dada

some dads speak and act like their adolescent offspring. like latte-loving Roger Sterling over here on my left, chatting with his 19-year-old shorty-shorts-blonde-bombshell of a daughter about binge drinking, tossing in the occasional yeah, like, seriously! (*hair flip*). but i say: kudos, Rog'. because mastering this particular gift of the gab requires some serious dedication. (i mean, c'mon: being up to speed on the latest "hangover" movie quotes when you're nearly sixty? that ain't no easy task, man.) and because, in addition to responding to his rather desperate need to assert his supercoolness, this dedication mostly signals Roger's interest in connecting with his daughter. and, to his credit, it seems to be working: she's opening up to him like a disgruntled canadian on cross country check-up (oh, Rex...you do have a way with people...). besides, particularly once you've encountered truly disastrous father types, you know that such attempts are ultimately what matter. (even despite your discomfort in overhearing this wannabe silver fox refer to one of Shorty's friends as smokin' hot. i'm sure he hadn't quite intended it to come out that way. but, ew -- keep it in yer pants, Daddio!)

at the same time, people get used to what they know. and then, at least sometimes, come to believe that what they know is also what's best. so you'll forgive me for thinking that my dad kicks Roger's sweet little behind. sure, maybe Rog' can correctly use "then" and "than." (show-off!) and he probably doesn't inadvertently crush his opponent's (aka brother's, niece's, neighbour's) fingers when offering a friendly handshake. (yowch!) but Dad VB manages to redefine "cool." so that even his kids eventually buy into and feel liberated by it all. he's the guy belting out repeated, loud Bob and Doug McKenzie calls during our ball tournaments. KOO-rookookoo-kookoo-kookoooo! busting out shamelessly large step-touch/step-touch moves on the dance floor, accompanied by overhead hand-clapping and an ear-to-ear smile blazing across his face. designing marble games and shuffle boards for us with bits and pieces of wood and felt that were lying around the garage. telling elaborate bedtime stories about the ooooold (fictional) woman in moncton who was buried alive and could be heard clawing at the lid of her six-feet-under coffin with her long gnarly nails. spontaneously picking up and driving non-stop from toronto to thunder bay: more than twenty-four hours, with that same grin still ablaze.

once in a while, i picture in my mind the day (still quite far down the road) when i will defend my thesis. a very formal event, full of anxieties and expectation. Shorty's dad would, no doubt, arrive perfectly pressed, polite and poised. mine, on the other hand, will be the guy in the back of the room with his thumbs perched conspicuously on his temples, doing an antler hand dance, and waggling his tongue out as far as thunder bay. mark my words: i will want to kill him. yet, at the exact same time that i'm plotting his demise, i'll know he's awfully proud of me. and i'll be thinking to myself: damn, he's cool!

and now back to translating...