“Distinguished”

Over the weekend, I had occasion to take a friend to the emergency room for a few staples in the head. (It sounds more dramatic than it was. Snowboarding accident, one-inch long cut, no biggie.) When he was finally summoned to see the doctor, I tagged along to listen and take pictures. Hey, it’s a head wound, c’mon!

Anyway, as we’re chatting with the doctor, he starts listing warning signs we should look for later in the evening, some of which call for an objective observer (unusual behavior, belligerence, that sort of thing). So, the doctor turns to me and says, “You’re his… father?”

My friend is 35. I’m 38. His father? Fucking hell! Okay so my hair has an increasing amount of white in it, but still!

Grumble, mumble, gripe.