Most notably, there was an entry by Juan F. Thompson - the son of Hunter S.
I am not ashamed to reveal that I experienced a slight pang of jealousy. I mean, how cool would it be, as a child, to attempt an explanation of your father's ether-fueled, incoherent ramblings to your schoolyard friends? Okay, maybe not, but something inside of me still fumed, "I wish my dad taught me how to detonate home-made explosives. How come I had to learn that sort of thing through Abbie Hoffman, and that kid from the alternative high school who always hung around our neighborhood?"
Anyway, the article caused me to reminisce. My dad, thankfully, did not suffer from the same emotional or physical excessive absenteeism that many of my friends' fathers had. He was, for a time, a formidable presence (or had seemed that way during my earliest stages of pubescent SPAZZ OUT), but he was always there. He still is.
I recollect spending much of my youth on activities such as: illustrating and narrating all things purposeful to a kindergartner, and consequently, annoying the bejesus out of anyone who had been foolishly lured by my beguiling presence. I also remember accumulating and stashing money in abstruse hiding spots, maintaining an enviable aggregation of rocks and precious stones, and creating booby traps undetectable only to my mother. All of these pursuits were strongly encouraged by my dad.
I also recall devoting a good deal of my adolescence to the Valu Home Center, or, the po' man's Home Depot. Obviously, this was not of my own volition. I have my dad to thank for that.
It was only today that I realized this monstrous time-suck to be advantageous. For fuck's sake, I can tell you that epoxy grout is the most effective form of adhesion money can buy. You're a pansy if you go for poorly-mixed Portland-cement for a serious project. That is for home-makers who love to create crappy decorative glass mosaics for use in their tomato gardens. !!ALSO! Epoxy is completely resistant to humidity and any other inclement or oppressive weather conditions you can name. Possibly volcano lava as well.
At any rate, my father's eternal joy over all-things-hardware, kitchenware, and appliance suddenly came flooding back into my life when I obtained my first real, hard-core blender. (I did not purchase this blender, per say, and I cannot divulge exactly how I acquired it. All you need to know is that I have it now). This is a small victory on my part, as I'm still in the process of furnishing my very first unshared apartment.
Accordingly, I celebrated with Margaritas. Finally, I've got a blender and I have a reason - though very much ambiguous - to kill that bottle of tequila on my kitchen counter that's been mocking me for over three months now. Not only that, but I can kill it with some flavor. Thanks to my new blender. And, in a round-about way, my dad.
Thank you dad, for insisting, "this shit will be interesting one day," as I accompanied you throughout the aisles of Valu Home Center, often on the verge of emotional collapse as you, once again, scrupulously analyzed every centimeter of that adjustable springlatch. Though I can honestly state that the springlatch craze never did hit me, I can say I'm much more appreciative of the fact that I have a blender with 800 watts of destructive shred force. Feel the burn!
If he were here now, I would offer my first Margarita. He would probably pass on that, excusing himself without much clarification other than, "not after the Marine Corps." It would then be a choice of grapefruit juice or Pepsi. And after much consideration of the dietary ramifications of the latter, he would choose the grapefruit juice. And then my mom would offer up some of her infamous salmonella-infested ham sandwiches. Just like the good old days. Just like that one time in Virginia. But we'll save that story for some other post.
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