The other night my daughter and I watched the movie “Unbreakable.” This is one of my favorite movies. I respond to its central message — that if you don’t express who you really are, you will be lost — and to its driving metaphor:  that comic books reflect inner truths about us as a species. I was thrilled at her interest in watching his movie. When it was over, I asked her if she liked it. She said, “No. It was boring.”

A night or two later, I invited her to watch an episode of “Wonders of the Solar System” with me. When it was over she insisted that we never watch that together again, because it was boring.

Then on Sunday we were in my car when she suddenly perked up to a song playing on my stereo. “What is this?” she asked. “Raygun Suitcase,” I said, “by Pere Ubu.” “I don’t like the way he sings this,” she announced, adding, “I don’t like the way he sings ‘Kathleen’ or ‘Oh, Catherine, in fact, I just don’t like the way he sings.” In this way, she overturned 15 years of universal agreement in our household that these are wonderful songs, brilliantly delivered.

Did I mention that she just turned 12?

In which Peter Gabriel performs a heartfelt rendition of “Here Comes the Flood.”

Yoko Ono and whatever constitutes the latest rendition of The Plastic Ono Band will be playing Los Angeles the first weekend of October. I’ve been waiting 30 years for this, ever since I picked up the double album “Fly” and was absolutely blown away by it. And — I will be out of town that weekend. This presents yet another instance of needing that clone.

I guess this is as close as I’m going to get: a video shot from behind some guy’s head. (And it’s still terrific.)

Bryan Ferry + Phil Manzanera + Flea + Nile Rodgers = “Avalon”-era Roxy Music meets the dance floor.

I’ve written here before of my admiration for the work of music producer Danger Mouse, who is one half of both Gnarls Barkley and Broken Bells, and whom I consider to be this generation’s Brian Eno — a visionary musical force to be reckoned with.

Here’s an interview he did recently with KCRW about his recent collaboration with Sparklehorse and with David Lynch (who is also interviewed), “Dark Night of the Soul.” I highly recommend the album, which is the product of three highly interested disparate artists — Lynch, Danger Mouse, and Mark Linkous — as well as guest artists such as the Flaming Lips, Black Francis of the Pixies, Iggy Pop, and others.

I may also have mentioned it here: Two months ago, I caught Broken Bells in San Francisco. They were wonderful. Until that concert, I had thought that Danger Mouse was expressly a producer. But over the course of the concert, he moved to every position on stage and played each instrument — keyboards, drums, guitar. He did everything but sing, and did all of it well and, in a way, humbly. There’s as much or more great music today than there was in the 60’s — you just have to go find it. If it says “Danger Mouse” on it, you’ve found it.

I don’t agree with the politics of this video — I think Obama has accomplished a lot, especially given the challenges — but I have to say, this is a clever video, and a funny one. When was the last time you could put “right wing,” “clever,” and “funny” in the same sentence? Thanks to Joe Stafford for making me aware of this.

Mike Love is talking up plans for a “Beach Boys reunion” next year to coincide with the 50th anniversary of the band. (Here’s a story about this in the Guardian.) I’ve seen the Beach Boys — back when it was still actually The Beach Boys, and not Mike Love with assorted sidemen — and I’ve seen Brian Wilson, and let me say, this is a very bad idea. Carl Wilson was the heart of the band’s live act; his death, more than Brian’s submergence below the waves of sanity, ended the band as a touring vehicle. Carl is dead; Dennis is dead (and I actually saw him in his last concert performance — he was howlingly bad then); and Bruce Johnston’s health problems have sidelined him. That leaves Mike Love, aka “The Annoying Nasal One,” Al Jardine, and Brian.

To put it generously, Brian Wilson is not really in a state to perform. He’s not really in a state to tie his shoelaces. I saw him perform a couple of years ago and I’m still wondering if I wasn’t accidentally party to someone profiteering off a forced day trip from the home. The concert was a painful experience, with Wilson unsure at times where he was or who he was. My friend and I felt very bad that we were there. (For more on that remembrance, and on Brian’s disturbing appearance on the Tavis Smiley Show, click here.) It was so upsetting that afterward my friend mused long and hard about “the Beach Boys’ mixed legacy.” Ouch!

I love the Beach Boys. “Pet Sounds” and “Smiley Smile” are on constant replay in my car. I think we should leave it at that.

In which Mr. Lydon, once and future bomb-hurler for the Sex Pistols and who once upon a time preached anarchy in the U.K., endorses buying British butter. Not sure if this leaves me feeling happy or devastated. God save the queen.

As Mr. T reminds us in today’s music video, “Don’t be puttin’ down nobody’s mother.” Good advice on Mother’s Day and any day.

When television and rock ‘n’ roll and the legal system were invented, did anyone foresee that one day the lead singer of the Sex Pistols would appear on “Judge Judy” to defend himself from charges made by his tour drummer? Surely, this must rank with the meeting between Nixon and Elvis.

The choicest moment for me: When Judge Judy, philosophizing about the relative merits of artistic works and therefore stretching back to theories originating with Aristotle, notes to the once and former Johnny Rotten “Jimmy Dorsey, Tommy Dorsey — now that was music!” A close second: when she scolds the unhappy that clearly he is in the wrong line of work. (Most of us would know what we’re getting into when we go to work for someone with the last name of “Rotten.”)