In an evenly split household, affirming one’s manhood and standard parenting are one and the same.
But I’m still damn proud.
It all started a few months ago when my wife and daughter asked my son and me if we wanted to join them at a Gracie Abrams concert.
My son, a man of few words, answered with one syllable.
Nah.
Less sure, I asked AI for its advice:
A significant portion of Gracie Abrams’ fanbase consists of young women, particularly teenagers. Many of her fans, especially young women and girls, attend her concerts wearing bows in their hair, which is a common symbol of their support. The strong presence of young women is noticeable at her shows…this is likely due to the themes in her music, which often explore coming-of-age experiences, relationships, and emotions that are particularly relatable to young women.
Feeling suddenly confident about our proposed absence, I forgot all about the upcoming event.
Then, without warning, on a steamy July day, my wife and daughter took off with some friends.
My son and I were left alone, fending for ourselves.
It was past noon, and I could tell by the look in his eyes—and the repeated opening and closing of the pantry—that he was famished.
Panicked, I knew there was only one viable solution—the car.
Fast casual, I’ve decided, is my Jesus, especially when meat is involved.
Many bites of lamb and beef later, I could tell my son was satisfied—temporarily.
A few hours—and a few words—after that, I heard the pantry again.
This time, there was no panic, just a calm drive to some sit-down meat.
The session began with something called beef keftedes, which as far as I could tell consisted of meatballs in some sort of sauce. Always the giving father, I gave the youngster four to my two.
Then came roasted chicken, which had been corrupted by vegetables but still hit the spot.
Finally, there was a side of meat and potatoes, in this case featuring pulled lamb.
My manhood, as measured by animal protein consumption, was surging.
Back home, I cracked open a Genesee Beer, and my son grabbed a bag of chips.
Our conversation drifted to the recently-deceased Ozzy Osbourne, aka the Prince of Darkness, or the Godfather of Heavy Metal.
And then, out of the blue, it happened.
Spotify in hand, we closed our eyes, took a few deep breaths, and made the deep dive…into the Big Four of thrash metal.
First up was Slayer.
Trapped in purgatory
A lifeless object, alive
Awaiting reprisal
Death will be their acquittance
Next came Anthrax.
White coats to bind me, out of control
I live alone inside my mind
World of confusion, air filled with noise
Who says that my life’s such a crime?
Somewhere around this time, my wife sent a video of my daughter and her friends singing along with Gracie Abrams about love and such. Rather than reply how cute, I accidentally called the song annoying.
Then I turned on Megadeth.
Just like the Pied Piper
Led rats through the streets
We dance like marionettes
Swaying to the symphony of destruction
We ended, of course, with Metallica, specifically the album that was recorded in Rochester.
We’re scanning the scene in the city tonight
We’re looking for you to start up a fight
There’s an evil feeling in our brains
But it’s nothing new, you know it drives us insane
—
The next thing I knew, I was waking up from an involuntary nap, and my son was watching Friends reruns.
I briefly basked in the glory of my manhood before popping a TUMS and formally calling it a night.
The next day, after all, I had poetry to write.
