My son is intent on saving the world some day.
He’s a young republican of his own accord. His mama is a liberal chick and I the most indefinable of those middle of the roaders. I stick to a policy of no Holy Cows because it gains me twice as many jokes than if I had to pick a side. Not to mention that I’ve paid fiendish taxes on three levels with not much to show for it.
I tell my son all the time he is ass backwards on his Poly Chai. I was raised to believe you are liberal young and conservative once you have money. But he’s got a drum which sounds its own beat, and that’s cool with me. I love raising an individual rather than a stamped piece of commonality. And as an added bonus, the arguments are miles better.
He’s an AP student whose drive is perpetually stuck in the over gear. He studies hard in summer and then gets really serious come fall. He won his class presidency in a landslide, with nary a single hanging chad to speak of.
The boy is text book sharp with enough street logic thrown in to make him a dangerous opponent in a podium fight. He was raised on the beauty of a pick up truck and the duty free obligations and Kerouac risk of apartment living, so he’s got some stilt to his hilt.
When I was sixteen, I was busy memorizing The Godfather, scoring a fake ID and trying to get laid. All of which I thought to be incredibly mature stuff. Then there is my son who memorizes bills and amendments, scores a trip to HOBY and gets his first shot at helping out a real live political campaign this fall.
In the some day soon enough, he’ll have to answer the harshly spotlighted accusations of blood. Mine and his younger sister’s to be specific. I for my (hopefully) torrid love affair with Vera Farmiga. Sister’s for the most definite Greenpeace movements she’ll be riding the wave of. Hey, when you preach tongue and pen for morality whilst posing a guile to the environmental kill offs, there’s most definitely a price to be paid for such hubris.
If he ever does make Pennsylvania Avenue as Boss Commander of all Things Triumphant and Otherwise Discredited on Moneyed Exchanges, I will have but one request. To sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom.The addendum of five thousand dollar bar tabs, Foie Gras hoagies and swordfish omelet orders placed at 3 am notwithstanding . . I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Not from a First Father.
I never aspired to occupy the White House as a tenant. What’s to like about resolving Middle East conflicts, burgeoning deficits, natural disaster bills and terror threat briefs before mimosa time?
So I’m good with letting the boy have his dreams of saving the world. I realize it’s all my fault, since we haven’t watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid enough times for him to know better.
The world? It ain’t fooling around, which is why I stick to a mean piece of threads and the soft hum of Clapton to guide me through my morning java. I could make life more complicated than that. But I’m investing holy big on some peace of mind in the now. Saving fat for when the most important son in the free world is gonna need just such a thing.