Category Archives: Fathers and Sons

Clueless, addled, though usually with the best of intentions.

Fathers and Sons

The Boys of Spring

It’s pushing past noon when I hear my son, upstairs and recently awake, deftly float a question to his mother. 

“If I went to Shorty’s, would you want me to bring you one back?” 

It was an exquisite ask. The phrasing, brilliant. 

He didn’t ask if she wanted to go to lunch. He didn’t say that he was even going. And he didn’t ask “Do you want anything from Shorty’s?”

He served the proposition on a platter, and in so doing, made it irresistible. 

I couldn’t hear Karry’s response, but after he and I made a successful post office drop just before their 1 p.m. close, we found ourselves parallel parking into the one open spot along West Chestnut Street. 

Couldn’t tell you the last time we hit up Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. Actually, I could if I looked at my camera reel. Which is funny when I think about it, because we get exactly the same thing every time. The only thing that changes in my photo documentation is whether the plates are sitting on the counter or — if no open seats there — a table. Makes me think of that time at the newspaper when the fellas in the sports department gave grief to the guy who’d laid out the section’s cover page the day before. To accompany a preview of the Kentucky Derby, the guy included the head shots of all the horses. Which, when you think about it, is ridiculous … since all the horses’ faces pretty much look the same.

But, is it any more ridiculously logical than taking the same photo of hot dogs again and again … and again? 

Point is, it’d been a minute since we jingled Shorty’s door open on a Saturday afternoon, pausing a beat to acknowledge the Grill Guy at the Window before surveying the, um, untouched-by-time, interior for an open seat. 

Can I just say?

Depositing one’s keister atop a stool at Shorty’s lunch counter on a Saturday afternoon is one of life’s great capital “A” Arrival-ings. 

It’s an exhale. 

An unburdening. 

A ‘We Made It’ through the week. 

A We Are Here Now.

There will likely be fist bumps.

Because you know. 

You know that within a minute of sitting down, one of the waitresses will float in front of you and ask if you’re ready to order.

You know exactly what you’re going to say. Sh*t … you knew the moment you made the conscious choice to gift your Saturday. The only decision requiring any deliberation is whether you and your co-pilot are feeling trusting enough to share a large fry with gravy, or go with two smalls to guarantee a 50-50 split. 

You know that, seconds after your order, your waitress will yell loud enough for both the Grill Guy at the Window and the Guy Dunking Fries in the Kitchen to hear. 

You know that the sound of her voice will register to your ears the way you imagine some folks hear opera. 

You know that within 90 seconds, your plated dogs will be placed in front of you. 

For me, two with everything. For the boy, one every, one ketchup and onions. In Shorty’s parlance “everything” does not connote gratuitousness (i.e. the kitchen sink), but, rather, sufficient-ness, lacking of nothing — finely (and I mean, finely) diced onions, a squirt of yellow mustard, and a slather of their no-beans-just-a-bit-of-ground-beef chili. Cue angel chorus. 

You know that your fries with gravy will trail just a minute behind, since you asked for them to be well-done, which is how the pros do it, FWIW.

You know that you will wait for everything to arrive before you and your co-pilot make ceremony of your respective first bites.  

You know that you will allow a couple extra beats for your co-pilot to lightly crop dust the fries with a sprinkle of salt and then as many morocco shakes of the pepper as it takes to ensure thorough coverage across the plate. 

You know that it will be perfect, and not in any kind of throwaway sense. 

During our reverie I found myself conjuring a passage I copied into my journal a year or so ago. I poorly paraphrased it for Peter, but gave him enough to catch my drift, and nod in affirmation.  

The passage is from a tribute that Joe Posnanski wrote back in 2020 upon the passing of the writer Roger Khan.  Appearing in The Athletic, Posnanski wrote of how Khan’s masterwork, “The Boys of Summer,” changed his life. The piece struck me in the moment and has stuck with me since for two reasons. “The Boys of Summer” changed my life, too. It was the first book I remember reading for pleasure in college, the summer after my junior year. A book that taught me that good sportswriters were just good writers who happened to write sports. A book that, looking back, was among a small handful of cosmic forces that spat me into giving sportswriting a shot after graduation. The second reason was the exquisite language Posnanski used when describing Khan’s chronicle of his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers. I looked it up in my journal so I could get it right here.

