Glenn.

Glenn is my dad. Today, in honor of father’s day, I’m going to share some of my favorite things from the man who is responsible for so very much of who I am. I keep a log of funny things he says, then later denies. For example, last Summer I was making Moscow Mules and as he walked past the kitchen he casually-but-angrily mentioned that the “price of limes has sky-rocketed because of the f*cking cartels.” He then proceeded to the deck with no further comment. Then on Turkey Day he walked into my house holding a Pecan Pie and greeted everyone by announcing, “Well, another god damned Thanksgiving!”

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Here’s a young, grinning Glenn in his more frivolous years:

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What you’re about to read is an abridged version of an email he sent me in 2007. In my opinion it contains some of the greatest lines ever written.

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Date: Wed, Mar 14, 2007 at 1:40 PM
Subject: Re: hello hello hello hello hello

We are disconsolate about the demise of the Dominick’s in North Riverside.  It’s gradually shutting down, and should be completely closed by the end of April.  Right now, though, you can buy all of the lumsy, mold-infested vegetables you’d ever want to eat.  The meat, too, is deeply suspicious.  Everything’s expiration date was for 2005.  The pharmacy has completely shut down.  Homeless people are sleeping in the aisles.  There’s no tequila.  Actual fact.  Yet still we go there.  Until yesterday–a breakthrough.  We went to the Jewell Osco on Harlem just south of Ogden.  A spur-of-the-moment decision.  So convenient!  And they carry tequila.  Mom bought gin, too.  So, besides providing fresh meat and vegetables, it’s a great enabler for alcoholics.

Your mother has had a bone-shaking cough for over a week, and each cough aggravates her aching dislocated-or-whatever back.  It’s very inconvenient for me.  Sometimes I can’t even hear the Bulls play-by-play man on TV because of the constant hacka-hacka-hacka.  You’d think she’d have the decency to put a pillow over her head.  But I’ve gotten nearly half way through the week without catching her cold, so I’m not all that worried about her any more.

I’m glad to hear you’re eating cereal for dinner. This will prepare you for your sixties.  

I made the best pork burrito filling ever for the Pulliams last week.  They raved about it.  Mom coughed in appreciation.  Burrito-wise, it’s a long downhill slide from here.

What about Dilbert this week?  I love Wally as a motivational speaker.  I’m grateful that, in my lifetime, someone has been able to accurately chronicle the reality of the wacky world o’ the white-collar workplace.  Boy, if you could alliterate like that, you’d be making twice as much money.  Although I guess I should have said “the weality.”

What else.  We’re going to the Bulls game with the Pulliams next Tuesday night.  Tonight, we’re going to the CYC gala.  Mom explained that she’s letting me be visible in public because they need a “place-holder.”  That is, they didn’t sell all their tickets, but they don’t want the suckers who did buy them to know they’re a bunch of bozos. I’m going to make an extra effort to be charming. I wonder if they’ll have free drinks or a cash bar?

Remember how Mom and I spent a lot of time helping the kids at a local CYC facility make a video as part of a proposal for a Create a Legacy grant?  They didn’t get funded.  Their main goal for requesting grant money was to install bullet-proof glass for the windows, because a five-year-old child had been showered with shards of glass when a stray bullet from a gang member blew out a window.  And they didn’t get any money.  Can you imagine how bad our video must have been?  Now I know how you must feel about being unable to elect right-wing Republicans in Missouri.

I’d write more, but what’s the point since you’re blowing off my birthday?  What present did you allegedly buy for me, anyway?  I’m hoping it’s spot cleaner for that fancy black shirt.

Don’t work Friday night.  Live big.  Watch TV, and get Kevin to make you toast.  As a chef, he needs to stretch.

See you in KC on April 19.  We’ll have a catch.  I’ve got to write a paper for that conference this week. 

I love you.

Dad

. . . but still, somewhere deep inside, Daddy

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There are a lot of other stories; I could probably fill a book…maybe I will. But for now I will simply say, whether Father’s Day is a happy day for you or a sad day, I wish you all lots of funny memories of your own weird, wonderful dads.

Alternate Titles For This Post:

“Another god damned Father’s Day.”

“The meat, too, is deeply suspicious.”

“Burrito-wise, it’s a long downhill slide from here.”

“F*cking Cartels.”

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