Father's Day
Before I launch into my Father’s Day tale I have some minor housekeeping to address.
First: The new Murk and Malach Radio Show is up, ready to blast your sanity and render you an intellectual vegetable (much like Malach himself). If there is such a thing as the center of the universe, and if in that center of the universe the blind, idiot god Azathoth writhes to the maddening music of blasphemous servitors, then surely those blasphemous servitors can be none other than Murk and Malach. They even said some nice things about me, which proves they got the brick of hash I sent them.
Right now, my Myspace profile features music by Mudmen, a kickass pipe-fusion band from the Great White North. The song: Drink & Fight, which could appropriately be called one of the theme songs to my life (although I don’t do much of either these days). Another is King of Pain, by The Police. Both of these are different from my Anthem, found here.
While I won’t be regularly blogging about my weight loss efforts, I will say that 233 feels and looks a lot better than 250. Go Weight Watchers!
If you’re lamenting your bad luck and dying for another chance to meet The Angry Piper in person, look no further than the Western Massachusetts Highland Games this Saturday. I’ll be there, likely grooving to Prydein—formerly just a band I liked, now some pals of mine from Myspace. Two cool pipers in this band, and M&M even used some of their music in their 3rd podcast (December 2005).
On Father’s Day, my brother and I took the old man out for a late lunch at a fairly nice, formerly Mob-connected Italian restaurant deservedly famous for its steamed clams in wine sauce. My Dad’s birthday is the week before Father’s Day, so at the meal we gave him his birthday gifts. As far as Dad knew, the meal itself was his Father’s Day present. (Because I know some of you out there want to know, my meal consisted of a fried calamari appetizer I split with my brother; scallop, lobster and shrimp alfredo; a half carafe of house wine; and lots of bread. Yeah. I cheated on my diet. Fuck you. Anything for my Dad.)
(I should pause in this story to tell all those who do not know the Angry Piper personally that there was a time in my not-too-distant past that I did not get along well with either my father or my brother—for different reasons, respectively, that have no bearing on this post. But just so you know, family dinners ‘twixt us three weren’t always the norm.)
Anyway, while waiting for our dessert (a generous slice of strawberry cheesecake and some kickass coffee for yours truly), we gave our Dad his real Father’s Day present: my brother and I are taking him to Ireland next year.
Freeze.
Now, before we continue, you must understand something about The Angry Piper’s father. He’s the kind of guy who tells his sons never to buy him anything for Christmas, because he feels it’s a waste of money better spent elsewhere, and he doesn’t need anything. He jokingly demands we pay him tribute in the form of toys every birthday and Father’s Day (“And I better get TWO, one for each day, even though they’re in the same week”). “Toys” are defined as anything that’s not a necktie. (Naturally, I get him at least one—often several—ties each year.) The thing is: he’s joking. I could get him a brown paper bag filled with dogshit, and he would likely say I spent too much money. Thus, my brother and I naturally assumed that any attempt at bringing the old man to Ireland on our dime was doomed to failure, as he would no doubt find many (and any) excuses not to go, despite the fact that none of us have ever been to Ireland.
Which is why we didn’t give him an option. We booked and paid for the trip in advance, with enough time to prepare so that he would find it impossible to realistically say no. Still, we’re not dumb enough to think he wouldn’t protest. In short, we expected an argument.
But Dad did not argue. In fact, it’s safe to say he reacted in the exact opposite manner than what both of his sons expected.
My father’s father never made it to Ireland in his lifetime, something my Dad is saddened by. Despite what my Dad thinks, I don’t really think my Grandpa would have been all that interested in going; he was more of a Vegas or Atlantic City kind of guy. Like my Grandpa, I don’t think my Dad would have gone to Ireland on his own. Neither would my brother, for that matter—I’m definitely the most Celtic-oriented dude in my family.
Anyway, it seems the objections we expected re: going on the trip in the first place have now been replaced by this one (so far): “Listen, my sons: when we get there I’m paying for everything.” As the Irish would say, not feckin’ likely.
My Dad is financially comfortable. Aside from the fact that he’s our Dad and we love him, he has done a lot for his two sons, both of whom made some dumb mistakes in the past and are in a better place now because of him. That being said, my brother and I didn’t plan and purchase this trip to Ireland to sit back and have the old man pay for everything. We did it because we want to experience our family history and culture together, as a family. We did it because we wanted to do something nice for our father. And because at some point, we want the satisfaction of watching our lightweight Dad get shitfaced on some Bushmill’s and Guinness. In the unlikely but not impossible event that my Dad is reading this: Dad, feel free to cut and paste this paragraph wherever you can best see it, and refer to it regularly as needed, so as to be reminded that this is a FATHER’S DAY PRESENT FROM YOUR SONS, WHO BOTH LOVE YOU. Stop trying to do for us; you’ve done enough.
Of course, on this trip, I have my own room. I may love my father and brother, but that doesn’t mean I want to bunk with either of them for two weeks.
As the Irish would say, not feckin’ likely.
