A quick one, because I'd like to write something about my dad. It was Father's Day over the weekend after all, and I chose to call, though I was in a food coma when we spoke and was, therefore, pretty unresponsive.

I like my dad for a lot of reasons, none of them particularly interesting or illuminating. Mostly, he's a nice guy. And he's a funny guy. And he's pretty smart, too.

Examples of funny:
Mom: "Gene. I'm going to go jump in the shower."
Dad: "Be careful."

Funny.

Dad, circa 1989: "Memory's the second thing to go, you know."
Me, 9 years old: "What's the first?"
Dad: "I can't remember!"
Me: Laughing. Probably, like, eight minutes straight.

My dad never, never, resorts to any of the terrible classics. (For instance, "I'm so old, we didn't even have history when I was in high school.") He only resorts to the hilarious classics. (For instance, "Did you get a haircut?" "No, I got 'em all cut," etc., etc., etc.)

I also like my dad because he's Polish. Therefore, we often have kielbasa on Christmas. Kielbasa's great because it stays with your belches, say, minimum three days. Pretty awesome.

I also like my dad because he's pretty helpful, even when he doesn't need to be. There were a lot of things he could've done when I moved a few months ago. "Get your own furniture, son. Your older brother never needed us," would have been the best option, for him. Or he could've said, "Well, we've got some leftover stuff. Why don't you come down Friday night, pick it up and bring it back north, and then bring the car back Sunday? Then you can drive home." Instead, he (and my equally-awesome mom, who, by the way, recently commented here about stinky urine) chose to leave Chicago at, say, 4 a.m. on a Saturday 'morning,' spend about 38 straight hours moving furniture, and then leave without any more thanks than a "Can I get some free groceries?" and a few just-as-they-arrived-here hamburgers.

I think the best thing about my dad is that he's been pretty successful, but he's also supportive of his fantastically odd kids who are doing their best to avoid that plight. (Well, number two and number four are, in vastly different ways. Number one's figured it out. Number three's a sellout, but in the best way possible.)

October 2001:
"I want to earn poverty-level wages and work every day all summer in the middle of nowhere." I said. "Awesome!" was his response.

November 2005:
"I'm ready to get out of here. I have no idea what I want to do. I want to keep trying, though, I think," I said. "Come live in the basement. Figure it out. No rent or anything. And you'll get to hang out with us, too," he said.

September 2006:
"Dude, I totally got shitcanned. I don't know what's next," I said. "That's too bad. Come hang out here this weekend. I'll make you an awesome steak, and you can watch the Cats lose to New freakin' Hampshire." (He didn't actually predict the NU loss. Oh well.)

I'm pretty happy because I've stopped calling him Old Man. As in, "How ya doin', Old Man?" which is pretty rude and, to be sure, pretty inaccurate.

Let's be honest, I also like my dad because he introduced me to the Cubs and Fighting Irish football. And because he let me drop down drag bunts as a nine-year-old, and because he moved me to center field. I think it's awesome that he continued to coach a bunch of 15-year-old punks, and continued to play his slow, fat son (me) in center field. Old time's sake, you know?
Also, I like my dad because he gave me his solid black "Director" polo shirt. It clearly does not identify what he was directing, which is why it's awesome.

I don't know. I'm pretty lucky.

I talk about my parents more than any 27-year-old dude should (and not just here), but they're pretty fantastic. Pretty deserving, I guess.

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The White Stripes record kind of kicks ass, I think. "Rag and Bone" is the ninth track, and it's this creepy thing about Meg and Jack wandering through town scavenging junk to sell. "We can do something with 'em. / Make some money out of 'em, at least."

And "Effect and Cause" is a pretty fantastic, countryish final ditty, and a few songs - notably "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do What Your Told)," "Little Cream Soda," and "Bone Broke" - feel a whole lot like De Stihl or White Blood Cells, which is to say, pretty awesome.

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I'd really like to get back to writing here twice a week, but I don't know if that's reasonable. I'm about as slow as anybody in the world in "winding down," post-work, perhaps a remnant of my previous semi-nocturnal baseball existence. But I'll get home from work 6ish, poke around on Pitchfork and Slate and the NU message board for a half-hour, get to a run or a walk, get to a shower, and by the time I'm ready to start making dinner, it's 8 p.m.

I also don't know if it's worth it though, clearly, writing about asparagus-urine brings out the commenters. Seven (!), and counting (?).

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I'll be at Harper's place in less than 24 hours. I spoke to him tonight. I really hope I make it there in time for a stop at the Whippy Dip (sp?). Peanut Butter, mmm.