We can't be silent, cause they might be giants, and what are we gonna do unless they are?

I just found out that Jane P's father is indirectly responsible for my liking They Might Be Giants, which means he is also responsible for my being aware of two songs that I love insanely a lot by They Might Be Giants, as well as a whole lot of songs that I like quite a lot.

Because here's why.

Once a long time ago everyone in D. Parker's English class and everyone in Richard's history class, and probably some other people who weren't in either one but just wanted to come along, we all went to the D-Day Museum in New Orleans. I remember very little about the museum itself except that the soldiers got little packets of condoms (Why? Really. Why? They only survived for fourteen seconds.) and that the Allies cleverly launched dummy parachuters in other parts of France, to confuse the Germans.

(I went to the Imperial War Museum the other day, and there was a bit of a diary kept by an officer or something, and for 5 June it said, D-Day tomorrow. Everyone very excited.)

Anyway, after I and everyone else got done with the D-Day Museum, we were all set to move on to our eating place, but we couldn't because Jane P's father liked the D-Day Museum so much that he couldn't leave. And he was in there like half an hour after everyone else had finished with it, and eventually they had to send Jane P in after him in a complicated search and rescue operation. (I was going to watch. It was very exciting.) Meaning that everyone else was hanging around outside the museum with nothing to do, and until Tuesday I thought that we were hanging around waiting for the bus because the bus was late, when in fact (Jane P revealed to me) we were waiting for Jane P's father because he just loves D-Day that much.

As I sat upon a wooden fence contemplating the universe and hoping (in my ignorance) that the bus would arrive, Nezabeth crept up behind me and went, "O Broom you must now sweep for me, the dust it fills my room." And when I turned to explain to her that I was not a broom, she anticipated me, and went, "No John, I will not sweep for you, for I am not your broom."

"Nezabeth?" said I gently, fearing that she had lost her wits, for neither my name nor hers is John. (In the interests of complete disclosure, I believe I called her Jane because I don't think I had begun calling her Nezabeth at that point.)

"What nonsense are you speaking, broom? My words you must obey," she sang. "Another life awaits me, and I'm leaving you today. I am not your broom. I am not your broom."

(I tried to stop her but she was unstoppable.)

"I've had enough, I'm throwing off my chains of servitude. I am not your broom. I am not your broom. No longer must I sweep for you for I am not your broom." (Sang Nezabeth.)

As I was trying to decide whether to fetch a straitjacket or enlist her songwriting skills in service of a useful project like ending poverty, she explained that this was not, in fact, an extemporaneous invention of her own composed on the spot in order to stave off boredom, but indeed a real song that was sung by They Might Be Giants.

And the rest is history, insofar as "New York City" and "We Want a Rock" have their very own place on my iTunes playlist "Songs I Always Want to Hear and Never Skip".