In 1995, my Dad’s second wife gave birth to a son. Later that year, in a job interview, the following exchange actually occurred between me and the interviewer/potential employer:
The Potential Employer: So, do you have any brothers or sisters?
The Potential Employer: Ah.
Me: No, wait. Yes. Yes, I do.
Despite this weird answer and the resulting convuluted explanation, I got the job. But this is what life is when you spend 28 years as an only child and then life hands you a sibling. Thus it is that, at 39, I have a 12-year-old kid brother.
One of my goals over Thanksgiving was to plant the seeds so that he might worship properly.
You see, both he and I have been reared with the same basic religious background: None. I remember the first time I went to Sunday School with my childhood chums, who were Christian Scientists, and the lady was telling the story of Noah, which was familiar to them but for me it was the first time I’d ever heard of it, and I could not figure out why this old bat was gibbering to me about this Noah character. No, I grew to worship another deity—music. Now, like me, my young brother was born tapping his toe. But once you start into the pooberty, music becomes an altar, at least, it did for me. And don’t get me wrong, he’s doing pretty well for his age. He can bang out the “Iron Man” riff on his guitar and he’s already uttering the names of obscure bands that nobody else gives a crap about, which is essential. He’ll spend hours watching guitar acrobats on the YouTube, and he can quote line and verse from the most important rock movie ever made. Unfortunately, he has yet to come to the front of the church.
I hope to guide him there. I kept the SkyFi2 set to XM59 all weekend. And let’s just say he’s going to git a little something in his stocking this year. Hey, man. This shit is important.