“The Boys of Summer” might not be the best book I have read, just like “The Princess Bride” might not be the best movie I have seen and spaghetti and meatballs might not be the best meal I have had and Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke” might not be the best song I have heard and chocolate cake might not be the best dessert I’ve eaten. But it is, to me, the most perfect book, just as the rest are the most perfect examples of joy. 

Those might not be the best lines I’ve scribbled into my journal. But, to me, they are the most perfect lines.

And capture exactly how I feel about Shorty’s on a Saturday afternoon. The only reason Posnanski didn’t mention Shorty’s by name in his enumeration is that he’s obviously never tried to find a parking spot on West Chestnut Street on his lunch hour. 

“This is perfect,” I actually said aloud to Peter when swabbing the last fry across the bottom of our plate to soak as much of the remaining gravy as its absorptive properties would allow. He’d gifted me the last few on the plate after realizing the significant dent he’d put in the pile. 

We shoulda gone two smalls. 

A second later our waitress set down the brown to-go bag containing Karry’s go-to — one with ketchup, mustard and onions. 

Asks us if we need anything else. 

The question always begets a hesitation. Born of both respect and serious consideration.

You know you could totally go for a third, no problem. You’ve done it in the past with zero regrets. There was also that one time you may or may not have gone for a fourth. 

But you remind yourself that the experience is not about gratuitousness but, rather, sufficient-ness.

So Peter settles up with the grill guy at the window, who doubles as the cash-only cashier.

And we backwash out the door, appreciating the gift of the slight downhill walk back to the car and the little bit of sun peeking through the clouds … 

… lacking of nothing. 

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Fathers and Sons, Outside, The Girls

Better Late Than Never ….

Really, we shoulda gotten there a lot earlier.

“What time should we leave?” Emma, the organized one, asked me the night before, whereupon I did the math in my head, which family history has proven time and time again really means, “a slight majority of the math.” Looked up the drive on Google, which placed it around 30 minutes. Should be good if we leave by 10, I guesstimated. “I’ll set my alarm for 9:50,” my son informed me, which prompted me to suggest, unsuccessfully, we leave by 9:45.  Which means we left at 10:10, which got us there at 10:45, which left us just enough time to park, pick up our bibs, and evacuate any remaining bodily fluids before taking our place at the back of the pack of already stretched and warmed-up humans massed at the starting line.

Our tight window robbed me of sharing the signature element of my pre-plannning. For motivation I was going to play Kurt Russell’s Herb Brooks’ “Miracle” speech before we got out of the car. Remind them that they were, you know, born to be hockey players. Alas.

To be fair … it’d been four years since the last time I’d participated in an organized race, so was a bit out of practice. And to be honest, I never really was what one would call ‘in practice.’  In the handful of 5 and 10Ks I’d begrudgingly participated in the couple years before the pandemic, I was never in charge of any of the planning. All of that fell to my ‘running buddy,’ Jason, whose default is to subjugate every detail to his monarchical rule. He’d prompt our registration, then spec our departure time and the ensuing directions. My race day responsibilities were limited to a light stretch followed by (a.) watching the back of Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, and then (b.) concentrating all of my energies on not puking down the front of me while maintaining operating control of my bowels until the whole unpleasantness was over.

It was the memory of one such episode that prompted me this New Year’s Eve to casually mention to Peter that I’d seen that there was a “Resolution 5K” run in Oakdale on New Year’s Day. Five New Year’s Eve’s ago, as I was a couple Moscow Mules into my evening, Jason texted me a link to that year’s race, accompanied by, “You in?” I remember convincing myself that my third Moscow Mule was spiritually akin to the training montage in Rocky IV where Stallone is carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. From what I recall, my next day’s performance was, in fact, a fair simulacrum of an overmatched, middle-aged man carrying a felled tree on his shoulders while trudging through the Russian winter. 

