HWSNBBA and Space Cars!

M is home. We didn't expect him home for another two weeks, but he saw a ride coming south and hopped it and appeared home yesterday, grungy, tired, starving and full of hair raising stories about sleeping on some motel steps in Ocean City, punching a skinhead who was hassling some black kids in Rehoboth and asking a cop in all honesty for the location of a doughnut shop in Dewey Beach.

He is furious about the travesty of Theo's haircut. And he has clear ideas on his own couture: M, (and don't tell him you read this, because this is He Who Shall Not Be Blogged About) is determined to wear black jeans, white suspenders, a black and white striped shirt, Doc Martens and a top hat to school on the first day. We spent last night surfing Ebay to find a top hat. They're expensive as hell: $60 and up. I personally am reluctant to spend $60 on what I perceive as a passing whim, but what M perceives as a vitally important, indeed epic (a lot of things are epic. Some are even hella epic) part of his personal expression. In fact, he wants to start a gang. A gang who will all be wearing combat boots, black jeans, white suspenders, striped shirts and top hats.
"What should I call them?" he said.
"How about The Suspender People?" I said. But he booed me down.

I don't know. He almost had me buying the damn hat, but I came to my senses. "What if you ask Gramma?" he said desperately, "Tell her I'm taking a manners class, and I need a top hat. It will work! Or I could mow the grass 6 times - I swear I'll do it!"

Alas for M, it will not work. I can mow the grass myself 6 times for free, and Gramma will laugh cynically at this "manners class" no matter how much those manners might need improvement. We are unfeeling and cold, and we say, "Save up $50 and we'll talk spotting you the extra $20 ($10 for shipping). Alas.

So, to make it up, at Ingles I bought a box containing 15 great Movies From Space! The first one we watched was Visit to The Planet of Prehistoric Women, or perhaps it was Visit to the Prehistoric Planet. No matter. They had a Space Car, which this is, and check out those fins. That is MY Space Car, the one I was promised by the Year 2000, and it's six fucking years late, and I want it. Now. It hovers, hon, and it has a machine gun. It is MINE. I need it. Even more, or perhaps equally as much, as my son NEEDS a top hat.