Juvenile displacement

As a boy I would always wonder about that point when you switch from being a “son” to a “father”. Surely I’d wake up one day, perhaps the day of my 13th birthday, thirst for some strong black coffee, Pass over Marmaduke and Hagar the Horrible for an update on commodity futures, and complain about the government to my bewildered family. Perhaps it happens when you start shaving. Fathers don’t buy candy bars. Fathers don’t make fart jokes. Fathers eat their vegetables.

It seemed like a high bar to reach back then, and at times still feels just a bit out of reach. Every now and then we’ll go to sleep without putting away our shoes. I’ve left dishes unwashed in the sink on occasion, and am constantly resisting the urge to have a bowl of cold cereal for dinner when Corrie isn’t around.

So here’s the latest theory/rationalization. Just because you like caviar doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate a quality Funyun. The guy that pays the mortgage can still enjoy Old School. You don’t have to give up who you are when you become who you should be.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself after watching quite possibly the goriest, pointless, most juvenile movie I’ve seen (and dragged a forgiving soul to) in quite a long time. While Corrie was immersed in all things sweet and pretty her louse of a husband went to see Hostel.

Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph it was bad, but in the best way. Honey, if you’re reading this, let me just say I’ve given up trying to explain the joy in truly horrible art/TV/film. I don’t understand the appeal myself, but I promise not to drag you to any midnight kung-fu movies, or bring the Toxic Avenger into our home. More importantly I won’t introduce South Park to our daughter, or ask her to pull my finger (that’s what Uncles do after all). But know that behind that strict paternal mask of disapproval, I’ll be smiling on the inside at her first booger joke.