The Dad Label

I've had a few sober women tell me lately that I'd make a good father (because what guy would ever tell another guy the same thing without a few beers in him). Sometimes I say thank you - other times I play it down to their making nice. But it always gets me thinking; What man doesn't want to understand what it would be like to have a spliced bit of himself make it's mark on the world? Boy? Girl? It would make no difference to me because kids - as a rule - are a great idea. If you don't agree then maybe you're not cut out for having kids. Maybe you want to think about the ole snipperoo or give ligation a chance? In any case, I really don't think these women I know would have said what they did if they knew how I treat the kids I have now.

Before the rumour mill starts grinding away at the few grains of repute I possess, allow me to explain. There are no little splice bits of Hot Air floating around (that have made themselves known to me). And I am not talking about the grown men and women at work who call me Mom behind my back (and to my face). Rather, I'm referring to those products of desire, conception and gestation that I put to pages. The ones I have locked away in dark places under the bed would count themselves shit-ass lucky if they could see the scattered piles of DNCs cluttering up the place. The ones I doom to dusty neglect would turn cartwheels if they knew the state of those I'd kicked out of the house with no real structure or values. Some have survived to tell rambling stories, some trip around rhyming their heads off while others try too hard to be funny. Still more are deformed by the literary equivalent of foetal alcohol syndrome or fifth drafts disease. I sent a few off to live with mothers whose inspiration warranted their arrival into the world fully formed and passing fair though torn out. A few I've had committed to the flames when they grew out of my control. Some will never get from under my watchful eye. I don't even know how many there are. I just can't stop fornicating with my notebooks.

There's something in me that makes the act of putting pen to paper on a par with coitus, either way I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. I'm not much of an experimenter but I've made a few noteworthy discoveries along the way to literary fatherhood. First, a woman is not always necessary (though it helps). Yes, there is something to be said for inspiration and stimulation but the end result is usually purple. I believe that the finest products need to either be heavily revised test-tube adaptation or else glorious miracles of immaculate conception. Second is that creation begets regret and disappointment is inevitable. Sure, you might pop out an Atwood or a Fitzgerald on your first try but more than likely you'll find yourself denying they're yours at all. And third, it's almost always advisable to just put the cap on, walk away and save yourself the grief.

So why can't I take my own advice to heart?

Even now, sitting here, all I'm doing is cheating on my notebook by spilling seed into the ethernet cable in hopes that some of it will find a willing receiver. How many hordes of twitching homunculai will be smeared on these napkins I'm collecting? Sure, I share them out like they're foster children but what choice do they have. I'm the dad, I choose when to wear the pants and when to take them off but something about all of this smacks or irresponsibility. I just hope that these sober women I know have better judgement than I do.

But they are entitled to their own opinion.