Well. If it isn’t Father’s Day. As always, I’m a day late and a ounce of interest short. Regardless, happy day to one and all. I’m sure the lion share of you are good and decent men. Well done you.
But here’s the thing. This morning, I woke up to 15 posts from randoms addressing their fathers. And all day, they just kept coming. All of America is in a father-loving frenzy. Pops is all the rage. He’s got crazy skills with the PJs and the provision of a lap; he’s dapper in a cardigan (that probably embarrassed you at the time) and anxious about spelling; he’s just about the best thing since electricity and toast. The spooky thing is, a bunch of these fathers are dead. Totally gone. Definitely not on Facebook. And, therefore, unable to read the posts.
I was tempted to join in: Happy father’s day to my dead dad! Or to clarify: I would wish Larry a fine day but he’s dead and unable to take pleasure in my wish or the fine day so fuck it. I also considered a little competition– Larry is, hands down, the only dad who deserves any mention in the entire world– but I didn’t really feel it. Then I toyed with greater insight: Hey Larry! You’re dead but I hope you appreciate this fantastic amount of gratitude I am throwing across the ether to you by announcing to my friends that I, as part of a very privileged yet all inclusive set of humans, am the progeny of a man who inseminated a woman and later became a father. Yay Larry! And thanks for not using a condom. I settled on this: … Nothing. Because I’m not a believer. The procrastinating proselytizers of the church of Facebook have failed to convince me of anything except the fact that almost everyone I know is either hoping or worried that someone is watching. Oh, and hoping or worried that someone cares. Dad is just today’s excuse. And I’m betting that the excuse made a whole lot of these proselytizers feel pretty good about themselves. (Status message: complete. And heartfelt! Now on to ogling pics of swamp donkeys from high school.)
So is this really where we’re at? Which is my ungrammatically obtuse way of asking, what exactly are we doing with these absurd announcements to the world? You have a father. Everyone has a father. Whether Dad is an asshole who picked you off the pavement and shouted you down for clumsiness or a saint who picked you off the pavement and shouted you down for trying so hard, you’ve got one. Or maybe Dad is a sperm donor; you can still thank him for that pretty combo of salacious greed and good aim. But you know what? Whoever your father is, he’d probably appreciate a direct gesture over an announcement to the world. You know, like a hug and some macaroni art. Maybe a sandwich? And if he’s dead, I bet he’s cool whether you flash a peace sign into the clouds or go with a simple thought. You remember those? Thoughts are the things that you keep in your head because there’s no need to advertise them to the world. Not in their raw state. Not in that state that mirrors prayer.
Unfortunately, my Facebook is overwhelmed by prayer too. I won’t go on about that. I believe I cover it all when I say I hate it. And yet, I also like to laugh at the Olde English vernacular of the prayer mongers. Thou and thine art so silly!
Update: I added a status about dads. It says, “My dad isn’t on Facebook.” But you know what I would have liked it to say, right?
You said what now?