First: The new Murk and Malach Radio Show is up, ready to blast your sanity and render you an intellectual vegetable (much like Malach himself). If there is such a thing as the center of the universe, and if in that center of the universe the blind, idiot god Azathoth writhes to the maddening music of blasphemous servitors, then surely those blasphemous servitors can be none other than Murk and Malach. They even said some nice things about me, which proves they got the brick of hash I sent them.
Right now, my Myspace profile features music by Mudmen, a kickass pipe-fusion band from the Great White North. The song: Drink & Fight, which could appropriately be called one of the theme songs to my life (although I don’t do much of either these days). Another is King of Pain, by The Police. Both of these are different from my Anthem, found here.
While I won’t be regularly blogging about my weight loss efforts, I will say that 233 feels and looks a lot better than 250. Go Weight Watchers!
If you’re lamenting your bad luck and dying for another chance to meet The Angry Piper in person, look no further than the Western Massachusetts Highland Games this Saturday. I’ll be there, likely grooving to Prydein—formerly just a band I liked, now some pals of mine from Myspace. Two cool pipers in this band, and M&M even used some of their music in their 3rd podcast (December 2005).
On Father’s Day, my brother and I took the old man out for a late lunch at a fairly nice, formerly Mob-connected Italian restaurant deservedly famous for its steamed clams in wine sauce. My Dad’s birthday is the week before Father’s Day, so at the meal we gave him his birthday gifts. As far as Dad knew, the meal itself was his Father’s Day present. (Because I know some of you out there want to know, my meal consisted of a fried calamari appetizer I split with my brother; scallop, lobster and shrimp alfredo; a half carafe of house wine; and lots of bread. Yeah. I cheated on my diet. Fuck you. Anything for my Dad.)
(I should pause in this story to tell all those who do not know the Angry Piper personally that there was a time in my not-too-distant past that I did not get along well with either my father or my brother—for different reasons, respectively, that have no bearing on this post. But just so you know, family dinners ‘twixt us three weren’t always the norm.)
Anyway, while waiting for our dessert (a generous slice of strawberry cheesecake and some kickass coffee for yours truly), we gave our Dad his real Father’s Day present: my brother and I are taking him to Ireland next year.
Freeze.
Now, before we continue, you must understand something about The Angry Piper’s father. He’s the kind of guy who tells his sons never to buy him anything for Christmas, because he feels it’s a waste of money better spent elsewhere, and he doesn’t need anything. He jokingly demands we pay him tribute in the form of toys every birthday and Father’s Day (“And I better get TWO, one for each day, even though they’re in the same week”). “Toys” are defined as anything that’s not a necktie. (Naturally, I get him at least one—often several—ties each year.) The thing is: he’s joking. I could get him a brown paper bag filled with dogshit, and he would likely say I spent too much money. Thus, my brother and I naturally assumed that any attempt at bringing the old man to Ireland on our dime was doomed to failure, as he would no doubt find many (and any) excuses not to go, despite the fact that none of us have ever been to Ireland.
Which is why we didn’t give him an option. We booked and paid for the trip in advance, with enough time to prepare so that he would find it impossible to realistically say no. Still, we’re not dumb enough to think he wouldn’t protest. In short, we expected an argument.
But Dad did not argue. In fact, it’s safe to say he reacted in the exact opposite manner than what both of his sons expected.
My father’s father never made it to Ireland in his lifetime, something my Dad is saddened by. Despite what my Dad thinks, I don’t really think my Grandpa would have been all that interested in going; he was more of a Vegas or Atlantic City kind of guy. Like my Grandpa, I don’t think my Dad would have gone to Ireland on his own. Neither would my brother, for that matter—I’m definitely the most Celtic-oriented dude in my family.
Anyway, it seems the objections we expected re: going on the trip in the first place have now been replaced by this one (so far): “Listen, my sons: when we get there I’m paying for everything.” As the Irish would say, not feckin’ likely.
My Dad is financially comfortable. Aside from the fact that he’s our Dad and we love him, he has done a lot for his two sons, both of whom made some dumb mistakes in the past and are in a better place now because of him. That being said, my brother and I didn’t plan and purchase this trip to Ireland to sit back and have the old man pay for everything. We did it because we want to experience our family history and culture together, as a family. We did it because we wanted to do something nice for our father. And because at some point, we want the satisfaction of watching our lightweight Dad get shitfaced on some Bushmill’s and Guinness. In the unlikely but not impossible event that my Dad is reading this: Dad, feel free to cut and paste this paragraph wherever you can best see it, and refer to it regularly as needed, so as to be reminded that this is a FATHER’S DAY PRESENT FROM YOUR SONS, WHO BOTH LOVE YOU. Stop trying to do for us; you’ve done enough.
Of course, on this trip, I have my own room. I may love my father and brother, but that doesn’t mean I want to bunk with either of them for two weeks.
As the Irish would say, not feckin’ likely.
posted by The Angry Piper at 6:06 PM
4 comments
