case in point: the craft dad.
i recently found out that my friends don't remember him at all. for me, however, he remains a vivid caricature that we not only devised but also referenced throughout (and after) our creatively uninhibited middle-school years, during downtime between fart jokes, fort building, Capture the Flag, and conversations about some unattainable boy we had a crush on.
basically, a "craft dad" was a guy, typically of "dad" age (according to ten year-olds), who was exaggeratedly soft-spoken and passive -- typing an exclamation mark, even to express joy, would overstimulate his senses -- and therefore limited in terms of the potential activities he could engage in with his kids. there could be no movies or toboganning or board games, for instance. (stop the insanity. no exclamation mark.) instead, he might be able to carefully prepare a peanut-butter sandwich on Weston white bread for them. (mind you, this was in the 80s, before peanuts represented a threat to civilization.) or read them a relaxing bedtime story. (kindly keep your distance, Robert Munsch.) mostly, though, he could handle, and even calmly enjoy, sitting at a table in the rec room and -- that's right -- doing crafts with his kids. gently reminding them, of course, that they should never run with scissors. (no exclamation mark.)
anyway, i bring all of this up because, this afternoon, i find myself in Westboro Village, in a café-meets-culinary-hotspot. to be fair, the food here is outstanding, and i've just noticed that the music playing off in the distance seems to be a jig (hold on to your hats). but otherwise, things seem just a bit too serene. and there's definitely something missing when i hear people around me appreciating their food: "oh, that's spicy," they mutter. and "mmm, delicious."
i dunno. but i think i can smell the glue.
and now back to translating...
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