So The Wave got chided for not a single mention of Father’s Day. I’m not sure if it was true, — ya know, I don’t read The Wave — but I assume it’s true. I mean, forgetting dad —- that’s its own tradition. The day is like a fake holiday that barely gets any respect. We try to protest just a little and we hear, every day is father’s day. Yeah, and every dad is Rodney Dangerfield. We get no respect, I tell ya. At best, some of us get treated like a big dog or mascot. Oh yeah, big guy, happy father’s day. Man, your bald spot is really growing.
You might give the kids a look, like, really? On father’s day you gotta say that? They might say they were only kidding and then add, look at the bright side, the bigger the bald spot, the less gray hair you have.
One dad I know had to wonder if he was related to the comedian who said, Whoa, Dad, with that belly I thought this was mother’s day and you were eight months pregnant.
Yeah, that was kinda mean and for a moment, the rumor was, some others in the family almost felt sorry for dear old dad. There was an awkward silence followed by – dad, what time is the barbecue today? (You know, the barbecue that you will be working to serve us).
Hey, dad, I need money. What for? I gotta buy you a father’s day gift. But I don’t want anything. Then they look at you, like, are you kidding? Just give me the money. It’s the look a mugger gives you: You’re gonna make me beat you up? Just give me the money. (Not that they’ll actually spend the money on a gift).
Of course, most fathers I know don’t want anything. Or they have one simple hope. They don’t want a new tie or silly golf accessory. They’ve got just one goal for the day: they don’t want to be bothered. And it’s about noon before they realize they had a better chance of asking for a million dollars.
Dad, could I have a ride? It’s father’s day. Oh, happy father’s day. And then they give the look: so, can I have a ride? It’s father’s day. Then it’s your turn to give a look: I’m not gonna be a damn chauffeur for father’s day. Then they give another look and half a grunt: you’re really milking this.
The kid storms off. Ah victory. You got to light up the cigar – that you bought for yourself for father’s day – and then you hear the whining, bellowing in a voice that is used only to travel through multiple rooms: “Mom! Ma! Ma! I need a ride!”
Momentary silence. “Ask your father.”
Boyleing Points: I don’t know if I have to use smaller words or bigger print but I heard recently that some people read Boyleing Points out loud to others. Brianne Carroll reads it to her mother, Eileen. Doreen Mingino (Happy Birthday, Dor!) reads it to her daughter, Alison (Doreen skips the parts where I curse and make offcolor remarks). Any others of you do this? Please don’t tell me. I’m just kinda creeped out right now.
**Ok, I had a couple of ice cold beers at RBIs on Beach 90th and RBB. That’s right, that’s right. I can hang downtown. It so happens, the bartender couldn’t have been friendlier and my overall review is: I’ll be back. And once those hipsters getting off the train lift their fedoras, RBIs is gonna be a new hot spot. In the meantime, the two hotspots that demand a beer stop are Sayra’s and the Playland Motel on the Boulevard in the 90’s. Sayra’s is not just a wine bar – they’ve got a beer garden. Playland has a number of legendary bartenders, including Oakie and Turk, so after I sweat out this column I’m heading there.
**And next year, I’m 99.8 percent sure I’ll be drinking from the rooftop of the Sand Bar. The Good Rumor man says new ownership is coming in, signaling another good turnabout for 116th Street.