I hadn’t really asked Peter if he was interested in this year’s version, so was surprised when he responded to my dissemination of the fact with, “I’ll do it.” Nor was I expecting Emma’s response after I informed her that I’d signed Peter and me up. “Sign me up, too.” Neither had ever done a 5K before.

Seconds after doing so, apparently in the throes of what science calls a “runner’s high,” I wandered into the dining room and informed Karry of our New Year’s Day plans and asked if she wanted to ride with us and, you know, cheer us along. Which prompted the following exchange. 

She: (silence) 

Me: Maybe you could make a sign or something. 

She: (emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage)

So it was ‘just’ the three of us standing in the light snow in 30-degree weather seconds before the start of the race, whereupon Peter asked if we’d be running together or just doing our own thing. 

“Do your own thing,” I advised, since I wasn’t quite sure what any of our things were. 

Since we were waaaaaayyyyyy in the back of the pack, I spent the first couple minutes maneuvering around participants either walking or easing into things (whose better judgement qualified every single one of them to be my Life Coach). Managed to carve out some space and was settling into a rhythm when a guy runs up along side me and asks me what my pace is. I hadn’t thought to consider that data point prior to his asking. I looked at my phone and saw I was matriculating at a 7:43 clip. Had I been sipping a Moscow Mule at that moment I would’ve reacted with my first spit take of the New Year. From what I could remember that was about a minute faster than my pre-pandemic pace. The voice in my head immediately channeled my Inner Karry — “[emphatic decline employing surprisingly colorful verbiage].”

 “That’s my pace, too!” he said enthusiastically. “My name’s Jason,” he said cheerfully. (Apparently I’m a magnet for Racin’ Jasons.) “Do you have a target today?” he asked. Since we’d just met I couldn’t give him my honest answer — “Not pooping my pants” —  instead opting for a simple “No.”  Undaunted, he asked me if I intended to maintain my pace the rest of the way.

I took a deep breath and replied: “Look, before we get too far into this relationship, I’m not who you think I am. I’m living a lie right now. If I keep up this charade one of us is going to end up on the side of the trail bleating like a heifer giving birth to triplets before we hit the turnaround. You look like a nice enough fellow, but this … this is never going to work. The best thing for you to do right now is to leave me. Forget we ever met. Go, just go. Go live a life. And whatever you do … promise me you will never, ever look back.”

All of which came out of my mouth as, “Nope,” as I knew I would need all my breaths for the foreseeable future. 

As I found an odd reassurance in watching New Jason’s jersey get smaller and smaller in the distance, I began to recall my previous race experiences. Turns out that running is just like riding a bike, except way harder … and with lots more awful running involved. I was reminded that the first mile is always further than it seems. “Surely I’ve run a mile by now,” I think to myself about a quarter of a mile in. 

And the second mile is always The Worst. I refer to it as the “Seriously, what were you thinking?” mile. It’s just mean. Apparently it had a difficult upbringing. Probably overbearing parents. Most likely a bed wetter. Even when I’m running longer distances, the second mile just mercilessly taunts me.

Nevertheless, I managed to make it to the turnaround, and shortly thereafter, my phone let me know I’d made it two miles … upon which I convinced myself that this would all be over soon. Found someone just slightly ahead of me that was ambling at a reasonable pace and settled in behind them.

Stole a glance at my phone when I was about 23 minutes in. Figured I only had about three-ish minutes left to go. At which point my endorphins began to ask me my thoughts on a potential finishing kick. 

“Good one,” I responded before realizing that my endorphins, much like my wife, are not kidders. 

I hadn’t reached three miles yet, so was in no great hurry to make any rash decisions.

