Honestly, the youth of today.

Several years ago, during an enormous family vacation out here to visit us, I took two of my nieces and one nephew down to get tattoos. Isn’t that the sweetest thing EVER? It was their idea, let me hasten to add, I was only along as a chauffeur. Plus, they were all in their 30s and already in possession of quite a bit of ink and piercings. Their father, my brother Ed, claims his youngest daughter looks like she fell face first into a tackle box. Hee hee.

So, driving along, making small talk, I asked “What does ‘Get jiggy wit it’ mean anyway?” I was just making a joke, but they all chimed in terribly earnestly to explain it to me, obviously taking pity on me in my declining years. I would have been mortified anyway, but then I realized none of their attempts at translations made any sense because they were trying phrase it in terms that wouldn’t damage my aged sensibility. I wanted to protest that I am NOT OLD, that I am terribly hip, but as soon as you try that, you’re lost. Best to just sit down and watch the Golden Girls marathon and dream of cheesecake.

To make myself feel better, I have turned to houseboy Septimus Septbooty.

High Finance, Low Scruples

R man and I are re-financing our mortgage. No big thrill, but at least it gave me something to make conversation about with my father when I spoke to him on Sunday. As soon as I mentioned what we were doing, he offered to loan us $100,000 at a ridiculously loan rate. I think it’s to my great credit that I refused. I do not want to take advantage of my father’s generosity. According to my father, that is not a trait I share with my brothers, which in turn, makes me even less eager to join in at the trough.

Never the less, he pressed me to accept because, as it turns out, he has $100k in an “investment” which has lost money three of the last four years. I know the last year has been rough, but prior to that, one would have had to work aggressively to lose money. And that would appear to be exactly what my father did. Some guy cold called him and talked him into this great money making opportunity. I think there were more details, but I didn’t hear them; I had put the phone down so that I could more effectively bash my head on the kitchen counter in frustration.

Say you are an elderly man sitting around watching old guy movies. The phone rings and a stranger says “mrpeenee’s father, I would like to talk to you about your portfolio. “ Do you reply, “My sons have repeatedly told me not to talk to gypsies”? Nope. You say, “Where do I send the check?”

When you’re a little boy, you think your daddy knows everything, that he’s Superman. Then, as you grow into a smartass punk teenager, you decide he’s a brainless idiot who knows nothing. Later, having matured, you come to see that you’ve been too harsh, that he’s a perfectly sensible adult, just like you. And then, at 54 years old, you realize you were right when you were a sullen 15 year old: he is an idiot who is a menace to himself.

So now, I can either join in with my brothers, be no better than they are, and take the money (although I would pay it back, just like a regular mortgage. That would be good just for the novelty’s sake,) or not take it and wait for yet another scam artist. Oh, what the hell, who am I fooling? Make that check out to mrpeenee and get it in the mail. It would seem I have more in common with my dear brothers than I thought.

The Future Foretold

While digging up the picture of me and R Man from Mardi Gras gone by, I also ran across this photo of my paternal great-grandparents, Maggie and Philip Whitnebert. Maggie obviously lives up to my family’s legends of her: mean and crazy as a shit house rat. She is also, I now realize, the one member of my family that I most closely resemble as I dwindle into curmudgeonly old age.

Oh dear.