Paul: Scrappy in Seattle

My son Paul David Alexander may be suffering under the impression that he can stop the ravages of time. Alas, no amount of knowledge of temporal physics will prevent the inevitable, as was the case at exactly 5:18pm Eastern time today. Try telling him that.

I don't want to turn 29, I've decided. Not happening. Sorry folks. The buck stops here.

He's determined, I'll say that for him. And so, we take this opportunity once again, to extol the triumphs and tribulations, of the young man who will continue the Alexander name -- up to a point (but that's another story.)

This story begins after Paul's graduation fere cum laude from the über-prestigious Savannah College of Art and Design (Atlanta). After staying in the Peachtree City for nearly another year, our wunderkind and his fiancée packed up the car and headed out west, crossing a dozen states for their Mother of all road trips, including one night in Boise, Idaho, as illustrated here.

He arrived in Seattle in May of this year, and after a brief stay at a friend's house, they found the perfect (and almost cliché) loft apartment near the heart of the Capital Hill neighborhood. It was the perfect choice for a twenty-something couple, and close to the bus route that takes him across the lake to Bellevue, the home of Nintendo, Microsoft, and a scrappy little start-up video game design studio known as Camouflaj. The second of five episodes of the epic stealth survival horror video game known as République was released about the time of his arrival, and the third episode is under development.

Despite his busy schedule of nearly all work and nearly no play, Paul still manages to keep in touch with his dear old mac daddy, which would never be complete without his usual biting wit (which he gets from his mother). It doesn't matter if we disagree on politics and religion. In fact, as is shown in this episode with Jonah Goldberg of the National Review, this party via text messaging is just getting started.

D: So, tell me more about this love-hate bromance you seem to have with Jonah Goldberg. If I ever meet him at some right-wing cocktail party and tell him, "Hey, I'm this guy's dad," will he shake my hand and tell me what a f***ng genius you are, or simply run screaming out of the room?

P: There's nothing love-hate about it. that guy is a turd given human form.

D: Yeah, well, I see a pair of turds that are equally matched. Keep it going, will you? I still can't stop laughing.

D: Because if this is the best you can do ... (referring to the Twitter conversation above)

D: ... he is SO gonna whoop your ass!

D: Besides, guys like him never fly coach, so this isn't really gonna be, like, a thing, k?

P: I completely owned him.

D: Oh sure you did. That bit about spitting out his Cinnabun totally made him your b**** in the public square.

P: Lol exactly.

D: You realize you're full of s***, don't you?

D: I mean, why can't you challenge this guy on his opinions? Surely a f***ing genius like you can ditch the Saul Alinsky playbook long enough to skewer his musings in 140 characters or less.

D: Seriously, what kind of a punk-ass son did I raise?

P: I'd rather just make fun of him - no point in arguing with dishonest people. Besides, he wouldn't have a job if it wasn't for his mommy.

P: It's twitter not the damn forensics club.

D: Oh that's a cop out. This is a public venue. You'd have a limitless audience. You could be "trending" inside the Beltway by now. But oh, no, why raise the level of the conversation, when it's easier to be Beavis and Butthead?

As to what followed, as seen in the illustration here, and having read Rules For Radicals, I should have known better. I'll bet Goldberg gets his share of yuppie d-bags and trust fund hippies who think he's a Nazi disguised as a Jew. Or something. But the important part is that dear old Daddio can be the secondary focus of his son's expanding cult following.

Like when he was a kid, his uncle from Cleveland used to call him "Spud Nut." Now, if you're not from Cleveland, you couldn't possibly imagine doughnuts from potatoes. But they've got quite the imagination in that city, so that where it comes from. And after I got tired of being addressed as "Dude," he found an alternative. What a knucklehead. Just imagine him getting nervous about me seeing this conversation and sending tweets to his friends.

Other than sending baby pictures to Camouflaj, he knows I would never do that.

Or would I?

But at the end of the day (including a three-hour delay), he knows that I love him, and that I always will. Ours may not be the typical father-son relationship, but he knows that I brought him into this world, and that I can still take him out. Meanwhile, we close with this video of him and his colleagues making their mark in their chosen profession, on a large screen in a great convention hall.



A boy can dream, and dreams can come true. Here's to his, and to living his vision.