Then all of a sudden this very tall, bearded dude zooms past me. In full gallop. Like, really going for it, Kentucky-Derby-style. Sizing him up I figured he was likely in my age group. I was genuinely impressed. “Wow,” I thought. Clearly he had a plan that involved more than just maintaining a good grip on his bowels. “Good luck with … all that,” I mentally saluted as he sped past.

A couple minutes later, my phone tells me I’m at three miles. And when I look up, I see that I’m actually gaining on Tall Bearded Dude, who was now visibly scuffling down the home stretch. Looked like his bowels wanted a word with him. Kicked a little too early, evidently.

Hubris. 

Which my endorphins and I discovered is apparently contagious in men of my age group. 

“We’re taking this f*cker down!” my endorphins exclaimed. 

“Language!” I scolded in reply, before putting my metaphorical pedal to the metal, which reacted with all the responsiveness of my parents’ 1980 Mercury Monarch that I learned to drive on.  

“OK, give us a minute here,” my body replied … before marshaling all my remaining faculties into a barely perceptible acceleration, which catapulted me past Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy in a turn of events that surprised me almost but not quite as much Brigette Nielsen when Rocky drew blood from Ivan Drago.

As the finish line came into view up ahead, I somehow managed to keep TBPP Guy in my wake while retaining a majority of the bodily ingredients I’d started with, including a teensy measure of pride.

After catching my breath I sought out Peter and Emma and found them upright and in tact as well. We made our way to the community center for some water, and to steal a glance at the posted results just for funsies. Both Peter and I finished sixth in our respective age groups (even more impressive for him, as he was fighting a bit of a chest cold), while Emma finished third in her female age group, earning a tiny medal. Not bad for a coupla first timers. 

Driving home in a car redolent with the aroma of our respective Ks, I was reminded of what I used to appreciate about participating in races. They’re invariably mini exercises in aliveness. Of the conscious choice to sign up. Of the sacred act of pulling a shirt over your head and lacing your shoes. Of stretching to give your body its best chance. Of seeking out your place amongst kindred spirits at different places along their respective journeys. Of watching the backs of jerseys getting smaller and smaller in the distance. Of humbling second miles where your inner voice gains the upper hand. Of appreciating that there will always be folks faster than you, and folks content with taking their own good time, and many lessons to be learned from both. And that you are probably both of those things to those around you, too. Opportunities to push yourself a little harder than you otherwise might … and seeing what happens. Heck, if it were up to me I’d give a tiny medal to Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Guy — for not waiting until he was ready to give it all he had. Better late than never, you know? 

Summing the math on the above — or at least the slight majority of the math — aliveness is the blessing of the Racin’ Jasons and Peters and Emmas in my life … people who both ask and answer questions that I don’t always have the courage to ask myself, and who push me to see how fast and far I might be able to go. 

And who make me want to be a little bit better next time.

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Fathers and Sons

Room for Dessert …

Saturday, Oct 21, 2023 

I can still hear the sound … the vibrating clasps of his trumpet case, cracking open from the back room.

The ritual, reverberating release. A sound of dedication. I remember it clear as yesterday because I heard it so often growing up. Followed by him trudging dutifully downstairs, closing the basement door behind him … to disappear the world for a bit.

Scales on repeat. Low tones held long, the horn players’ equivalent of planking. After a good half hour or more woodshedding, he’d always save room for dessert.  Whatever he was feeling in that moment on that day, always rubato so there was ample space for his spirit to move. Sometimes blues, sometimes Harry James, sometimes a classic … a la Mood Indigo. 

The joy of each and every gig. From my drumset, from my best seat in the house, I’d look over to my right to catch him standing up a couple bars before a solo. He’d tip the mic up, limber his fingers for a microsecond, draw a deep inhale, bend his knees, lean back, close his eyes … and just blow. On occasion, he’d confess to me on break, “Got a good lip tonight.” When I heard that, I’d lo-key petition Sam the bandleader for something that featured a couple choruses … maybe “Woodchopper’s Ball,” or “Tuxedo Junction.” He prided himself on never playing the same solo twice … save when he’d pay respects to James’ sinister intro on “Two O’Clock Jump,” or signature sweetness on “You Made Me Love You” (game respects game). Writing the names … I can still conjure his heart and tone in notes long since gifted to the ether.

