Father’s No Best
F-Day lands on June 16 this year, and my intensive research tells me that on the previous Friday, June 14, 1789, “Whiskey distilled from maize is first produced by American clergyman the Rev. Elijah Craig. It is named Bourbon because Rev. Craig lived in Bourbon County, Ky.” A date, and weekend, to rejoice and celebrate it is, god bless the Rev. Craig.
And speaking of anniversaries, it was 15 years ago last month that Frank Sinatra, the Chairman of the Board (Broad?) got served the pink slip from this life so as to go serenade the lusher life we expect to enjoy in the Great Beyond. And it’s taken 15 years for me to realize that in his absence, it is now high time indeed up to me to save Western culture, if not the whole goddamn civilization. I don’t want to blow my own horn, but you know I always did have an inkling, if not a hankering, it would come to this, I kid you not.
And this torch that I’ve belatedly found I won’t allow to be drowned. No sir, I’ve got high hopes to caretake the torch so that it continues to burn baby, burn brightly all through these dark ages until things get modern again, when I can pass the focking flame to another smart-mouth wise-ass with a bad attitude who comes down the pike, or something like that.
But to save Western civilization, I’m going to need some start-up scratch; and so I need to address a word or two to the kids who number themselves as members of my readership family:
Hey kids, summer’s just begun and I’m pretty focking certain that before you know it, you’ll be good and goddamn bored with shoplifting, stealing bikes or having your own bike stolen. So listen, it’s never too soon to think about the future and just what the fock it is you’re going to do to earn your dime. Hey, maybe you ought to think about being a professional writer like me, and I’ll tell you why.
For starters, you mostly don’t have to go anywhere to do it. You can just stay home, which is focking great ’cause with no boss around, you can have the TV on all day long if you focking feel like it and an ashtray is always at arm’s length. And it’s the kind of job where there is no limit to the number of excuses that can be used for not doing it and how do you beat that, ain’a?
Hell, a lot of these writers come out with only one book every other year. That’s 730 days and the book is like 200 pages long. That means, to be a productive writer, you only have to write one focking page every 3½ days—piece of cake, what the fock.
And to boot, writers write on a computer, so when you can’t think of what to write, you can wile away the hours at various free porn sites and learn a thing or two that could help make your first date a rousing success.
So if you think this lifestyle sounds attractive, tell your mom and pop you want to be a writer, and to send Art Kumbalek a cashier’s check for $250 and I’ll get you enrolled in the Art Kumbalek Summer School of Juvenile Writing. In the meantime, don’t forget to never dig a hole too deep that you can’t get out, and never ever mix good booze with soda.
Anyways, I got to go and get over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school where I shall recruit mine own personal Rat Pack so as to save whatever civilization we got left; and also, speaking of anniversaries, to toast not only fathers, but also sons with a nice bourbon or three.
And so to our Mr. B: I’ll be seeing you, as the song goes, in all the familiar places that this heart of mine embraces, in every lovely summer’s day, I find you in the morning sun and when the night is new, I remember you, always, there over the rainbow, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.