The Grocery Boy Jr. is a store on the main parkway in my town. I’ve driven past it at least once every day for the 6 years we’ve lived in this area, but I’ve never been inside it. It’s the size of and has the look of an old convenience store, with a couple or four gas pumps at the side, but its name suggests a more interesting business —something with a local history.

It’s a rather bland building, but that’s how a lot of old mom-and-pop businesses look. It was probably built in the 70s, and I doubt it makes enough money for real renovation or a cosmetic upgrade. I always imagined the stored as owned by an older couple, with their adult son managing the day to day operations. The “Jr.” in the name says that it’s at least the second such store in the family’s chain, but I’ve never seen the original Grocery Boy. Maybe it was in a bad location and eventually closed, or maybe it was in a great location and sold out to a bigger business.

My imagination has really built up the history and significance of the store. I knew the inside must be full of fresh farmer’s market produce—maybe some ripe strawberries, corn still in the shuck, and bright red tomatoes. Probably also a small selection of various grocery store type goods, too. Some stuff that people could walk to this store and pick up without having to drive all the way to a big grocery store—cereal, bread, and cheese.

Although, in this town, there’s a grocery store within a couple miles of any home, the Grocery Boy Jr. was here first, and served the neighborhood well before the big stores arrived. So I resolved to actually go in the store one day. Once I made the resolution, it still took a few days to stop in.

My imagination was much better than the reality. It’s a convenience store. Just like the Amoco and BP stations down the street. It sells the same packaged snacks, soft drinks, lottery tickets, and beer as every other gas station/convenience store. How sadly disappointing and boring. Although, it does sell porn magazines. Good thing I didn’t have the kids with me when I dropped in. But that situation probably would have made for a more interesting post today.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

My 6 year old has illustrated and written almost a dozen comic books. His first was a couple years ago. He used Spider-Man stickers for the characters, but he actually drew the cityscapes and the webs shooting from the sticker- Spider-Man’s hands. He then dictated the text to his mom who wrote it at the top of the pages. He has loved Spider-Man since he was about 2 years old—last year was the first year since then that he didn’t dress up as Spidey for Halloween.

Then he moved up to drawing everything, characters and all. As he’s learned to read and write some in Kindergarten, he’s been even writing his own text. By his sixth birthday, he had four or five comics to his credit.

In the past few months, he’s been interested in the Captain Underpants novels by Dav Pilkey. It’s a hilariously silly series, and he laughs out loud every time we read one of the stories—even the ones we’ve read half a dozen times. In these novels, George and Harold make comic books about Captain Underpants, and sell them in their school yard. My boy took this idea and ran with it. He’s made about six Spider-Man comics with the intention and expectation to sell them to his friends.

He draws out all the characters and scenes, colors everything, and then writes all the text. He gets me or his mom to staple the pages together for the finished product. So far, though, he hasn’t sold any of them. He’s given them all away to family members. We’ve got Spider-Man versus Electro, Spider-Man versus Doctor Octopus, Spider-Man versus Venom, Spider-Man versus robots, Superman versus Electro, and some rematch battles. His books include a cover page with the title, and the back cover with “The End.”

He’s drawn Captain America for me twice: once for a Father’s Day banner, and the image to the right for my birthday card. The birthday card shows a “bad guy” hanging from the ceiling, where Spider-Man webbed him up, and a robot knocked to the ground by Cap. (The second image to the right is from my 2 year old.)

His love of comic books came from his love of Spider-Man; he knew of Spidey before he knew anything about comic books. It was because of his obsession with Spidey that I bought him a couple comic books. I read the books myself before reading them to him, to make sure the story and images were suitable for a 3-6 year old. We’ve read them and he’s looked at them so much they’ve come apart. I’ve collected the separated pages and keep them stored in my comic collection boxes.

He’s seen my boxes of comic books, and knows I have a huge collection. He occasionally asks me when he’ll be able to read them. I’ve told him, when he can read them, he may read them. I also reserve the right to hold back on that “may” until he proves he can read them carefully. I haven’t saved these books in plastic sleeves, with cardboard backs, in long, specifically-sized boxes to let a kid (my son or not) accidentally tear or bend them. I’m a bit obsessive about taking care of books—comic books, game books, and regular reading books. (I even have a well-maintained, full set of my 1977 World Book encyclopedias that I refuse to let my wife throw out.)

So far, he’s proving that he wants to take care of books. He takes care of his personally-created comic books. It upsets him when his 2 year old brother gets a hold of them and scatters them about the house. He’s coming along nicely as an obsessive comic book geek. Makes a daddy proud.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

When I was a teenager, I figured up how old I’d be on January 1, 2000: 32. That was old to me then—not old like a “senior citizen,” but old like “full adult.” Thirty to 32 was about as old as I could picture myself ever being. Beyond that was just not something I could conceive.

