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Small Wonders: Dreaming Father's Day dreams

June 14, 2013|By Patrick Caneday
  • Patrick Caneday
Patrick Caneday

It's an age-old question with as many answers as there are muffin-topped men afraid to talk about their feelings wandering the barbecue aisle at Home Depot on Saturday:

What to do for Father's Day?

So here to aid, abet and entertain you is "The Perfect Father's Day" as imagined by yours truly (if time, money and gastro capacity had no limits, of course).

Awake from a predawn dream of being in my wife's arms to find myself in her arms.

She grumbles, disappointed, as I leave for the bathroom. In the mirror I see that my crow's feet, yellowing teeth and misshapen nostrils have all disappeared. Intrigued, I step on the scale to find I slept so soundly I burned 15 pounds overnight. Upon further evaluation, I bear a striking resemblance to Brad Pitt.

Go back to bed. Hello, wife.

While the family slumbers, I make myself the perfect café latte from beans harvested by well-compensated, fair-trade farmers in Guatemala. The satisfaction of contributing to their sustainable lifestyle brings me deep inner peace.

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Read in the sports page that not only did the Dodgers win, but Clayton Kershaw threw the minimum 27 pitches in each game of a quadruple-header against the San Francisco Giants to take the NL West Division lead.

Turn on the computer to find I've received no junk email. In fact, the only email is an e-card from my kids with those two goofy animated characters in the talking greetings cards that crack me up so much. Honestly, they kill me.

In one hour of pure, focused writing, I create "The Greatest Column Ever Written"; it's the kind of creative experience that's more transcendental meditation than writing, filled with the knowledge that these 800 words are the most articulate, poignant, entertaining and insightful ever put to print. The angel of Jack Smith weeps as I click "save" and send it to my editor.

When the Hummer limo arrives, I kiss the family goodbye and head for the airport with the adolescent man-boys who are my lifelong friends. On the private jet, our personal chef, Nigella Lawson, serves up eggs Benedict. We land in Monterey on a cloudless morn and Phil Mickelson caddies us through 18 holes at Pebble Beach. I shoot three over par.

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