60 Years Ago Today My Dad Was Born. Oy, Don't Remind Him.

I lean over to sip my coffee straight from its big green bowl because it’s always on the verge of overflowing when bothered.

Today is my dad’s birthday.  He turns 60.  It’s a big birthday, evidently.   I get it.  There’s definitely something psychologically confusing about a 60^th.  It’s twice as much of a mindfuck as a 30^th.  Which makes sense.

I flew out for my mom’s 60^th.  Me and my eldest brother did. The one other one lives 10 minutes from her.  We surprised her.

No such luck for my dad’s.  I’m knee deep in the creative quagmire and even if I could get away, tickets are too expensive for a 2-day surprise.  Now, sitting at the coffee shop table, I feel terribly guilty. 

There’s always a pot of coffee on at my parents’ house.  Two, actually, if you count the smaller decaf pot.  The house always smells like freshly brewed coffee.  Or like my memories of New York.  It’s no wonder I started drinking coffee as a high school freshman.  As a kid, my dad used to drive his little Mercedes with an open cup of coffee (this was before Starbucks and the concept of a “lid”), and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.  Just replace Che’s hat with a bald head, put a cigarette in his mouth and a coffee cup in his hand and you’ve got a striking resemblance to my father. That’s actually not true at all.  But the point is that my dad has a certain iconic look.  Years later, I tried and failed repeatedly at drinking coffee and smoking in the car.  Shifting from first to second was always considerably dangerous.

My dad’s hilarious. He’s a master at diffusing tension and controlling my mother’s solar flares. I blame him for passing down the “it’s okay as long as it’s funny” gene.

My dad is very funny but he’s sensitive too.  And I’m the same way. It adds an authentic aspect to the humor.  It comes from a place that’s real.  And more often than not, insightful.

I wish I could be over there today celebrating my dad’s birthday, even if I had to sleep on that fucking blow up mattress and wake up with my back in as much pain as his constantly is.  It’s not always possible to do what you want to do, or what is right.  It is always possible to feel guilty about it, though.  I guess I get that from my dad too. Happy birthday, dad! (Don’t worry, I’ll call too.)