Even as I got older, in my 20s, 30-something was just not something I thought about. When I turned 30, the concept felt so alien. I wasn’t ready to be 30, yet. I wasn’t finished with my 20s. Now that I’m turning 40, I still feel like I’m not finished with my 20s. When I think of myself, I picture myself as in my late 20s. When I see people in their 30s and 40s, I think of them as “older than me.”

After my teenage years, I’ve never been one to dwell on my age. I’ve never been happy or afraid to get older. There’s really nothing magical, joyous, important, notable, or depressing about aging from 24 to 25, or 36 to 37. But I must admit to a bit of surprise when the tens digit changes. It’s not an enlightening moment, but rather just a moment of “Huh? How is this happening already?”

I’ve never cared about cakes and gifts on my birthdays. Birthdays, to me, have always mostly just been an excuse to have my own day, to do what I want without having to ask or answer to anyone about what I’ll do. I’ve usually spent the day doing things I don’t get a chance to do very often. I’ve spent birthdays going to comic book shops, to game stores, writing, reading books, watching movies, playing computer games, etc. It’s very enjoyable to spend 8 to 12 hours doing something I really like to do, with no interruptions, no questions, no one expecting anything from me. It’s just a full day of totally self-centered thoughts and activities.

So, here I am at 40 years old. Physically, I’m starting to feel over 29, but mentally, I still think under 30. I still enjoy doing the things I did at 15: gaming, comic books, movies, hanging out with friends (talking about gaming, comic books, and movies). I probably have more disposable income now than I had total income at 20, but I have only a tiny fraction of the disposable time that I had at 20.

Turning 40 is doing nothing for me. There’s no enlightenment, no epiphany, no feeling of having reached a summit. It’s just another day. I’m holding out hope that turning 42 will give me the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

The family spent a few hours at the neighborhood pool this afternoon. I normally prefer the pool later in the summer, when the water has had a couple months to warm up. The water today was still too cool, and it took several minutes for my body to acclimate to the temperature, but once used to the water, it was just fine.

The pool wasn’t too crowded today. Everyone there was part of a family: moms, dads, and young children. Usually there’s a few teenagers or college kids, and maybe some single folks, too. The only teenagers today, though, were the two lifeguard girls.

Interestingly, one of the lifeguards was an albino. This is only noteworthy because usually lifeguards have tanned skin from their time around the pool, but this girl was very pale, with white hair and eyebrows. She just kind of stood out from what you’d expect to see in the lifeguard chair.

Kids absolutely love swimming pools. They play with such excitement and exuberance. I remember loving the pool in my neighborhood, growing up. My wife’s family had a pool in their backyard. We both have fond memories of afternoons splashing around and playing in the water. We never realized just how exhausting the activity could be for our parents. You can’t take your eyes off children for a minute, and the only thing more fun for them than playing in the pool is playing in the pool with mom and/or dad.

There was one little girl, maybe four or five years old, who kept coming to me and literally wrapping herself around me and climbing up on me. She saw me throw my son up in the air and let him splash down in the water, and she wanted me to do the same for her. I didn’t know this girl, had never seen this girl, and didn’t know her parents.

I asked her where her parents were and she explained that her mom was not there, and her dad was not dressed for the pool. She pointed to her dad, sitting and daydreaming at the exact opposite end of the pool. She was playing in the shallow end, where all the other young children were, and he was sitting over next to the deep end. I tried to explain to her that only her mom or dad could throw her up like I was doing, and I even stopped the play with my son. But she was insistent. She was polite, and sweet, but she really wanted to play.

It was an uncomfortable position for a man to be in. I was fending off this little girl with one arm and holding one of my boys with the other. She kept wrapping herself around my arm and trying to climb up closer to me. Never once did I see her father so much as look over at us. I eventually convinced her that I wasn’t going to pick her up, and I got her off of me without being mean, but she came back a while later. I again managed to talk her away from me.

If I knew the little girl, or at least knew her dad, I wouldn’t have had any problem with playing with her. But it’s real uncomfortable to have an unknown girl so all over me in a pool. What would her father have thought and said if he saw me manhandling his little girl like I was playing with my boys? What would anyone have said if she got hurt? What kind of trouble could I have been in if someone made accusations?

Anyway, other than that situation, the pool day was fun. I got to dive and swim in the deep end during breaks for the kiddies, and we ordered pizza delivered to the pool at the end of our stay. It was a pretty good day. Now I smell like chlorine, my hair is dried all funky, and both boys, and the wife, fell asleep almost immediately.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com