There is something to be said for sitting shoeless in a lawn chair, at an outdoor concert as evening falls, the grass getting cooler and thicker by the minute. It's almost foreplay.
Beside me, the woman I've been seeing. Next to her, our son. Next to him, his sister. On and on it goes, this chain letter of life. I look around and think: "Hey, I'm related to almost everybody here."
There's Glynn, the guy I used to coach softball with. Youth coaches get to be like brothers, and then off you go on separate ways. But there are always the memories, of bad calls and psycho parents -- stuff that binds you for life.
There are other fathers too. Some of us were in Indian Princesses together, a father-daughter scouting activity that featured Native American talking sticks and vests. Once, on a camp out, we went to Catalina. Some of the dads are still there, living among the buffalo.
Up on stage tonight, a boomer band, playing hits from the '60s and '70s. Our little town offers these free Sunday night concerts, so we pack up a cooler, grab a couple of chairs, find a parking spot 100 yards away. The Hollywood Bowl should be so easy.
"Mustang Sally . . . " the band sings.
It is a glorious end to a splendid day. Posh, sensing a window of opportunity between baseball and soccer, nearly murdered me with chores. First on the list: a little painting in 90-degree heat.
So I went to the hardware store for white paint. There was no white paint. Oh sure, there was something called Victorian Mourning and Jane Austen Lilies. There was Pillow Talk and Frostbite in the Western Pyrenees. But there was no white.
"Just give me a plain white," I tell the clerk.
"Um, I don't think we have that."
I blame Baskin-Robbins, really. Back in the '60s, the ice cream chain turned a black and white world into 31 flavors of confusing. With Baskin-Robbins, you couldn't go and just have vanilla or chocolate. You had to stand behind a dozen people picking out some rubbery concoction that tasted like Raid.
Sometimes, it would take the people in front of you hours to make up their minds on which rubbery concoction to buy. They would sample this, taste that.
"How 'bout that . . . that one over there," they'd say, pointing through the glass.
"That?" the clerk would ask.
"No, that one," the customer would say, "the one with gummy worms and aphids."