Even after age and the frictions of the late nights and travel nudged him to give up gigging, he’d still shed. Dutifully downstairs to his sacred space …. or to his bedroom when the basement steps became too much. For years and years. After his quadruple bypass. After the aneurysms. After heart failure. After each, he couldn’t wait to pick up his horn. Get back at it. Always gave him something to look forward to. In the hospital … he relished when they’d want to test his lungs, giving him this plastic apparatus to blow into, see how high he could make a red ball in the tube go, and for how long he could hold it there. He’d hand the thing back to the nurse afterwards like droppin’ a mic. “I’m a trumpet player,” he’d say with pride.  

I remember once visiting with him at the kitchen table in the days after Mom passed, and him excusing himself … to practice … going back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Then the sound of the clasps. The scales. Then … WIL-low weep … for me … WIL-low … weep … for me .… Mourning in rubato. Disappearing the world for a bit.

Even in his last years, even in his failing health, whenever I’d call or stop, he’d update me on his practicing. “I think I’m getting stronger,” he’d always say, referring to his lip and lungs. He was always looking forward.

When I got older, if I wasn’t able to visit him on his birthday, I’d call. “Hey, dad,” I’d say when he’d answer. Then … 

“Peeeeeete!” 

How his voice would pitch up a couple notes in excitement. Every time. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t excited to hear from me. I don’t recall him ever saying it wasn’t a good time.

“Peeeete!” 

I think I might miss that sound more than the sound of his horn. 

It’s a very human and comforting thing to imagine what loved ones might be doing in the hereafter. 

So, on what would’ve been his 96th birthday earlier this week, here is my imagining …. 

After cringing through the angels and Mom serenading him “Happy Birthday,” (Mom always sang flat, he often lamented), taking his sweet time making his wish, extinguishing all the candles in one shot with his trumpet lungs, summarily housing an entire Bob Evans Banana Cream pie by himself, then washing it down with a Jamocha shake from Arby’s (bottomless, his appetite), and taking a good hour ‘doing his teeth’ as his belly settled …

Dessert.

… the glorious release of the reverberating claps on his case, shedding for a bit to get loose … then hopping on stage to jam with a proper upright bass player, a pianist who knows from fat, juicy chords, and a drummer laying it down … knees bent, eyes closed, leaning back, taking chorus after chorus after chorus on a B-flat blues, making time melt playing to the wee hours. 

How I can hear the sounds. 

Standing in the back row, middle … so much good music yet to come.

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Fathers and Sons, The Girls

The Best Seat in the House ….

Earlier in the week, when they asked me where I might like to go for my birthday dinner, I replied, “Surprise me.”

They hate it when I do that.

So this is after a long week. 

After Karry’s long Saturday shift. 

After I came down with a cold earlier in the day that left me a leaky, and mostly miserable, cauldron.

 After getting dressed for a nice, though not fancy, birthday dinner.

After arguing in the driveway about whether to make the long drive into the city in the rain or just cancel the reservation. 

After loudly debating whether we were in any shape to even enjoy a nice meal in our diminished states. 

After Karry got behind the wheel to adjudicate the decision. 

After I barely said a word from the back seat the whole way in, sulking. 

After we found an open spot on the street. 

After Peter, without a word, went around to the back of the car and fished out the umbrella he’d retrieved from the garage before we left, and did this ….

This is after I, unconsciously, slowed my walk behind them, even though it was raining harder than when we’d left … just so I could soak it all in. 

After thinking of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, which makes the piece beautiful because of its cracks.

A son, holding his umbrella high, to shield his mom from the rain.

I’m not sure why, but this just melted me. For some reason, it made every bit of everything that came before worth it. Maybe even all of the past 53 years.

This is me in my diminished state, after receiving the best birthday gift I am not capable of even wishing for — the gift of bearing witness.

“Surprise me,” I said.

