my careless contagion

Lately, I listened to some old CDs I used to have. Actually, listened on YouTube. I don't know if I still have them. But one was the Cable Guy soundtrack (they gave them away), as well as the Surge CD. Actually, the Surge CD was two CDs; you were supposed to give one to your friend. Remember the ill-fated soda Surge? They tried to promote it with alternative music. The CDs are still out there. If you search eBay, you can find them for as much as $75. I own two because I didn't have any friends. Oh, and Millennium Hip Hop Party, a collection of 90s hip hop, for, well, partying, which was always a hit (go figure) at the few parties we hosted. These albums are time capsules from a better, more interesting time, about 25 years ago. Speaking of old music ... It's time for my semi-annual posting of One More Day by the Descendents (whom I saw perform in Philadelphia many years ago). This is my Father's Day post. In case it isn't abundantly clear, my father was not a good f...

Oh, the sanctity of fatherhood, the grandest of manly accomplishments. It's more than just the creation of life, of joining egg and sperm. It's a spiritual journey of sorts and a proclamation of manhood. While many more dollars extol the sacredness of motherhood on Mother's Day, not much is made of Father's Day. What gives? Well, maybe it's because most of us have dads who suck. Why celebrate that shit? I hate my father. I have many reasons. Shall we? My father has no idea who I am. After 41 years, he has no fucking clue. How does a man watch his son grow up (okay, maybe he wasn't around) and not know who he is, what he is made of, his strengths and weaknesses, or anything for that matter? And how am I always wrong, no matter what I say? I'm 41 years old and you're still correcting me? And you wonder why I am silent? When my father learned I was to become a father, his words of wisdom to me were: "Maybe now you'll get your shit togeth...