If the video is too much, you can read this really great article called “Michael Jackson, world famous pedophile, dead at 50.”

Here’s my take: I don’t care about how talented anyone is if they molest children. Not one bit. In fact, I’m glad he’s dead because it means he can’t harm any more children and mess up more lives. Same goes for The Rapist Kobe Bryant. It makes me sick to see people celebrating him as a “hero” because his team won the NBA championship. He should be in prison. WTF is wrong with people who give sexual predators a pass just because they have talent? How would they like it if that were their kid or their sister that ended up with MJ or Kobe?

Hey, a little levity: Did you hear that the autopsy revealed that Michael Jackson didn’t die of a heart attack? Yeah, it was food poisoning that killed him. He ate 12-year-old nuts.

“I seem to have misplaced my car,” I told the attendant.

“Let me see your ticket,” he said. I thought maybe they cataloged the cars during the day.

“That in the parking garage on the other side of the highway,” he said.

[Blush]

You’d have to know the Wilmington station. It’s small. really small. And I remembered — belatedly — that I didn’t have to walk outside to get into the station. The one I went to required me to cross two major streets. Plus, I even tried to prepay my parking by using an automated machine. I put my ticket stub in three times to no avail. My thinking — hey, the machine must be malfunctioning. Never occurred to me that I was in a completely wrong garage.

Ugh. My sense of direction rivals Wrong Way Corrigan. Good thing my talk went well. It didn’t require me to give directions.

Matt and his friends are at the Shore. Eight of them rented a house for Senior Week. It was fun watching them pack up and get ready yesterday morning for their first adventure into Grownupland.

Sheryl and Snickers the Wonder Dog are still sleeping. Stevie, too.

Myself? I’m going to read the New York Times on my deck and finish the Sunday crossword puzzle. Not bad. I love days like this.

Matt graduated from Conestoga High School last night. He did great in high school (see all that bling around his neck?) and I’m certain he’ll do great at NYU. We’re really proud of him.

I must say that although you know your kid is growing up and getting older, going to his graduation put a fine point on it. This summer is going go buy so quickly, and then, wham! He’ll be moving out and onto a new phase in his life. We’ve been lucky to see him grow into the fabulous young man he’s become. I look forward to seeing what’s next.

When’s the last time someone came to your house, drank your beer, ate your snacks, and told you that your life was a waste?

Matt’s senior prom was this past Friday. He had a bunch of his friends over to take pictures in our back yard. And a few minutes before all of them were to arrive, Sheryl let me know that a bunch of their parents would be coming along, too. (You can imagine how charmed I was about that.)

While the prom goers mingled on our lower patio, their parents chatted up each other on our deck. Seemed pretty simple. It was a beautiful day, the weather was perfect, and we were heading into the golden hour. Instead, one of the kid’s dads gave me a golden shower.

As with all suburban parties in 2009, the talk turned to the economy. How bad the stock market is. Who’s to blame. One dad, who I didn’t know from Adam’s Off Ox, was really bent about it. He said the financial community were all criminals. That they wrecked everything. I tried to change the subject, because you can’t swing a stick in our neighborhood without hitting someone who’s in financial services. The conversation was getting a little…tense. So, I stepped in when he started talking about employee stock options.

Me: It’s funny, I spent a good chunk of my career doing global stock option implementations. Now, with what’s happening in the economy, I’m spending a lot of time getting them back from employees.

Him: See, you wasted your life. You haven’t done one thing to add value to the economy or society. That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.

Me: Um…(glad I’m not 25 anymore, so thoughts of pushing him over the railing quickly subsided)…I have this house…I own these chairs…paid for these drinks… I poured what was left of my beer over the railing. A good friend of mine stared at me and was on the verge of laughing out loud.

Me (again): Well, this conversation is over. And this party’s over.

Those of you who know me know that I have a bad habit of doing this thing with my hands that I learned from Yul Brenner when he played Pharaoh in The Ten Commandments: I whisk people away when I’m mad. I did that. And the guy, along with his wife, got going.

To prove that I’m still a juvenile, I pointed out the back of his khakis to a friend of mine. Mr. You Wasted Your Life had been leaning against the railing of my deck for a while. The back of his pants were filthy. He used his butt to wipe a winter’s worth of grime from my deck railing.

I couldn’t stop laughing. The high school seniors were more mature than me. Then again, they have a whole life to waste ahead of them.

He’s been gone 21 years. A generation.

Stephen’s 16th birthday is tomorrow. He’s my youngest.

Matt made his college decision. NYU. He’ll be gone in 4 months.

Sheryl and I will be empty nesters in 2 years.

A student at the high school called Sheryl a “hottie” the other day. Great to hear when you’re 50.

I’ll be 50 this summer. (People don’t call me “hot,” they call me “sweaty.” It’s not the same.)

Snickers the Wonder Dog will be 7 this summer. She and I will be the same “age” for a short time.

25 years went by in a blink. If I’m lucky, I’ll pay attention to the next 25.

I’m not sure why, but I signed up on Ancestry.com. I entered information I know about my parents and what little I know about my grandparents. From there, the information gets foggy.

I know that ancestry is an obsession of the aged. I’m getting there. I wonder about those who came before me. And now I’m at an age where most of my worry is for my guys and for their future.

At least they’ll have a good record of me. I don’t have a single letter written by my parents or grandparents. My guys will have the thousands of blog entries that I’ve made over the past few years. I’m not sure if it’s that’s better that having nothing and thinking that their predecessors wrote elegant letters.