You were my age, the youngest son of the Scoutmaster of my Boy Scout troop. I was always jealous that you had such a cool dad, but I figured out over time that being your dad's son was no easy task. Expectations for you and your older brother were high.
I remember once on a campout, you let me borrow Cypress Hill's first tape. Wow, there's an image for you: two white boys in scout uniforms jamming to Cypress Hill. How gangster is that?