Happy Farter's Day!

How we practice Tough Love at the Gunn household.

Greg:

You are no doubt smitten by my waggish play on "Father's Day" in the title of this letter. My reasoning: what is more memorable about fathers than their boyish glee at All Things Digestive - to wit, bodily noises - and jokes thereabout? Who doesn't think of "father" without thinking of "Hey, c'mere 'n' pull my finger!" Who does not hear the word "father" without recalling such ribald classics of the comedy genre as "didjahearthewunnabout the lady water-skier who fell offa her skis an' got a medal in the hunnert-yard DOUCHE!? Har-hur-WHEEZE!" So yeah, Father's Day, the day when men all over the world are reminded to not grow up. If men actually grew up into men, what a tragedy that would be, no? Or if not no, then yes? Which is my point exactly. Wait for it. It'll come to you.

I am so drunk on sugar right now it's unbelievable. The pie in the commissary here at work has got to be at least 96.6% sugar. But as they say, the first rule of Pie Club is: nobody talks about Pie Club. So I shall shamefully continue to eat my pie in the dark while the room begins to spin, and I shall cry not for help, tho' the sugar-beasts torment me.

Which brings me to my son, without whom I would not be a father, but just some random strange guy who kept calling him to ask him how he was, if he was eating enough, and if for the Love of Baby-fawking-Jesus he was going to mow the fawking lawn before Henry-fawking-Morton-fawking-Stanley sticks his limey neck out of the boscage and doffs his fawking pith helmet at me. He makes me proud, the boy does, with his penchant for enterpreneurship, even though he's in the midst of learning some hard lessons at the moment. No one can fully fathom the capacity of the human soul for unmitigated feats of douchebaggery until one has gone into business for oneself and had a bad client. I know. I've had 'em. To use the words of a certain character from a certain movie, "they f*ck you and they f*ck you and just when you think it's over, that's when the real f*cking begins!" Not only do they cause you grief, they cost you thousands of dollars as well (but only thousands if you're lucky). I've been commiserating with him on the phone, reminding him that as much as he's been genuinely aggrieved, and as much as he'd like like to punch this guy squarely in the "c", punching people squarely in the "c" is specifically proscribed by the Revised Code of Washington. As satisfying as it may be, it will not get you your money. It may, on the other hand, get you a free stay at the Gray Bar Hotel, along with a complimentary Hoovering of your pockets. I must say this though - he's learning lessons at 18 that I was learning at 30. He's way ahead of any curve that I established.

And now I'm reminded that our own dear Dad was also inclined to the enterpreneureal, what with the gas station and the bed and breakfast business, of course with a little cash to fill in the cracks from Jesus, Inc. And you and the wife hanging out your shingle as Genuine Nevada Dirt Peddlers - there's some of that enterpreneureal DNA at work right there. Not to mention John and Tom's foray into the Peddling of Augmented Cognition as further evidence of genetic expression. Don't we have some innkeepers and storekeepers and enterprising boozehounds back there in Retford, Nottinghamshire as well? And didn't our ancestor Charles Ives sell insurance or some damn thing? So as I continue to wax nostalgio-patriarchal, it seems the boy has plucked a long and noble cord that runs back to the day our first Scottish ancestor pinched his first farthing, and I say weell doon, laddy. 'T'a'in't easy 't'all, but if you make it, the glory's all yours. And if not, well - I can still offer to hold his head while he pukes.

And now - drunk on sugar and nearly in an insulin coma - I will leave you with this short and pointless story. I went camping in The Most Beautiful Place On Earth last weekend. As you know, I am completely manic when it comes to coffee. So suffice it to say, I took great pains to transport a very exacting amount of my own special grind out into el quinto piño. Heaven forfend that I should miss out on my morning coffee. Me without morning coffee is a frightening prospect, even to a bear. So here I am, in the bosom of the wild wood, with my precisely measured, perfectly ground beans sitting in the bottom of my brand-new space-age (wide open) French press mug (with the top off)...and I'm watching the morning glow illuminate the long strands of moss and listening to the music of the mountain jays and the chipmunks and the tiny, tiny bears, and listening to the thudding of my contented heart...and apropos of nothing, I'm possessed by a completely stonerrific thought - hey man, I wonder what's written on the bottom of this mug? So I turn the mug over forthwith and pour the precious, precious coffee onto my foot. One word: fawk. Second word: retard.

All of nature and several hippies exploded in unbound mirth at my gaucherie. Fin. Credits.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.