Like Father, Like Son and Oatmeal

Now that Holden is ten months and he's making like Pinocchio (i.e., turning into a real boy), it's a trip to see him acting more and more like me.  Like yesterday when I caught him kissing his own reflection in the mirror.  But it's the little behavioral traits that are really getting me.  When I was kid, my mother used to complain how restless I was.  She'd say, "You know what your problem is, Joey?  You need to be entertained all the time!"  And I did.  Most kids need to be stimulated, engaged, of course, but it was more in the yearning for more, the wanting it all that would play such a significant factor throughout my life.  It's not a "good" or a "bad" thing, necessarily; it's like The Force: it can be either, depending on how it's used.  I see these same things in Holden.  Which makes sense; he's my kid.  He looks more like me, too, with the dimples and the little baby guns; we have the same eyes. Unfortunately, he also seems to get easily flustered like his daddy.  Which is countered/exacerbated by the same strong will.  He stood one his own, with no help the other day, and at first he wobbled and looked like he might go down, looking pretty confused, then he stabilized, looking surprised.  Then he shot his arms in the air, like Rocky.  Holden rules!

Where the kid and I definitely differ, though, is the energy.  Holy shit.  I get tired just watching him.  Maybe I've listened to too many commercials for male "enhancement," but I am starting to think my testosterone is seriously depleted.  I'm fucking tired all the time, feel like I am walking in a pool, like I did after the accident when I was non weight bearing for six months, which meant I couldn't put any pressure on my right hip, which of course rules out walking.  I had a pool at my Hollywood, FLA, condo, and after several months I could "walk" there.  Which was awesome after spending all that time in a wheelchair, on a walker, crutches, and finally a cane.  But it's not so cool now, because it's been six years since the accident, and I can walk fine, albeit with a slight limp.  It's one of life's great jokes, how when you finally start to get some shit figure out, your body starts to fail you. Although, admittedly, mine is an extreme case.

Coffee has stopped working.  I can drink a pot before I got to sleep.  What I need is some Holden energy.  Which is impossible, since all his parts are new, not worn down and out, and he's seeing this shit for the first time.   He's like Old Man Spencer with that Navaho blanket, gets a bang out of everything.  I just have a body like Old Man Spencer, sans the gout.  Which is good.  My buddy Tom Pitts has got the gout and he tells me it's no fun.

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I had oatmeal for breakfast.  I have oatmeal for breakfast just about every day. Because it's a complex carb and you shouldn't eat it later in the day.  That's not the point.  It reminded me of Martin du Pours, the soup kitchen on Potrero in the city, which is where they feed the homeless from a giant vat every morning. It was really really good oatmeal, best I've ever had.  All the homeless junkies said the same thing, maple and plump raisins.  Then again, most of us hadn't eaten in several days by the time we finally made it to du Pours, so it's kind of like Eddie Murphy says about a starving man and a cracker:

It was funny, because Martin du Pours would let you have as much oatmeal as you wanted.  You could take that shit to go.  You just needed a container, so outside the soup kitchen you'd see all these dirty riff-raffers picking up empty Gatorade bottles and trying to saw them in half with their teeth.  I guess "funny" isn't the right word.

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You're probably wondering how I'm tying together Holden and oatmeal.  I'm sure there is a connection in there somewhere, like how I hope his strong will and boundless energy doesn't lead him to the Dark Side like his father.  Which is a real concern.  But not at 10 months.  More than likely, this is simply a rambling, incoherent post, because the little bugger has been up since 5 a.m. and I'm delirious.