My son is having a pool party. Well, it’s not a pool party, exactly. It’s a video shoot for his latest song.

He’s almost seventeen; summer vacation kicked off yesterday. Project pool party. I hope he put half as much thought into finals.

****

Okay. I’m not being fair. LOL, lil’ homie. JK.

As I understand it, my son didn’t really want to have a pool party at our house. It’s more like he was forced into it by circumstance, the previously scouted location having fallen though. (Can’t imagine why somebody else’s parents didn’t want to host, even if it meant a starring role for their daughter, can you?)

See, in order to nail the visual story line that he and his creative partner have conceived for the video, they needed the opportunity to film a party at a pool.

It didn’t have to be his party, per se. It could have been any party at any pool, so he’s not stretching the truth in that regard. Strictly speaking, he is not, nor was he ever, trying to have an end-of-the year blow-out celebratory party at his/our house. This I understand. This I grok. Truly.

That the song has a pulsing, infectious beat and involves colorful colloquial language and vivid descriptions of wild partying of every order conceivable by a teenage mind is not an issue.

Creative expression is one inalienable right I’ve always fostered within my own little household/nation; a reward/benefit that comes with fulfillment of our social contract, which in my son’s case involves honest effort in school and on the court and in the arenas of filial love and of general humanity. Since he got into music a few years ago, he’s demonstrated the sort of dogged persistence that any artist can easily recognize in a fellow.

Which is why I’ve consented, I suppose, to taking on the role of producer for this video incarnation of "Rockstar," one of the latest songs from the in-progress third album by the artist known on Facebook as Milez $ager (friend him today!). That he has chosen to alter our modest family name by substituting the dollar sign for the S is the kind of burr beneath the saddle that a smart warhorse of a father like myself learns to ignore.

Then again—what was the name of your band in high school?

I’m not telling you mine.

***

As has been somewhat explained, in the circuitous and oft-mumbled piecemeal dialect typical to the micro-demographic of newly-licensed drivers with whom I regularly deal these days, principle photography on the "Rockstar" video is set to commence mid-afternoon today. The initial setups will involve a small crew. From what I gather, there will be a series of shots taken from inside of a car while driving on the streets in our general vicinity that may or may not take advantage of some of the breathtaking available views. I’ve also gathered that one or more females figure into the equation—can’t have a video without girls, everybody knows that.

As the sun begins to set, the extras are due to arrive. To film the party scenes.

I have specified that the number stay below 25.

I have been promised a list of names.

I will furnish the clipboard and the pen—and even a person to do the checking-off.

And one more thing. Nobody inside the house.

You think that’s a smart idea?

****

They can have the deck. They can have the pool. There is a bathroom with a hook-and-eye lock, but no other rooms with doors. There is lighting, albeit dim. There is a fence around the pool.

We live on a canyon; the flora, fauna and topography are formidable deterrents to any thought of party crashing. Like Alcatraz, no one will be able to get on or off the island without going through me or one of my able deputies—young colleagues recruited for their beauty and/or omnibus skill sets. They will infiltrate and mesmerize. They will help keep order. They will have my back if I have to get ugly with any infiltrators from rival crewz.

Do you think I should run out to Radio Shack and get some walkie-talkies?

***

While I’m sitting here waiting for the cast list to be produced--I’m sure it’s being carefully culled as we speak (either that or it’s being blasted all over Facebook and my neighbors are going to hate me tomorrow)--I can’t help but think about my preparations for parties past. Hours spent occupying some coveted patch of grass or sand in Fanuel Park, on Law Street Beach, in Kate Sessions Park, at La Jolla Shores…slathered with lotion, reading a magazine, anxiously guarding the borders of my hastily staked claim—a marking process involving soccer corner flags and yellow crime scene tape—awaiting the arrival of several dozen four year olds… six year olds…. thirteen year olds and their myriad overprotective parents… waiting to take delivery of a tower of pizzas, or six boxes of special fancy cupcakes…waiting for a fat man a in a tattered Batman suit promising magic-tricks and balloon animals. From Chuck E. Cheese to laser tag, Wave House to the bowling alley…

To "Rockstar," the video.

Lord have mercy.