The Godfather is 36 today. I’m not talking about the first of the cinematic trilogy- that’s younger, but the actual Godfather to my children, Mr. David Parenteau.

Dave and I met in highschool. He looked liked a small Howard Johnson but with more street cred (relatively) and I was a poster boy for your favorite John Hughes film. We both loved the theater, by which I mean the hot drama girls that resided in it. We listened to Aztec Camera and drank hot beer that we stole from my dad while sitting in lawn chairs in the desert next to my yard.

Dave joined the military and I stayed in the lawn chair. Later we continued our pursuit of women and wine and committed acts of joy and stupidity that are better shared over beers not blogs. We listened to Chet Baker and Jeff Buckley and had more fun than our wallets or livers thought possible.

Eventually we had to go our separate ways. It was a woman, as it usually is. Dave moved to California and I stayed in Tucson.

Fast forward an insane amount of years and he is still in San Diego and I’m in the LA area. We stay in touch. He works hard and probably too much. I hardly work- way too much. Our friendship survives time and miles.

He is a good guy and a good friend. He is the Godfather. Take what he offers.

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