Hail, Smartacus!

The kid crushed college, and now treats me like one of his roommates. Oy. But wait till you see the funny stuff he can do with AI.

A jogger ran across some freshly oiled blacktop with his dog the other morning, the poor pooch leaving footprints in the wet goo.

Ugh. Imagine the pads of his paws?

We all make mistakes, usually when we rush stuff. Best not to leave oily fingerprints though.

Later, I told Suzanne that 95% of mistakes happen when we rush, and she responded that 78% of the magic also happens.

Not entirely sure what she means, other than you sometimes have to be spontaneous, to embrace the whimsy of the moment.

I’ll ask her and get back to you soonest.

Meanwhile, I have my hands full with my son Smartacus, who’s back from college a quarter early.

“Keep him!” I begged university administrators, yet they released him on parole once he’d completed his degree.

Go figure. I’d have paid them another $50k just to house him another year or two. Like a reverse ransom. Like a prison bribe.

Here’s the latest on Smartacus: College seems to have had no effect on him whatsoever. The way the Irish repel attempts at psychoanalysis, Smartacus resists adulthood.

My son still only half-listens when I talk to him, as children often do … I don’t care what age. He especially doesn’t listen when he’s eating.

Actually, when he’s eating, his hearing completely shuts down. Aliens could crash land on the roof, and he’d just go on eating … chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp.

I still make him grand-slam breakfasts, a tradition of ours since he lost his dear mama, an excellent cook. Posh was Italian, so the kitchen came easily. Me, I’m Southern Irish, so my cooking tastes like hand tools.

“Did you notice I used two kinds of cheese?” I tell him as he pythons a sandwich.

No answer.

“Eat those orange slices,” I tell him, “they’re good for your skin, your heart, your ding-a-ling…”

No answer.

FYI, I mention his ding-a-ling because he is barely listening, as mentioned above, and I thought that by mentioning something so personal, he might react.

If you’re a parent, maybe you’ll understand. On a daily basis, desperation pervades almost every molecule of this old house.

You’ll be pleased to hear that Smartacus remains a work in progress — my Sistine Chapel, my Hoover Dam, an unfinished symphony.

Post college, he’s still a Zits cartoon. Some days he seems fresh from the womb, a 160-pound baby boy.

But we’re not done with him — not ever. As my colleague Stan once noted, “Parenthood is a life sentence.”

Good to know, Stanley.

My ultimate mission: To get Smartacus to always go the extra mile — in life and in love. And not to rush dogs across oily asphalt.

In his defense, you should see what Smartacus can do with text chains. Using AI, he sets them to music. It’s actually kind of genius.

Ask your son or daughter about it. If your kid is over 7, he or she can probably turn your family’s latest text string into a rock opera.

Or worse, an insufferable musical, a period piece with wandering barbershop quartets.

If only I could get Smartacus to worry a little more.

The thing about kids — today and always — is that they are the world’s freest spirits. They don’t sweat the small stuff.

I mean, they don’t care that the butter dish is full of toast crumbs, that the car needs servicing … that the checking account is running on fumes.

FYI, my daughter Rapunzel once blew up a very nice E-class sedan, a little aged yet quite functional, because she didn’t know it required oil.

Our children’s point of view: “Why worry, when Mom and Dad worry for us?”

That’s on us, I suppose.

Besides, our kids are too busy futzing with AI. And texting their friends, mocking their parents for worrying “so frickin’ much” (their vernacular, not mine).

Most troubling, Spartacus has started treating me — a period piece — like one of his college roommates. He’s snarky, in elaborate ways that entertain him more than me.

When I sneeze one time, he responds “Bless you,” like, 20 times. When I complain, he hugs me and whispers “bless you” again.

The other day, he comes up to me, flaunting his four-inch height advantage, and suggests I’m shrinking, as older people will.

“I’m not wearing shoes,” I explain.

“Neither am I,” he says.

“Go away,” I say.

With him home, everything smells of his socks, his aura, the garlic fries he had for dessert.

Will I miss this maddening phase — this late, lingering childhood?

Not so much.

Bless you.

Next week: We are what we read.

Some morning announcements:

A few spots remain for today’s 4 pm hike at Descanso Gardens. Interested? Please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Want to use your texts to create your own AI song? 1) Download the SUNO app (pretty sure it’s free). 2) Screen-save a series of texts with friends or family. 3) Create your song. Hint: You need to go to the camera icon to import the screen-save with the texts. Only takes a few minutes.

Cheers!