I’m one crazy fuck. My two sons (15 and 17) go into Trader Joe’s (a cool grocery store) to get some stuff (we all need stuff, right?). I pick up one of the little red weaved plastic baskets (you know the type) and put is on my head and start walked around the store. The kids go bizerk. “Dad, what the fuck are you doing, are you crazy?”, they ask. No I’m fucking gay and this is how it feels to be gay.
We’d been at dinner. Where the cute Latino waiter had lingered so long, the 15 yo called him out on it. Hey, what can I say, I’m a god the brown boys worship. Our dinner conversation descended in to the 15 yo calling me a faggot. It wasn’t until I corrected him that the proper term was “Faggot” that they both started laughing. Yes, my boys, rather children. All grown up. One of them is driving (my MIT student), the other is nearing driving age (think Fear Factor). I’m so happy I can chat openly with them. It’s disarming my openness and a massive injection of humor helps as well.
I miss my kids. They’re grown. Where are the days when I would happily sit on the floor, big Saturday night, and play blocks. Later some marathon game of Monopoly (me playing Ben Bernanke borrowing massively from my bank and still managing to go bankrupt). The days when I could pick both of them up under my arm and carry them to whatever destination their mother had commanded. How did those days disappear? Why had they gone so fast? I know. Dip shit me. Sitting in First Class on American Airlines, eating an ice cream sundae earning a million miles in a year. What an accomplishment? Dumb shit. Helping some over paid CEO rescue yet another soon to be doomed technology company. I am the magic man. The purveyor of dreams, the giver of hope. Selling hope to the hopeless.
I have worked at more useless companies. Home to the unemployable. Than I can count. But what I miss. What I want. Is to play blocks. Even today, my boys get a bit misty eyed about the bedtime stories I would tell about the famed “Mountain Man” and his adventures. A late night radio show I would put on. Various characters. For comic relief, a stuffed pig who I named “James Pig” aka James Bond who always drove his car over the cliff to a screaming death.
Now that shit is important.
If you have kids < 15, please stay home, play blocks, monopoly, build a castle, don’t work out, get fat, be boring, but play blocks, play scrabble, go to their sports, to their church, go to the school dance, go to wherever they are. Just be there. Because one day, and it will suddenly arrive, they will be all grown up. You won’t be able to tuck them under your arm. They won’t be so easily entertained. They will speak in grunts. You will become the dumbest human being on earth. Your days of being Jay Leno will be over.