THOSE OF YOU who have followed the Family Man saga will recall that my wife, LaVeta, recently asked me what I wanted for Father’s Day. I told her I wanted to go to Atlantic City with the family. She said OK, and I began to fantasize.
I thought of Shore trips with my parents when I was a kid. I thought of watching Mr. Peanut walk up and down the boardwalk in a top hat and a monocle. I thought of eating gooey, flavorless, saltwater taffy while seagulls dive-bombed us like fighter jets. I thought of pizza and hot dogs and funnel cake. I thought of what it might be like to have someone else pay for it all.
Father’s Day, you see, is nothing like its counterpart, Mother’s Day. If you ignore Father’s Day, you live to tell about it. If you do the same on Mother’s Day, you do so at your own peril.
On Mother’s Day, every thug, hoodlum, ne’er-do-well and loser is lined up right alongside the good kids, preparing to buy flowers for their mommy.
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(Illustration by Richard Harrington)
