I Don't Even Know

Sunday twilight deepens as the car moves farther south. The man is driving his 10-year-old son home from dinner with the family. As all parents do, the man wishes to pass down some cultural interests to his child. So he has made a playlist of some music he likes, mostly older stuff. 

“Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran plays. “You ever heard this song?” the man says to his son. “I was younger than you were when this came out.”

“No,” the child says.

The man furrows his brow. He’s really never heard this song? Maybe he should be more forgiving. After all, it was 35 years ago. After a few miles, the groovy bassline and anguished lyrics of “Billie Jean” start to play.

“So this is Michael Jackson. He was huge when I was your age. You ever hear any of his music?”

The child considers it, then goes back to his tablet. “I don’t even know.”

Really? Not even Michael Jackson rings a bell? But he was so huge for so long. Well, I guess he did die when my son was just a baby, the man thinks. Farther down the road, another 1983 classic plays.

“This is called ‘Let’s Dance’ by David Bowie,” the father says. “Your dad and I really like him. You know him?”

In the rearview mirror, he can see his son shrug. Wow. The hits just keep on coming.

Then, another stone-cold classic. Over a burst of synthesizers and electric guitar, Prince sings about his bold father and unsatisfied mother in “When Doves Cry.”

Daddy smiles. “Ah, Prince. He’s one of my very favorites. You’ll be hearing a lot of him in our house. You know this song?”

The 10-year-old speaks in an exaggerated hem and haw: “Ummm … No.”

Daddy’s smile fades. Entering his home state, he feels a sort of tightening in his chest. It’s a leaden thud that is not quite a heart attack but something equally dreadful.

Then the motherlode plays: “Like a Prayer.” Slashing guitar gives way to Madonna’s plaintive “Life is a mystery” gives way to a roiling bassline gives way to a gospel choir.

“And this is my favorite of all time: Madonna,” the man tells his son. “You know her? You ever hear this song?”

The child looks up from his tablet, as if he may say yes. The father’s heart leaps.

“I don’t even know.”

The father’s heart deflates. The song ends as he pulls into his driveway. The child bounds into the house as the man lingers in the driver’s seat. His head sinks lower and lower until his brow rests on the steering wheel. His bones suddenly turn to crystal. His blood suddenly slows to a crawl in his veins. He has never felt so weary.

And when he raises his head to look in the rearview mirror, he could swear—swear—he sees some crow’s feet that weren’t there before.

About an artist growing old

Once in awhile, I’ll hear the sonorous tones of someone singing about an artist growing old over a piano melody in a commercial for Apple. The song of artistic dreams that did not come to pass is, I guess, evocative. It certainly evokes something: When I hear that woman sing, I can almost see the walker scrape over the floor during the talent show at the nursing home.

Anyway, as much as that tune revs me up to go to an Apple store and buy everything beginning with “i,” I do have some constructive criticisms of that song that I’d like to offer, so it’s even more evocative.

First off, a few of the lines could be better expressed, as they do not fit the meter of the song. The first line, “Listen up and I’ll tell a story,” seems crammed into the music. It would fit much better if you’d sing, “Won’t you listen to my story?”

I find the opposite problem a few lines later, when the singer stretches the word “aren’t” into an extra syllable. The line is “Others aaaren’t so bold” but it would work much better as “Others aren’t quite so bold.”

Those are my constructive criticisms. I could say other things about the song, like don’t write a dirge that makes everyone feel like they’ve wasted their lives as the black wall of death approaches, but I’ll leave it at that. Anyway, I hope the woman who sings this song enjoys her Apple commercial money and appreciates advice from an unpublished middle-aged writer. 

Red-Hot Summer of Red Tape

Now I know why parents start planning summer camps early. Our son started camp this week. We had thought everything was set but there was some kind of mixup and we had to scramble with less than a week to go to find him a slot somewhere. Luckily we (mostly Steve, who has been enormously competent during this process and a great Dad) found him a camp.

