Pink Floyd, dammit. You should always guess Pink Floyd.

After four years of parents, we've finally taken back our Saturdays. No more lawn work for us. No more thick sandwiches and the chocolate chip cookies that were used as bribery. No more three hour conversations or CNN or bad suburban pizza.

Instead, we now chain ourselves to the simulated evening of the geek room. Screens flickering, Rhapsody and Play Station duking it out for dominance, we sit half illuminated. We eat when our stomachs tug at us. Any suggestion of activity is summarily batted down. There is a smattering of conversation, seemingly random and cocooned in long stretches of silence:
"I think that the character of Bond should be retired--007 should still exist, but no more James."
"Yeah."
(17 minutes of quiet)
"I am unerringly drawn to suicide rockers."
"I know."
(half an hour of quiet)
"I should get my hair cut."
"Pfft. Yeah right."
(9 minutes of quiet)
"Guess what band this is. You'll never guess."
"Who is it? Who?"
"Guess."
"Who?"
"Guess."

And so on. Until the guilt of sitting for hours in our pajamas drives us out of doors. Most likely in the direction of Target.