More on that in a moment.

Meanwhile, what a World Cup — like a Super Bowl mixed with an Olympics mixed with an alien invasion.

I wanted to root for Spain, for they play a virtuoso version of futbol, but then I recalled how Franco launched fascism in Europe. That was many paellas ago, sure. But to forget is to forgive.

One thought: Why don’t soccer refs issue Gold Cards for remarkable plays? Or, when a player trips over his own feet and doesn’t raise his arms in protest, as they always do.

Reward good, honest play with Amex cards, and maybe a free oil change. It’s about time the world celebrated class.

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This means that — this season — smooth linens are out and vintage sea captains’ sweaters are in.

And if you insist on wearing your stains, be sure to layer them.

Increasingly, night crawlers and meal worms are an issue. More on that in a moment.

For such a homebody, I seem to be getting around a lot lately, right?

There’s Suzie’s cozy mountain cabin, the one with the ghosts and the creaky floors.

You should see us celebrate a summer sunset up there — like lipstick, a little smeared. Or the catch-and-release of a baby bluegill.

To me, fishing is the closest thing to sex that isn’t sex. I love setting up the lures, the lines. My knots are lousy and my luck even worse.

Yet, I love fishing. And I really love, once I’ve caught one, the joy in letting it swim away.

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That’s not to mean they aren’t spectacular events.

Here, let me show you…

My granddaughter Mookie celebrated one lap around the sun the other day, with a flurry of her young friends, in a Santa Monica park four blocks from the beach.

It was hilly. It was sappy. Nice spread — BLT sandwiches and tunafish. Lots of humus. Cupcakes galore.

The thing I always notice about Mookie is the way she reflects the light. Sunlight. Candlelight. Starlight.

No matter what, her eyes are a field of shimmering blueberries, as if a little moist from a mid-summer rain.

As with all grandkids — yours, mine — I love her so much I might just explode.

“Perpetual benediction,” is what Wordsworth called it.

In short: Let children and grandchildren be our every prayer.

Or not. Totally up to you.

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• Find your new.

• Find your true.

• The World Cup is my new kink.

• “Attack life. It’s going to kill you anyway.” — Stephen Colbert

• So if you can’t seize tomorrow, pick a day next week.

• Investing in SpaceX is like investing in Einstein.

• Falling in love is like dabbling in the occult.

• The American Shakespeare? Mark Twain.

• Or was it Whitman?

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It will be a crush when it’s over, and I don’t like crushes as much as I used to. I pass a line of car valets. They have the eyes of men about to be executed.

They know that everyone will soon pour out all at once demanding their Rivians and their BMWs: some tipsy and happy, others tipsy and mean, all just wanting to get home.

Home. Is there a better word? Home. It’s almost musical.

Home, where the dog dances when you walk in. You flick on the kitchen lights. You collapse on the couch.

Home. Warm as Mom’s lasagna. Soothing as a barroom full of friends.

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Remember? One book featured a bunch of talking bunnies. Another had a polar bear and a mouse. The books seemed written by saints and Sunday school teachers. So boring.

Next time, maybe some Vonnegut.

But you’re not even 2, and you seem to really enjoy simple repetition. I’m your Papa, and I’m pushing 70; I enjoy simple repetition too.

So we settled into you mom’s super-comfy chair, the one she rocked you in when you were born, all 7 pounds, 7 ounces of major American manhood.

And we read your baby books.

I could smell the day’s sunshine in your hair. My hand fell on your plump bare knee. You could probably use a little more gym work, buddy, maybe some kettle bells, more resistance training.

Not yet though.

For you, a fitness plan is roughhousing on the couch with your big sis or lounging in front of the TV with the family dog.

That’s good too, Puddles. I think that’s probably what Schwarzenegger did at your age, besides lifting cars.

FYI, we all had dinner at the overpriced, underseasoned Mexican joint, the one you love. As you know, I hate Mexican food. I always eat too much,

Anyway, we asked what drinks they had for kids. The server recommended tequila.

