look at me and creep out. Wonder if I’m serious. I mean, you can’t say anything, right? You can only look on, or askance, in utter horror, like you do at those radical comb-overs, and wonder, like, what the hell is this guy thinking? That it works? That it makes him look … cool? That he’s actually fooling somebody else?

Imagine: These dudes get up in the morning, strap it on, paste it over, smooth it down and look in the mirror and say, “Yep, lookin’ good!” Well maybe, but not me.

Here’s another thing I remember from when I was your age. I thought I knew everything. Hell, I did know everything—not. Not even close. Still don’t. But now I know I don’t. And it makes me smarter. Helps me realize I’m still learning.

On the other hand, I’m still in the young man/wo-man’s ad business. So how the hell am I going to get away with it as a … grandfather?

I mean, aren’t we the first generation in the history of whatever who actually likes a lot of the same music as our kids? And doesn’t that make us some kind of cool, or something?

Put it this way—it’s not like the couples I see pushing their tax-deductible bundles of joy and wards of their au pairs in oversized strollers around Manhattan these days. They’re in their 40s already, and a lot of them look like they just walked out of Father Knows Best, carryovers from the materialism of the ’80s. They will be 65 or 70 when they’re grandparents, and that’s fine, I guess—but that’s not me.

I got married the first time when I was too young and too stupid, and then we had two kids who got old enough soon enough to hang out with Dad and learn some of his bad habits. And now one of them’s making me a grandfather, and it seems like all of a sudden.

So here I am.

But, wait! It was only five or six years ago that I was in a blues band, rockin’ in some of New York’s hottest clubs. And I still play a kick-ass Telecaster. Dre’s on my iPod. I think Saturday Night Live’s funny, again. I wear lots of black. Drank martinis in a cigar bar. Once I even posed my way through a half-latte grande iced coffee lite at Starbucks (but never again). And, I can still swish a jump shot, dude.

Whatever. And how does any of this qualify me for grandfatherhood?

Except I do qualify, because of that phone call I got. My DNA was about to find its way into another living, breathing human being, at least that’s how I think it works, and I am thrilled. I am blessed. I am about to experience what will be the third true miracle in my life, the birth of another child, this time my daughter’s.

My grandchild.

Only thing is, I told my daughter there’s just one name I’m going to answer to with this kid. Times have changed. Old ain’t old anymore. None of this Grandpa stuff.

Call me Granddude.