It’s Father’s Day. You know, there seems to be some confusion as to what fathers want to do on Father’s Day. There’s this idea that we want to eat in fancy restaurants, participate in enforced “fun” activities with our children, and perhaps gather with other fathers to communally sip craft beers that might have a fruit as their primary flavor. That the day must be meticulously planned and executed according to a rigid schedule. It’s as if somewhere along the line, Father’s Day was kitted out with a silk scarf and a clipboard. It became a chore, an ordeal, a reflection of Mother’s Day. What we fathers really want is something much more primitive, pagan, atavistic. We want to randomly wander through the day with heavy glass in hand, ever brimmed-up with powerful brown liquors, with no plan whatsoever except to breathe in the primal scent of large chunks of raw animal flesh being seared on local fires. We want our children in sight and perhaps even running amok, as proof of our unimpeachable virility, but we do not want to have to deal with them, aside from perhaps emitting the occasional low growl to keep them from seizing power. Then, at the end of the day, after a great feast of meats and boozes, we want to think, with great confidence: “The clan is strong, and we will take many heads this year.”
