I'm a proud papa.

I've become a regular face to Cindy, the clerk at the 7-11 down the street from my house. It's literally not even a block away from the house, and I stop there probably once a day with my huge 'Double Gulp' cup for a refill of Diet Coke. We talk whenever she's ringing me up, and I've been in there a few times with my brother. I found out last week that she thinks Brent is my son. I've gotten that I look like I could be in my late twenties, but never that I look old enough to have a 15 year old child. I don't have the heart to tell her that he's only my brother, but I can't help but laugh inside when she asks how my son's hunting trip went or tells me that he'd probably rake the leaves for me if I asked, since he's such a nice young man (for which I get the credit.)

A nice young man, indeed. Arguing with him over who's better at Rock Band prompted me to spend the last two days holed up in the den practicing. Yours truly can definitely now play 29 of the 58 songs on expert on guitar, and all of them on expert bass, thank you very much.