A few years ago, MJ and I were having dinner with my parents, when my Dad says he has something serious he wants to tell me. I don't recall him ever acting this way before then, or after.
"I want to apologize for making you go bowling with Chris."
When I was 16, he tried to reform my social life. He was taking the recommendations of a shrink or consultant I'd never met, that what my long-haired Mormon-school-thorn 1969 mentality needed was double dates with my parents. With a girl he approved. He duct-taped one of his friends daughters, mashed us together, and drove us off to go bowling. Not to a Steppenwolf, Santana, or Butterfly concert; not a drive into the mountains; not a nice mellow party with my hue crew.
I guess in 25 years he's been worrying he scarred me for life. He's never stopped a conversation for a confessional announcement, and I can tell it's killing him. But at 75 how much time has he left. He's got to get this out, on the record, because he can't die with it. That's how it felt; sombre.
So I tell the truth. "Well, it must not have been that bad, because I can't remember it."
MJ, bless her heart, starts laughing. |
