Sunday. June 16. Father’s Day. Take him to lunch. Or, for a change, at least talk to him.
Definition of “Father”: The person who can’t get into the bathroom, onto the phone or out of the house.
Fathers are important. Nature gives everybody one. Same sex gives some people two. In Hollywood, they’re cheaper by the dozen. Kim Kardashian’s baby might make out without any. Eventually her child may phone, say, “Happy Father’s Day, Daddy” and Kanye could then reply: “Thank you. By the way, who is this?”
Fathers are nice things to have. I myself had a couple, but the names were mostly who cares.
The drill is, Sunday you must get him something. Another tie he won’t need now that lumpy T-shirts and wavy crotches are the new tuxedos. Forget asking what size cologne he wears. And shove the greeting card that’s alongside the Happy Birthday and Sorry for Your Loss piles.
No need even to select a costly Hallmark job. Do an e-greeting via e-mail, instagram, iPad, fax. Skype him. Send a fuzzy cellphone photo. Make your own computer card. Get a Crayola and color a homemade thing.
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are actually alike. The big difference is, on Father’s Day you buy a much cheaper gift.
Bazillion Points Books suggests photos of Metallica, Slayer, Megadeth and Possessed in the sweet read “Murder in the Front Row: Shots From the Bay Area Thrash Metal Epicenter” by bassist Harald Oimoen and Whiplash editor Brian Lew.
At least it’s not something he’ll have two of.
How about tickets to Wainscott’s 7 a.m. Paddle Race for Humanity? A six-mile surf sail following a downwind course. If, by accident, the breeze blows upwind, they’ll accept your ship-to-shore collect phone call from Utah.
Enjoy the Frick. Look at the art. Admire the paintings. Inhale culture. Tell daddy another word for “abstract” is “ugly.” Inform him Michelangelo never regretted those seven years painting the Sistine Chapel — but got bugged when they asked for a second coat. And don’t get cranky if he says, “Frick it.”
Wander into Sherry-Lehmann. Buy a bottle of Batard-Montrachet 2010. It’s a sale. $359.95. If Papa’s the type who can’t give blood because the hospital says there’s an olive in it, spring for a case. That’s $4,2319.40.
A traveler? Try a 24-by-36 world map. Personalized. On a wood frame. With your nameplate and 100 color pins to — Anthony Weiner and Eliot Spitzer, pardon the phrase — stick in where he’s been.
No? How’s a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. Suppose he can’t put the thing together, so what? In terms of the wife buying it for the husband, this is a good investment. Shuts him up, keeps him busy and, as Demi Moore can tell you, is cheaper than a divorce.
If Pop’s so chunky he has to let out his garment bag . . . if the circus elephant makes a pass at him . . . if he uses a hammock instead of shorts — one thoughtful gift would be to call Blue Cross and get him a group rate.
Forget an alarm clock. That’s a small device used to wake up people who have no children. And cigars are out or Bloomberg only lets you puff in Rikers.
With movie star fathers it’s difficult. It’s not so much for the kid to decide what to buy. The problem is, whom to give it to.
Go for tools. Hiking boots. Gardening rakes. Hedge clippers. Electric mowers. Tree saws. New hoes. Flower mulch. Build-you-own-birdhouses. If your dad’s the indoor sort, you have a problem. My advice then? Keep your receipts.
Go for sports gear. Skis. Sleds. Skates. Rollerblades. Basketballs. Volleyballs. Baseballs. Rubber balls. Weight balls. Golf balls. Tennis balls. Billiard balls. Handballs. Footballs. Swimsuits. Rafts. Boats. Sails. Bats. Rubber ducks. Rackets. Pingpong sets. Badminton things. Fishing gear. If Daddy can’t throw a hook into his wife’s mouth, let him shove it into a tuna.
Listen, if you can’t decide what to give the old man, send money. It’s the one thing you’re sure he doesn’t have.