(And, as I tell the offspring, even though they now dwell among the wicked investment bankers in the Marvelous Leafy Land of Rye -- "Greenwich Lite" -- they were all born in New York, New York. Manhattan. The center of the gosh-darn universe. In New York Hospital.)
But it's still a joy, every once in a while, to have a new classic American cultural experience. And a few weeks ago, my beloved goddaughter, Lily, celebrated her birthday in a Long Island establishment owned by a Mr. Charles (Chuck) E. Cheese.
|Lily and her dad, my buddy Ryan|
So no satirical comments about the venue. Just a couple of observations. Like another first experience -- the observation of an amazing poufed-up and suspiciously dark-brown mullet haircut on a middle-aged customer, complete with a compensatory bald spot on the back.
And, as I was successfully bonding with Lily, whom I do not see anywhere near enough (and I'm sure my three other goddaughters, all teenagers now, could confirm my criminal elusiveness), having her little cousin come up to us, look at me critically, and ask: "Are you Lily's aunt?"