I dropped by the folks' house after work this evening; it's my father's 54th birthday and the second anniversary of my grandfather's passing. The first we celebrated loudly, the second observed in our hearts. My old man and I started a word-gag joke about a broommaker and kept it going, volley after volley after volley. I love my parents.
My Animals compilation thumped bluesily through the car stereo to and from. On the way back, my foot was heavy and the night air was thin; so off I went, showering blurred houses with loud music from a hurtling, woodsided buggy. If I had a pompadour, Brylcreem, a comb, a switchblade, shirtsleeve smokes, a can of Tobias Wolff's Gorilla Blood and a bad attitude - well, then, I'd have been something.