And to think, I almost let it slip through the cracks. 

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Excursions, Fathers and Sons

Raise Your Hand ….

Early evening last Saturday, Peter and I are heading out for a bite to eat (he twisted my arm for Benihana, forgetting that it is self-twisting on the subject). 

Leaving the neighborhood we make the left onto Park Avenue. Where I catch a glimpse of a young lady in exercise attire walking along the left side of the road. 

I register the sight of her just as she does the most remarkable thing …  she shoots her left fist up and punches straight into the air. 

And I see a smile break wide across her face. 

Catching her in a moment of some spontaneous affirmation.

I don’t know if she’s watching something on her phone, or listening to something in her earbuds, or just alone with her thoughts … but my heart immediately fills at the sight. 

To be more scientifically precise, her heart fills mine. 

Because I recognize the act. I know that exact feeling. 

Sometimes when I’m taking my (very) slow laps over at the track (which sits directly across the street from where she was walking, on the back side of the high school), my mind also often goes for a jog, wandering and wondering. And sometimes (not always, just sometimes) it encounters a spark. A thought. A connection. Sometimes an idea. 

Or sometimes if I’m listening to music while huffing around the track, a song kicks in that, even if I’ve heard it dozens of times before, I hear it differently … or, maybe I’m just in a different space when I hear it, and it resonates with where my head or heart happen to be, and turns its skeleton key in some lock, and opens up a new door. 

It’s the most magical thing when it happens. I think it only happens when I’m moving because the security guards in my brain are having to focus on keeping the machine in motion, which allows my thoughts to roam unsupervised on their playgrounds. 

But when these moments happen to strike, I can’t help but shoot my left arm in the air in acknowledgement, in recognition. It’s like an autonomic response.

And a smile will invariably break across my face. Often, I’ll affirm the feeling with an audible, “Yes!” 

A spontaneous amen to the heavens. In grateful receipt of whatever form or shape the gift takes.

The feeling comes outta nowhere. The ‘arm shoot’ … I do it without thinking. Immediately after I’ll remember where I’m at and look around to take inventory of anyone else around me whose attention may have been drawn by the freak who seems to be running a race in his head that he just won. I can’t imagine what others might think. 

All I know is what I thought when I saw that young lady on the side of the road. I found myself wondering what it was that made her say her Amen. That brought her such spontaneous joy on a late Saturday afternoon. Had I not had two hands on the wheel, I would’ve proly shot my arm up and out the window in solidarity, in gratitude for her letting me know that I’m not the only one who does such things … and maybe to let her know that she’s not the only one, either. 

I have a playlist that I consider my sorta’ “In Case of Emergency or Existential Crisis, Break Glass” Playlist — which in practical terms is also known as “Pete’s Everyday Playlist” (ahem) — in which an encore entry is Morgan Harper Williams’ Storyteller (if you are not familiar, MHN is an “autistic artist” [her term]/author/creator/advocate and just an absolute light in this world). The song always reminds me of so many good things, of Grace … of all the things that have accounted for my being here. Always of Mom and Dad, too. 

It never fails to fill (or re-fill) my cup. And invariably, by the time me and Morgan make it to the line, “So this is me telling this story over and over again,” one of us has our fist in the air … and also some glorious fucking tears, and is unapologetic on both accounts, even (or, more precisely, especially) when one of us is taking our Sunday evening laps around the track. 

Full disclosure: if anyone caught me in the act at that moment and called me on it, I’d gladly pause (I usually need a break at that point in my jog, anyway [ha]), and would tell ‘em all about it. About Morgan. About Dad. And Mom, too. How they and a whole bunch of Grace “brought the pieces together, and made me their storyteller,” just like Morgan says.  

In our pressing against the world around us, sometimes the most capital “C” Cup-filling thing is just to stumble upon or bear witness to something or someone that reminds us that we’re not the only ones, that we’re not (totally) crazy, and that joy is always a lot closer than we think. 

