Ah, yes, tomorrow is Father’s Day. Dear old dad. I hope to hell I was a better dad to my son than my dad was to me.
I remember friends and acquaintances remarking on the relationship between me and Dee (my grown son). They’d smile as we played together when he was a small boy and we exploded in goofy laughter. “How’d you do it?” they’d ask.
“Easy,” I’d reply. “I just think of how my dad would respond or act in any given situation, and do 180-degrees the opposite.” It was a facile response, but not really that far off. I wrote about him, dear old dad, in my new collection, “When Paris Beckons” — here’s a reading of it:
He was a piece of work, as was his brother, based on info from my cousin. To be honest, I can think of things I did with and to Dee that I wish I hadn’t done and I’m sure those stupid, hurtful actions are costing him big-time in shrink bills to this very day.
And I know I’m not alone. What is it about the toxic father/son dynamic, and that King Lear/Lion in Winter bullshit? I am reminded of two scenes in biopics that caused me to snot-cry right in the movie theater. One was “Walk the Line”, about Johnny Cash, and the other was Rocketman, about Elton John,
This scene shows the up-and-coming Johnny Cash getting the skin peeled off his nads by his jealous, small-man-of-a-dad. Check this out (and cue it up to about 1:30, because the sound is not great):
Now check this one out. where Elton goes to give his dad a gem-encrusted Chopard watch for a present, only to get grandly rebuffed.
In both cases, I wanted to reach into the movie screen and punch those dads’ lights out. It was as if a Weber chimney starter ignited in my guts. That’s how bad it was.
And then I remembered my own classic scene: the Brooks Brothers Picnic Set Incident.
It was a time when my career was on the ascent and I was making good money. My mom (another story for another day) said she was trying to get my dad to take her out more, maybe have a picnic in the park. You know, do something fun for a change. I had a flash.
I was working in 60 West 42nd Street, near all the big men’s retailers, and picked out a Brooks Brothers wicker picnic set for my dad’s birthday. I thought it would be perfect. It was quality, and complete, and first-rate. It was classy and I thought he’d appreciate that. And maybe that was the problem, for upon inspection of said gift, his face looked like he just opened a specimen box from Cologuard.
I found it all damp and moldy in their basement years later. It was never used once.
So, yeah, happy Father’s Day. We’ll see Dee and Mo and the whole mishpocha tomorrow. Hope it goes well.