And I haven't broken anything yet.
It was this time last year that my father passed away, making me, by age and place in line, the oldest living male member of my family.
The patriarch.
Although those who know me, very likely and not un-deservedly, think that a title like that is more honorary than honorable.
Because, hey, let's not kid ourselves, I'm not exactly "head of the family" material.
At least not in the conventional, traditional sense of the term.
And, just so we're clear, I'm offering that self deprecation in a spirit of truth in advertising without any intention of irreverence.
Because, the whole truth and nothing but be told, there are times when I wish I could be a better role model for future family key holders.
I do, though, take some measure of pride in two core personal qualities.
I do love, respect and admire my family.
And I recognize that I'll never be the kind of "father figure" that is instantly recognizable as such.
Come to think of it, just like the guy whose place I took at the head of the line.
Subtle shades of Linda Ronstadt and/or Warren Zevon fading out on the chorus of "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me" aside, I realize that I have, in the process of becoming the old guy (old, of course, being a relative term, as I consider myself still vibrant, virile and voracious, admittedly post George Clooney but decidedly pre Regis Philbin)that I have, simply by evolution, taken on some old guy traits.
Not counting the ones I've had since I was, say, fifteen or so.
Trust me when I tell you that curmudgeons, like Lady Gaga, are born this way.
And one of those old guy traits is a growing number of moments when one of these two phrases seem to come out of still vibrant, virile and voracious lips ...
"what the hell...?"
"tsk, tsk, tsk...".
Moments like this morning when I came across the story of the seven year old daughter of the Texas A&M basketball coach who sits in the stands at games and, as the opposing players come to the free throw line, lets loose with a piercing shriek, designed, obviously, to rattle the cage of the opponent about to take a shot.
It looks, and sounds, like this.
If you check this video out on Yahoo (where I found it) or You Tube, do a scroll down and look at some of what the peanut gallery has to offer in the way of comment.
I didn't do an empirical data compilation, but I'm guessing, from quick view, that the votes fall somewhere in the fifty fifty range, half thinking this little stunt is funny/cool/hip/clever/good strategy, yada, yada and half thinking that it is, at best, inappropriate and, at worst, raging, screaming (literally) poor sportsmanship.
Which will bring us back to do-re-mi...and the aforementioned old guy trait.
Just as I heard the piercing shriek of the little gym minx, I heard the simultaneous voices of generations of past patriarchs in my ear, the voices of past generations who had subscribed to, and preached, the basic values of good manners and common courtesy and, wait for it, good sportsmanship and, though hard to discern one from the other, I got a pretty good sense that those voices were a heady concoction of these two primal sounds...
"what the hell...?"
"tsk, tsk, tsk...".
At that moment, I realized that I truly had joined the patriarchal pantheon.
Because, much to my own surprise, my own voice was mouthing pretty much those same sounds at the same time.
And if leaving behind the childhood of lack of consideration for others, selfishness in pursuit of satisfaction, good sportsmanship in pursuit of gratification and an attitude of "lighten up, dude, it's only a game" marks me as a top of the line AARP material, then bring on the Depends and the Dentu-Creme, kids.
Because this head of the family thinks anybody who thinks that behavior is funny, let alone acceptable, should be ashamed of themselves.
And to those whippersnappers and/or whiners who would roll their eyes and offer up, "what's the effin' big deal, old man?", I can only, respectfully respond thus...
"what the hell...?"
"tsk, tsk, tsk...".
How'm I doin', Dad?
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