It can take so many forms … a kind thought from the universe that we allow into our heads, a song that’s always been there, but catches us like a dog whistle if we tune our ears to just the right frequency, or just a random encounter with a total stranger that we may never meet … say, a young lady out for a walk on a Saturday afternoon. 

Reminding us to keep our doors cracked open a bit, our eyes and ears wide, our antennae up, so that we can know it when we see it, so we can call it by its name, and, if we are so moved, to raise our fists to the heavens and say yes to it. 

So to the young lady out for her Saturday early evening walk, I just wanted to say thank you … from a fellow traveler. 

Amen, sister. 

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Fathers and Sons

22

on the morning we turned 22 as parents,

a remembering cardinal was singing the sweetest solo

high in the bare backyard trees above it all, approving

— I wish I could sing like that —

and at the end of that long, low Monday,

waiting at the dining room table for the guest of honor,

who was in the living room so he could watch the championship tip,

we remembered how he kept us waiting 22 years ago,

Karry expecting him on her mom’s birthday

— she knew from cardinals, too —

he arriving in his own sweet time 12 days later,

and keeping his own clock ever since

so with his Oreo ice cream cake starting to weep,

he took his seat at his end of the table

behind the humble stack his little sister wrapped for him (and us)

as his mother lit his two “2” too stubborn candles,

which promptly began to melt the flowers

rimming his waiting cake

and, no cardinals we, sang him his song

but before he drew his breath deep,

he took his own sweet time,

long enough to get it just right,

before puffing them out,

approving

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Fathers and Sons

Talking Cats ….

For the first 95% of my time to date wandering, mostly lost, around my very teensy patch of this planet, I’ve abided an unwavering animosity towards cats. 

For the most recent 5%, which I’ve spent in a complicated reexamination of my lifelong animosity, I’ve exercised a monk-like restraint to not be The Guy Who Talks About His Cats … at least while I’m in, you know, complicated reexamination mode. 

While I can’t say I’m on the other side of that process, I am here, this day, to be The Guy Who Talks About His Cats. 

This is Viktor. 

This is Viktor in the act of practicing mind control on weaker species.

Viktor is my dude. 

Even though he can be a major a-hole. Even though I’m not entirely convinced he’s not secretly plotting my demise, although I can’t technically prove it in a court of law … yet. (Sorry for all the negatives there … an unfortunate side effect of the complicated reexamination process). 

And by “my Dude,” I, of course, mean that he deems me his dim-witted, servile underling barely worthy of the honor of catering to his every whim.

Viktor along with his brother Roman are the ‘cats who live in our house.’ While I’ve done almost a complete 180 on my cat stance (let’s call it a ‘178’), I still stop short of calling them ‘my cats,’ … since I was not involved, or, technically speaking, consulted, in the circumstances that resulted in them taking up residency in my house. And since my own residency here is, shall we say, vaguely tenuous, I abide a general strategy of not rocking the boat wherever possible. 

I’ve come to appreciate Viktor over the course of our cohabitation because he’s the only member of the household who will indulge me in long conversation. 

Everyone else seems to be, you know, pretty busy. 

But Viktor and I … we are kindred spirts. Cut from the same cloth.  We’re what the historians call ’deep thinkers.’ We feel the weight of the world, sense the shifting of the cosmic sands. We know what the Powers That Be are up to. We call out the bullshit when we see it. We know when the forecast calls for melancholy. We like it when human beings scratch our heads. 

I’ll often find Viktor sitting in the dining room, staring out into the backyard, and can sense his mood.

A typical exchange: 

Me: How’s it going, Viktor? 

Viktor: (continuing to look straight ahead) Reeeeuhhhhrrrr! (“The universe is a meaningless void.”) 

Me: Yeah, I know. Things are f*cked. 

Viktor: (turning to address me directly) Reeeeeeeeeahhhhhrrrrrrrr! (“We must find those responsible and make them pay.”)

Me: Yeah, what can you do, though? 

Viktor: Reeauh! (“Exercise my plan for world domination and reign in power with The Queen Who Gives Me The Special Snacks.”)

