And a Happy Father’s Day to one and all – fathers, mothers, children, everybody involved in the family deal. Father’s at the head of the table today, back where he used to be, before paternity leave and breast-pumps, before he took the second car to work because Mom makes more money than he does, before he had to do his kids’ homework every night or get yelled at by the teacher.
Today’s your day, Dad. Look sharp.
I have every reason to believe that I am not a Dad, and so I operate on that assumption. No one has ever come after me for child support, no one has ever surprised me with a request for an interview for a college paper about his or her birth-father. I was never careless – much like a worker on dangerous machinery. In a regular practice, you can’t afford to make even one mistake. One mistake and it’s game over.
My Daddy, rest his soul, is dead. So’s my Mom. I am therefore not beholden to anyone to recognize this day. And yet, somehow, my subconscious played a dirty trick on me, and I had a close-to-waking dream about the biggest “Daddy” of them all, the man in the world who inspires the most awe, the most fear, the most, in a back-handed, cynical sort of way, the most respect, of all the other “mothers” up there in your top tier.
In the morning's second sleep before getting up, I dreamed that Bin Laden had released a tape (a call to arms) but there was a sound track - he was singing “Big Mamu.” Now I don't know - still don't - what the hell Big Mamu is, but I got Google. And damned if Mamu isn't in
Well, I’m going to let you go now… (as they say when they no longer want your company). You’ve had a busy day, got a bit drunk, have you? Like to put the head down and rest.
