We Meet Again

There's a happy reunion going on over in Sherman Oaks.  The college boy has joined forces once again with his beloved drum set.  Best way to deal with frustration, he tells me.  Maybe I'll take it up.  In the meantime, I'll just listen to him bang away and sing at the top of his lungs.  And when he's not drum-side, he's making beats on the desk upstairs, directly above my office.  "What's that?" Kelly asks.  We're busy writing, or busy not writing but thinking about writing, which is hard work, just the same.  "What's what?" I say, as though I don't know.  "It sounds like the ceiling's about to come down," she says. "Oh, that's Scotty playing the desk."  Yep.  The college boy's home.  Looking scruffy, banging on stuff, rehearsing his latest rap song before he heads to the studio on Tuesday.  Watching basketball, and more basketball.  College teams, Lakers, he doesn't care.  The volume in the house is turned up high.  Socks on the floor.  Abandoned shoes.  Half-empty cans of Diet Coke.  A lone beer bottle on the counter.  The Sports Section in disarray.  Welcome to my world for the next ten days.  I wouldn't have it any other way.