Me: Oh, there is that, I suppose. 

Viktor: (turning back to the window) Urrrrrreeeeeeuhhh! (“Make no mistake, you will be the first to be eliminated, Sparkle Fart. Leave my sight for now Viktor must scratch things and nap.” 

Me:  OK, sounds like a plan. Good talk. 

I’m the only one he talks to like this. We chat all the time.  Actually makes Karry jealous.  

That said, our relationship is not all unicorns and world domination.

Viktor can be a real a-hole.

Case in point. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he shows zero interest in physical exertion. 

Until I’m working from home and he knows I’m on a call. 

Then, he’ll bat the tinkly ball down the steps and work on his ball handling. Smacks it off the walls, chases it down, launches it back across the room, whacks it into the corner. Whines incessantly when it goes under the shelves just out of his reach. Until I hit the mute button, and be like, “Viktor, what the f*ck?”

He pretends he doesn’t hear me.

And when he knows I’m on a video call? It’s like he’s training for the goddamn Tinkly Ball Olympics. Speed drills and sh*t. 

Oh, and there’s this other thing. Despite the fact that Karry has placed multiple cat accommodations of every type (blankets, pillows, beds, etc.) in front of virtually every window in every room in the house, Viktor insists on sleeping in my chair. 

Because he is a passive aggressive motherf*cker. 

When I call him out on it, sometimes he’ll open only one eye for a couple seconds, then close it again while I’m still yelling. I’m convinced that sometimes he hops in the chair when he hears me coming, and only pretends to sleep. I swear I can see him chuckling to himself. Karry tells me, oh no, he’s just ‘dreaming’ and to leave him be.

Despite the fact that dozens of blankets and pillows have been allocated
for his comfort in practically every room in the house,
he insists on sleeping in my chair because he is a passive aggressive motherf*cker.

VikTurd.

Eventually, though, his conscience gets to him, and he’ll apologize later … bowing his head and rubbing it against my shoulder.  (translation: he gets hungry and knows he needs my opposable thumbs to open his adorably tiny can of cat food).

Of course, I forgive him, which is probably due to his mind control over inferior beings, but in my head is due to my unwavering support of his career aspirations. It’s Viktor’s dream (right after the World Domination thing) to become a calendar model. He puts in the work, has logged the 1,000 hours, practices his poses all the time. He’s a natural. Like the all-time greats, when he’s on his game, the captions just write themselves.

You think this is impressive? He knitted the goddamn scarf himself.

All he needs is representation. But in the cutthroat, big business world of cat calendars, it’s all who you know, evidently.

And Viktor’s not one to kiss anyone’s ass to climb the ladder of success. Not interested in playing The Game. He does not truck with The Machine. He is a master of the long game. I think he knows that once he subjects the universe to his will and reigns supreme over time, space and dimension, he can, you know, get some head shots taken … shop ‘em around, etc.

That’s probably the biggest thing that I’ve learned from him. 

Never give up on your dreams. 

Sincerely, 



T.G.W.T.A.H.C.

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Fathers and Sons, Righteous riffs

Wing Man

He’s always the initiator, as I’m reluctant to impose on the 20-year-old’s social calendar. 

Over Friday lunch he asks … “Drover’s tomorrow night?”

Me: You work? 

He: ‘Till seven. 

Me: (calculating drive-time) Might make us a little late. Proly crowded on a Saturday night. 

He: I could see if I could move my shift up an hour. Leave at six? 

Me: You can do that? 

He: I can ask. 

Me: I’m game. Just let me know. 

For the uninitiated, Drover’s is a most sacred place. 

The one constant on our family’s annual summer to-do list — its bona fides spoken of in unequivocal and reverent tones. 

Best Wings on the planet.

There is no debate. There is Drover’s. And there is everyone else.  

Consistently fried to crispy perfection. Every time. Never under- or overdone.  Sauces sublime.

 And part of a larger ritual born of, and bursting with, expectation. 

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