Why do they hide so much history within them? Why does that past come out in most unprompted ways? Why is the pizza line at Costco essential for me to learn my grandfather's name was Salvador, that dad was buddies with famous luchadores, or that he is casual friends with many a notable playwright?
I hope it's not the feeling that I'd be uninterested; I certainly am.
His storytelling is so casual, so carefree. Maybe he likes the old days to be the old days and his place to be in the now, and his way of keeping the past at bay is to scarcely visit it, to give nostalgia no special regard.
Perhaps he likes the chance to be mysterious, and he very much is in these moments. It's strange for there to be mystery between us, but that's unavoidable, I guess. I try not to take it as a barrier. We are mysteries even to ourselves; it's an unjustly tall order to make ourselves crystal clear for others, even our children, perhaps.
Whatever it is, I treasure each pearl of the weird history, the places he has been and the trouble he got into. He was and still is that young man just as I hope to still be who I am today, even if in bite-sized, shocking portions.