For Father's Day

Groucho Marx once sang a song on television called "Father's Day," by the old tinpan alley man, Harry Ruby. I remember it on the Dick Cavett Show*, but I also recall he sang it on the Tonight Show once too. The Cavett Show rendition was the better of the two, for it had a comic poetry to it, that only Groucho could create – despite the song really being about something a tad ribald. Not Father's Day, but the comedic underline of "I love you dad, even if I might be a bastard."

Now, the song has a secondary punchline concerning my shildhood. No, I'm not a bastard myself... I know that much. But as a Father's Day joke, I found a recording of Groucho singing this song, on an LP – we didn't have the Internet then – and I marked down the lyrics. I drew a cartoon of my Dad, and printed the lyrics on the back of the drawing, folded it, and gave it to him as a Father's Day card. It was one of the few times in my life that I actually made the old man crack a smile – at least a smile in front of me. He really liked it.

It was 1979, and as it turned out, it was the last Father's Day we had him. He passed away less than a year later.

Let me take a paragraph to backtrack... it will help the story. My dad had been a rough-necked athiest all his life. A critical illness caused him to accept conversion, on what would have been his deathbed. His doctors had given him two years to live at most... he was at the finish line. He got up, and lived four more years just to spite them. My dad dove into the church with the same hard-edged tenacity that he'd practiced as a non-believer, but he still did things his own stubborn way, which sometimes made my Mother's eyes roll, and the minister's brow tremble, even though they knew his intentions were in the name of his own calloused-handed attempt at saintliness.

Well, here's the punchline. Bringing us back to Groucho, and the song "Father's Day." My dad liked that joke card so much... during that morning's Sunday service, he got up, asked the minister if he could take the podium, and perching his drug-store generic reading specs on his bumpy old nose like a professor, read those lyrics to the entire congregation.

As my dad, beaming with delight, stepped down, folding my Father's Day card to put it in his pocket, I saw that the lyrics' double meaning wasn't lost on the minister, who stared a hole in me from across the house. I tried to make my expression "I didn't know he'd get up and PREACH IT."

I love you, Dad.

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*Click the blog title to watch the Cavett Show clip.

Pondering randomly upon a Saturday in June

At the bank, at the teller's window next to the one where I stood (are they still called "tellers"?) was a category of person I've noticed a number of times, the Disenfranchised Philosopher. A person who looks exactly like the life he or she leads: disheveledly marching to a distant drum just a beat out of sync with all the other distant drums... a walking solo act... who never speaks but to expound... and whose only topic is inevitably an update on his or her Personal Epic. In epically worded terms. Explained downward.

"Hello... I'm presently searching, along with thirty million others. I'm wading through unfortunate circumstances in the quest for solvency..."

I think he actually just needed to transfer fifty bucks from savings to checking. But why couch his need so mundanely? I agree! Don't let a week-unwashed plaid shirt and grungy cross-trainers lead anyone to believe they see a mere pedestrian before them! Excelsior... snurfff...

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Technology has served one other purpose – to create a whole new higher level of idiot.

A lot is said about the benefits of a sunny day, both emotionally and physically, but a rainy day that is brisk and silvery – as opposed to grey – offers its own brand of beauty and mellow inner reward.

Sitting at home, I think I should get outside and walk, and enjoy the exercise and pleasant freedom. When I do, however, I think I'd rather be at home in my easychair enjoying the downtime and pleasant freedom.

I'm constantly amazed that there are still people who go online, and behave as though the rest of the Internet doesn't exist. "Hey has anyone seen that video of the talking dog that everyone's talking about online? How can I see it??"

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A DREAM FROM 2002

I was a major league baseball pitcher – and I was good. During a game, this loudmouth came up to bat, who thought he'd get me to crack under enough verbal abuse. But he hardly got to put that theory to test, because I had him figured out and beaned him on the first pitch, hard, in the knee. Split his kneecap. He crumpled to the ground in screaming agony – for all intent and purpose innocent, for I had not given him opportunity to provoke what I'd dealt him in preemptive fashion. I walked over, grabbed his bat from the ground and tossed it into the outfield. Then I flipped his team off. The dugouts emptied.