I am my father…

I had a little shin-dig this past weekend at my house.

Normally, I hate people coming over to my house because I hate being a host (although, for some reason, I’ve been told I’m a good one). But I figured, what the hell. My buddy was down from Jersey, my co-workers were willing to come up and my best friend of a decade or so said he would show, so what was there to lose but a good time.

And a good time it was.

Since I was close with everyone who showed, I didn’t feel the need to play host. My roommate was there, she knew where everything was and my friends who showed had all been there at least three times. So going by the three-time rule, they could find whatever they needed. All I had to do was grill. Even that was taken from me when my buddy Steve moved me out and started cooking it up. All I had to do was drink.

No problems there.

I had invited my parents as well, but I figured they wouldn’t come. I knew my mom wouldn’t, she rarely comes up. I had figured my dad wouldn’t either because when he comes up, it’s usually us just hanging out–watching the ‘Skins, having a few beers, going out for some BBQ–that sort of thing. Imagine my surprise when he showed up (in a kick ass hawaiian shirt), grabbed a stool and asked for a beer. Good times.

People have always told me I look like my dad and I’ve never denied it. I can see the resemblence. But the picture taken of us Sunday was striking–even if I do have a helluva lot less hair than him (by CHOICE ladies, I shave).

I look at the picture and I can see myself in 30 years.

Me and pops

Growing old won’t be so bad.