By Alan Passman
has the face of a child. A pretty one, but a little girl nonetheless.
Britney Spears and I are the same age or maybe a year apart
and my father would always talk about how he didn’t get her
sex appeal that he looked at her and saw someone who could
be his daughter and now I’m doing the same, I guess. Although
I would have had to been a teen dad and so I’m glad that didn’t
happen, but it makes me feel old that this superstar looks like
a middle schooler and was born the year that Marlboro Man
died of cancer, Grunge was king, Batman: The Animated Series
was two months away from airing, and we were just coming
out of a recession where we were being told to buy American.
In her youngster’s visage and countenance, I see death
looming and ever-present on the horizon. I see my mortality
slow in its slipping away from me. I see a kid and wonder
when am I going to have one.