When the food arrives, you eat maybe half a molecule. Your sister eats a proton, a couple of neutrons. I promised you dessert anyway.

I should regret that but I don’t.

Because you approach a $6 cup of vanilla ice cream the way Ted Williams approached the plate at Fenway, the way Bach approached a sonata in Leipzig.

You make it yours.

A gleam comes to your eye, a legend’s quiet confidence. Seriously, you can eat ice cream with the best of them. One day, I predict you will be a first-ballot selection to the Ice Cream Hall of Fame. .

When we finish the ice cream, we wheel you six blocks toward home.

Please tell me, little dude, what’s happened to baby strollers? When your mom was young, we had these umbrella strollers, so light and slight. You could slip one in your jeans pocket, like a set of keys.

Today’s strollers are on steroids. They’re big rigs. We could’ve fit you, your sister and 15 Teamsters in that stroller. We could’ve mixed concrete and poured a highway.

Whatever. It’s a very fine stroller. I mean, what do you expect for 2,000 bucks?

In time, I’m sure your Papa’s calves will recover. And surgeons can probably rebuild my ruined back.

After your bath, you run wet and naked through the living room, to the delight of adults who are only wet and naked on birthdays and anniversaries.

You remind all of us how glorious it is to be at peace with your bod. Your tummy is your trophy. It is glorious and full of ice cream. Far as I could tell, you were a very happy and contented man. You were Bacchus.

And then we read your storybooks, just as I do with your sister, just as I once did with your mom.

It was, gotta confess, as magnificent a 20 minutes as I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve been around this rock a few thousand times.

We read four books, the themes of which I have no idea, but they were full of love and tolerance and all sorts of other outdated concepts. There were no fight scenes, no drug use, not a single broken heart.

What lies are your parents feeding you? In what world, will you thrive after hearing such softness?

Goodnight stars,

Goodnight air,

Goodnight noises everywhere …

The soothing rituals continued as we slipped you in your so-called “sleep sack,” which is this toga thing your mom makes you wear. Seems like a straitjacket. I could probably use one myself.

Toga!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then we went over the alphabet — twice. After that, came your bedtime bottle, which you drank — chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug.

Point is, if you ever need a grandpa to put you to bed again, I’m your guy. I think your mom has my email. I’m also “in the book,” as they say.

Honestly, there is no book, but if you want to find anything about my past marriages, my checkered career, or that time the bank almost took the house, it’s all available right there online.

Or just call.

G’night, Puddles.

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Next week: Celebrating summer’s splash zones.

Happy Fourth, everyone!

I see summer, as Colette once said, in a ripening peach.

If we’re lucky, summer is always in our hearts.

Some summers the memories pile up, one after the other, like a July 4th potluck where there isn’t enough space on the red-checkered table.

Some summers you eat through.

Some summers you sleep through.

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I write for the collective soul of suburban America, that tired old thing, that shredded has-been.

Honestly, I love the suburbs when the residents are out among themselves, laughing and showing off their dogs and their kids, cheering Little League or buying berries at the farmers market.

I loathe suburbs when they’re all buttoned up — doors locked, lips sealed, secrets kept, wall clocks ticking like car bombs.

Cushy quiet unnerves me. Ask anyone. It’s like a funeral where nobody shows up.

Conversely, I remember my first week in a college dorm. Everybody was everywhere. Kids you barely knew walked in and out of rooms, borrowing beer and record albums, the wandering minstrels of higher education.

Female classmates visited and wouldn’t leave, some of them. They’d just camp out on some dude’s bed and spend the semester. Once in a while, you’d find them in the men’s room shaving their pits.

That’s what college was like in the ‘70s. Feral. Utopian. Unsustainable.

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I have friends I like to kvetch with … to whine and groan.

I have friends for hanging out at sports bars or ball games.

My friends are like medical specialists — this one for this, another one for that.

I have friends to get serious with. I have friends with whom I’ve never shared an honest moment.

Don’t care. I am rich with friends. I have a treasure chest of these silly dolts.

