The first time I met Blake, he was an eight-year-old flesh-and-bone Bart Simpson and I was a twenty-two-year-old jealous brat, confused and not so willing to share his father. Henry brought both Blake and his other son Robbie (10 at the time) over my house one afternoon for some pizza.
As we sat at the table, Henry commanded Blake to retrieve his Mountain Dew which Henry had left in the living room. Blake rose to fetch it, but I said, Henry, get it yourself! He’s not a DOG.” I remember Henry shooting me an angry glance, but getting his own drink after that; I remember as Blake smiled his gratitude at me, I thought to myself, “This might actually work out.”
Unfortunately, Blake was still very impressionable and let his mother cloud his perception of me. For years, things were awkward and tense at best, and Henry and I were fighting nearly every time he had his kids for the weekend. I was sure Blake hated and resented me, but instead of being a responsible adult, I would stoop to his level. I did and said a lot of assholey things that still haunt me to this day.
Seven years later, Blake is this really fucking awesome kid who thinks independently of his mother, adores Chooch, confides in Henry, listens to really great music,and for some bizarre reason — doesn’t hate me. I’m really excited that he’s moving in with us, and hopefully we can do lots more photo shoots like this one yesterday at Green Man’s Tunnel. And hopefully he shares his band tees with me.
There’s gotta be something better than this out there. Like cotton candy and illegal arms rings.
Please don’t get cattail jizz on my future Emarosa shirt, thanks guys.
Picking a bouquet for Chooch.
After we exhausted all ability to give a shit about nature and the fucking elusive Green Man, I proposed we hit up a strip club, but Henry took us to get ice cream instead.
Fuck you, Green Man.