The thing is that until we finalize the adoption, we’re technically foster parents, so we have to go through the state for certain official things. Everyone we’re worked with has been great, but it will be something of a relief next year when we have a little less red tape.

It’s just that scrambling to get junior into camp provoked an old response in me: “When did you get this assignment?” I experienced this a lot in school when I would procrastinate and do something at the last minute. My parents and other authority figures would wonder how long I’d known about the science fair project and why was I running around at the end trying to tape together some sort of backboard for my half-assed experiment.

So when we were getting the camp plans together at the 11^th hour, I was picturing all these people at the camps wondering who signs a kid up for camp in July. Didn’t we know this was coming up? Summer comes at the same time every year. Most parents, I’m sure, start planning camp in the winter but we didn’t know we were adopting him then and didn’t get custody until June.

Next year, we’re planning out camp like the day after Christmas. It will be entirely on us then, with no help or permission needed from the state agencies. I’m not complaining about the state since they’ve been great to work with but this is just sort of a different experience. There are some rules, like our child can’t be out of state for more than 48 hours or something. But I know that oversight is for the child’s benefit so it’s fine.

Finalization looks to be (knock on wood) after the first of the year. We can apply after he’s lived with us for six months, which would be in December, but the judge’s docket is booked for that month. So we can go to court in January. The judge was happy with our family and his placement with us. I don’t mind waiting a few extra weeks to finalize. It’s a huge day when the judge bangs the gavel and we become forever family, but a little delay is fine since the important thing is that we’re starting a family now.

Ugh, the weather, amiright?

Hello. I’m one of your coworkers at one of the many nondescript offices throughout America. I’m only happy for a few non-consecutive days in May and September when the weather is mild and causes no friction whatsoever. The rest of the time, I’m miserable and cannot stop complaining about it.

My big thing right now is the unbearable heat and humidity that besets us like Satan’s yoke. Do you know it’s really the humidity that’s worse than the heat? Did you know that? Every morning, when I drag myself into the office, I’ll say “It’s so gross outside” to whoever will listen. At lunch, I’ll tell everyone I don’t even want to go outside because it’s “so disgusting.”

After June 21, expect a daily reminder from me that it’s getting darker a little earlier every day.

In the spring, the weather can be OK except for allergies. I won’t be able to breathe, but luckily, I’ll be able to get just enough air into my lungs that I can bitch about it constantly.

Sometimes in the spring, we’ll get a lot of rain. It will feel like it’s been raining every weekend, a fact I’ll point out at every meeting. Even if we get a beautiful Friday, you’ll hear my Eeyore-like warning that we should “enjoy it now, because it’s going to pour on Saturday and Sunday.”

Fall brings its own set of miserable problems. I just can’t decide what to wear because it’s either volcanically hot or glacially cold. Then there’s fog. I’ll be late to work because Action News said visibility is half a mile, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to drive when I can only see 2,640 feet in front of my face. So you can lead that meeting in my place.

But winter bedevils me most of all. Whenever people are discussing the latest dire snow totals in the hallways, expect me to top those forecasts. “I heard two to four,” you’ll say. I’ll jump out of nowhere and groaningly counter with “I heard four to eight” after getting my news from Worry Bead Networks. Whenever I hear a coworker speaking about plans for the weekend, defiant despite the possibility of snow or black ice, I’ll say, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere” with an unsolicited smirk and chuckle. I’ll be 90 minutes late every day because “they never plow.”

I will be in highest dudgeon when it snows in March, when you will hear my keening grief seep into the cubicles and offices. “Why, I thought we were done with this,” I’ll say. “They said we were.” If it isn’t sunny and at least 65º on the first day of spring, forget about getting any work done. You won’t be able to hear yourself think over my moaning “It’s supposed to be spring!”

There are other weather issues: aesthetically unpleasing forms of clouds, severe drizzle, breezes that are far from balmy, skies that are either too blue or not blue enough. Expect me to comment at length on all of them.

Just as a reminder, please keep the heat to 78º and the central air to 66º.