And sometimes I wish it locked.

You know how it is. Sometimes you just really need a jelly donut, a dynamite burst of pleasure, a pop of pure decadence.

That’s where real friends come in. Need one? Make a phone call, send a text. L.A. is loaded with fun folks who’d like to have a beer and a taco some night.

As it happens, I’m free Thursday. Fax me. I’ll fax you back.

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Gruff, old-school fathers seemed so direct and sensible and real. And oddly nurturing, in that tough-love kind of way.

The world can be a wicked place, so there’s something to be said for a swift kick in the butt early on.

When I was a kid — sorry, here it comes — but when I was a kid, if you wanted a new bike, you mowed a few lawns, you raked some leaves. Eventually, you bought yourself a nice Schwinn 10-speed, the gold standard of the day.

Now, who buys the bikes?

We have a different kind of father now. Dare I say a better father? Maybe. Doesn’t every generation deliver a new brand of dad?

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I suppose that’s the glory of getting a little older, which happened to me just the other day.

At heart, I am a relic of another time — and a cautionary tale. I miss the Five & Dime stores of my youth, miss the smell and click of Zippo lighters.

I miss ma-and-pa diners, now nearly extinct.

I miss the way drivers used to leave their keys in the ignition when they ran errands, as my parents did when I was very young.

No alarms. No locks. Can you believe it?

The keys dangled in the ignition as Mom darted into the bank and bakery, the Plymouth at the curb, fully juiced.

Somebody could’ve just driven off with it, taken a joy ride, started a new life out West.

Even I was tempted. And I was only 5.

Eventually, we had to start locking our cars. A turning point? A hint of a society starting to circle the drain? Well, sure.

Pretty sure my mom blamed the Beatles.

It occurred to me, the other day, while spotting some ducklings on the dock, that we’re all ducklings on the dock, huddled together, wondering when the next wave might sweep us off the steps.

Turns out that maybe a bit of fear is good. Maybe fear inspires fellowship and frivolity. Maybe it prompts us to live for today.

Anyway, trembling and cold, the ducklings plopped in the water as we passed, eventually circling back to their safe spot on the dock stairs, laughing at life.

“Just wait,” I warned them, “till they start shooting at you.”

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Crinkle-cut eyes, twinkly with life, surrounded by a million laugh lines.

Look, we live in a universe with no sure bets. Old eyes have navigated that. Old eyes have seen the storm, adjusted the sails, turned into the heavy seas ….

Yet, think of all the Christmas mornings old eyes have seen. Think of all the sunsets, first kisses, June weddings, moody mornings, airport hugs, summer road trips.

Old eyes are scrap books. Old eyes grace our world.

Our culture prefers young eyes, but why? They haven’t seen nuthin’ yet. They haven’t survived a winter in Wyoming, or a day at the DMV, or lost “the best dog ever.”

Young eyes are shiny, sure, like cars off the showroom floor. Like they’ve been buffed to an impossible sheen.

Young eyes are irresistible. Yet they seem not to have earned our gushy adulation.

Such is life. Nobody ever said it’d be fair.

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I prefer songs that tip toward wistfulness — “Wichita Lineman,” “Please Come to Boston,” “Mandy.”

If there’s occasional sorrow to my writing, blame Jimmy Webb.

The other day, my Boomer mind finally morphed into a bowl of milk.

Because I miss turning on the TV and having it work.

I miss calling the repairman when t…

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These kids of yours, they turned out just great. I give you full credit. They are kind, tough, trustworthy, warm.

As adults, they are an absolute joy to be around. Well, mostly. They are, after all, our kids.

There are so many things I’m sorry about. We could’ve had a better marriage. As many parents do, we rolled all our love and energy into our kids and jobs and forgot to leave a bit of kindness for each other.

Not to be dramatic, but that was tragic.

I will say this: I was lucky to have you. I was lucky for every moment.

It’s been almost eight years since you died. I joked the other day that your ghost still lives here on the cul-de-sac. In many ways, that’s true. Your memory hovers over this house like some sunny high-pressure system.

