to talk to my friends' teenagers. Mostly because the first twenty things that are likely to come out of my mouth are stipid remarks like "you are older now than your parents were when I met them," and "the last time I saw you, you were this tall" (with appropriate hand gestures).

And partly because I can't stop staring at them; they're so good-looking. "Wow. Even nicer-looking than you two are," I tell their parents—both of whom I dated, back in the day.

Finally, I ask the teens what they do and don't like about their parents. The older boy smiles at me. When I ask him what he doesn't like about his dad, his father prompts him, "starts with an a . . . ." And when I ask the same thing about his mom, his dad jumps in again with "starts with a b . . . "

When I pull out my camera, the younger, fiercer one says, "that ain't gonna happen," which I take as the same sort of challenge it is when my younger nephew dodges the camera.

"Yeah, well," I follow him around his house, snapping occasional frames as he ducks and weaves.

"Really. Why are you doing this?" he asks me with the tired sophistication one sees in the young.

I could reply that someday he might actually want a picture of himself at this strange, awkward almost-a-man stage, but it would be too easy. Instead, I just say, "well, I'm a friend of your dad's, and I'm just as much of an asshole as he is."

Which seems to satisfy him.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:31 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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