Happy Father’s Day
My dad. Aside from being the only person I know who has the capability to grow and maintain the world’s most epic mustache for the past 40 something years (yes, he’s had that caterpillar since his twenties), you also have the inexplainable ability to make me love you through all your quirks and qualities that drive me insane. The fact that you still call Facebook “Spacebook.” The fact that just yesterday you tried to reference the concept of using GPS but instead you called my iPhone, “a radar gun.” The fact that despite every unhappiness my moodiness has ever brought you, you still stick around and live for things like visiting me in Hoboken and renovating my entire backyard for me. You live for movies in the dimly-lit den on a Saturday when I’m on Long Island for the weekend, even though we all know you’ll fall asleep a quarter of the way through. You live for bike rides and calm walks down Radio Avenue, whether it’s a freezing cold November or a sweltering August. And most importantly, you live for breakfast food at Jake Starr. Here’s to you, Daddy. Here’s to you.
Happy Father’s Day, ya’ll.