You will be, now and forever, the most influential figure in our children’s lives.

Here’s an update: The lovely and patient older daughter pretty much runs the family. No one asked her to. It’s just her way.

You’d be so proud. She is funny, tenacious, devoted…

“Oh, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide…”

Your daughter is never happier than when she is surrounded by her kids at dinner or splashing with them in the bath.

The other daughter, Rapunzel, has your easy charm. People feel very comfortable around her. She’s taken to motherhood the way geese take to shimmering lakes.

Smartacus? He was only 15 when you died. You were so worried about him — we all were. But he has really stepped up. He’s a rascal, no question, but he knows when to bear down and grind out tough tasks.

Tell me, is there a better life trait?

For a while, we weren’t sure we would get him through the fourth grade. Remember how wiggly he was doing homework?

Well, he’s graduating from college this month, with mostly A’s and B’s. He did it, I’m sure, to make you proud.

Funny when our own kids inspire us, isn’t it?

As you know, we hit the jackpot when it came to sons-in-law, we couldn’t have done better if you held a sweepstakes or gave away candy-apple Ferraris.

Not surprisingly, they are world-class dads. It’s really something to behold, the way they love your grandchildren. Imagine all the good feelings you ever had meatballed into single moments.

Speaking of meatballs, the 300-Pound Beagle crossed the Rainbow Bridge about five years ago.

Seen him around? Is it true that all dogs go to Heaven? Has he ruined all the carpets yet?

We still have White Fang, your late son’s husky. She is, like him, very stubborn. And needy. Yet beautiful. In her, Christopher lives and breathes.

Finally, the thing I’m probably angriest about: That you never met these grandchildren of yours. You at least deserved that.

Where was God? What was he thinking? To borrow from a sonnet, “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see” I’ll never understand cancer.

Well, there’s a bit of God — and you — in these grandkids.

The littlest one, Mookie, has your saucer eyes. No one sees the resemblance except me, but I can assure you that she has your eyes. As the person who stared into your eyes more than anyone, I think I am qualified.

Is Mookie you? I think they all are.

The middle punk, Puddles, is a total scamp. He’s got these amber curls — like maple leaves — and Dodger-blue eyes. You’d eat him up.

And, finally, there is Cakes. Like you, she is the oldest child. Like you, she misses nothing.

Cakes would own you. By now, you’d be teaching her to make scrambled eggs or taking her to the zoo. You’d be buying her too many princess gowns.

Basically, you’d be doing all those things grandmas do with their oldest grandchild, the one they’ll know the most.

In an often-rotten world, that may be our most-reliable comfort: grandmas and their oldest grandkids

Final note: These three tiny grandkids represent you, honor you, carry your DNA forward in their curls, their smiles, their mirth.

They are your memoir, the book we can’t put down. I’m so sorry you missed their giggly hugs.

So, we’re sending you their hugs — a big, embarrassing box of them, next-day delivery, wrapped in tissue paper with crooked hand-drawn hearts.

Please open immediately.

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Next week: So long, Rhonda the Honda. Hello, new Ford.

And baseball.

So, maybe it’s no surprise that my son Smartacus is launching a career in sports business, based at a minor-league stadium 90 minutes from home.

His entry-level job: guest services.

Like his dad, Smartacus’ greatest gift is the ability to make small talk with almost anyone — cashiers, cops, bar maids, cabinet ministers, circus folk, musicians, dermatologists, fugitives, priests, con artists, CEOs — the usual retinue of Southern California life.

As you may know, banter is the blues music of the Irish, the soundtrack to our daily lives.

And, at a fetching little stadium, on the warm eastern lip of Los Angeles, Smartacus is making music.

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Not afraid of much anymore: Goths. The curled, uncooked parts of bacon. My late wife’s ghost.

That about covers it.

On my morning walk with White Fang, the birds are singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” which is ironic since that’s a term of endearment I use with my daughters and girlfriend: sweetie.

As in, “So, …

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