him a disapproving glance climbing into my car, but he was slumped too far down in his seat to notice.

My first instinct was to quickly put as much distance as possible between the thoughtless thumping and me. But as I shifted into drive it hit me that I would never again have such a golden — as in golden oldies — opportunity to offer a timeless testimonial to that musically misguided young man.

I moved the shifter back into park and began flipping through my own CDs.

For all of the auto industry's recently publicized failures, backsliding on car stereo technology is not among them. My factory-installed CD player can mount a formidable challenge against any teenager's custom dash-blaster — especially from 24 inches away.

I considered firing back with some George Jones. Perhaps a little “He Stopped Loving Her Today” cranked up all the way. Or I could put on a Willie Nelson classic from the “Red Headed Stranger” collection.

I might have witnessed to the lad with the gospel bluegrass renderings of Doyle Lawson, or taken him down to the crossroads with the raucous rock of ZZ Top.

But I needed something that would cut through the mind-numbing bass notes and get under that flat-billed ball cap of his. I rolled down my front and rear windows and let loose with some big-band boom-boom.

“How lucky can one guy be?” Dean Martin asked between high-frequency horns, “I kissed her and she kissed me.”

The loud one did not lower his volume or admit defeat, but as I slowly pulled away snapping my fingers and bobbing my head, he was sitting up a little straighter and smiling.

Ancient as I am, the big-band era was before my time. I never would have thought to purchase “Dino: The Essential Dean Martin.”

Mine was a gift from my musically diverse niece Adrienne, who offers hope that grocery stores might never thump or vibrate with piped-in rap music. Adrienne is 19.

As old Dino once said, “Ain't that a kick in the head?”

Contact Mark Rutledge at mrutledge@coxnc.com or (252) 329-9575.