It's a glorious Memorial Day here in the Double Hundy, and my sleepy neighborhood is just starting to bubble to life. For some reason I woke up this morning, unbidden, at 6:30, and when I got to my local I found a new installation by an artist named Scott Weiland. I asked the barista if it was the Scott Weiland, and she had no idea who he is.
Which gave me pause.
I mean, it's one thing if a younger person is blissfully ignorant of a band that consumed your soul as a kid (like that time someone asked me, "Wait. Sting was in a band?!?") But now I've reached the point when college kids don't know about bands that came after my Prime Influence Time. And a whole new generation younger than I is being introduced to cultural irrelevance.
You know what? I just don't mind. I'm actually feeling pretty robust lately, thanks to the 10-mile run on Friday and the 32-mile bike ride on Saturday. I suppose I could finish the weekend triathlon by jumping into the Hudson and swimming to Poughkeepsie, but I won't. Because that's what everyone would expect me to do. And last I saw, they don't sell Advil by the crate.
Weeks tend to fly by lately, in a way that makes me feel I'm trying to cross the track at the Indy 500. And somewhere in the haze and burnt rubber, TwoBert turned four. It's strange to think that the spring I spent dreading his home birth (and suppressing ignorant visions of blood-caked walls) was more than four years ago. Stranger still to think that his mother and I have been estranged for more than half his life. But that's another post.
No. Today we celebrate little TwoBert, who isn't so little anymore. He is older than Twitter, and the Kindle, and the Colbert Report. And he is forming into his own little manchild, who wants what he wants and will leave no crotch unsmacked in order to get it. He's crazy for superheroes (as Robert never was), and he likes every food Robert doesn't. When I make them dinner I'm tempted to set a family-style platter in front of them and watch them savage it, Sprat-style.
TwoBert's other quality of interest is his love for the standard past tense, in defiance of all irregularity. Sometimes he'll throw five or six of them in one sentence: "Daddy! You throwed the ball and I swinged and hitted it, and you catched it, but I runned to first before you getted me out!"
Just one of the reasons he has bringed me so much joy.