Not much, but I had thoughts that I had to share. Yesterday was Bam-Bam's 11th birthday, following hard on the heels of Planet's high school graduation, which followed hard on the heels of the weekend from Hell that I circuitously referenced in my last post. Bam-Bam is still awesome, and Planet is so awesome that she's unique in category. She is the sweetest and most unaffected kid I've ever known, and she's going to college at precisely the right place. Looking around at the tramps and punks who graduated with her, I came to realize yet again how lucky I am to be part of her extended family. Congratulations and love, Planet, and see you at the party.
Bam-Bam rocks on, the anchor to which I tether. It's not that Ilse and Databoy are incapable of keeping me from drifting, or that they don't deserve their own satanic attention, but the pull of Bam-Bam is accompanied by its own song, its own weight, its own ferocity. He is also, in his weight class, the sweetest and most unaffected kid I've ever known, a constancy of the unconditional. His aging confuses me. I am unsettled about his future, his adolescence, his growth. It's stress in the light of love. I really don't know what the fuck to do about it. Or anything. Except babble.
I have often said that there's always an 80s dance party in my head (unlike BFF, who always has a New Order song in his head, and he's really better off, I think, because the people dancing take up an assload of room and they're thrashing around and shit). I started thinking this morning as I drove to work and realized that I really am a fucking sucker for idiot power pop, to wit:
That's what I got. Next post is the 500th, not sure when it will appear or what will be in it, but probably soon, because Monday next is an obligatory blogging day.