Dreams of My Father

Whether he ever really said it or not, for a long time I've taken as my father's chief piece of advice that above all else it is a good idea to cultivate cheap tastes. There you have it, a three-word summary of all the wisdom that a boy could expect of his old man. This paternal proverb may have greater staying power in my father's impressions on my psyche than any walk along the beach, game of catch, or airplane glue-addled time hunkered over a plastic model of a B-29 ever could have.

Becoming a man has meant putting away childish things in small increments, seemingly unnoticeable without some sense of time. Finishing college was not the end of all depravity, but merely the beginning of more responsibilities that get in the way of the depraved times I'd grown accustomed to. Getting married didn't change much, but it had eons of symbolic baggage attached to the rite, so much so that even if the average symbolic suitcase weighs as much as a feather, their combined weight places a pressure on many newlyweds great enough to create the very diamonds so often at its center. Having kids will require many of the childish things I cling to to be passed on to the next generation, leaving me to find new, fatherly things to take on.

Being a married (as yet childless) man as I am it's no wonder then that thoughts of my father grow ever prevalent in the daily cycle of musings that passes for conscious life here in my head. This evening I found myself in a bar on the shores of Lake Huron in eastern Michigan about 3 hours north of Detroit. Taking my order of foodservice grade chicken tenders and fries, the bartender remarked that he'd never had Pabst Blue Ribbon before, the beer I was presently swilling. He was a young guy and could be excused for having never tried one of America's, perhaps the world's, greatest beers. I offered my wholehearted endorsement for the beer to the guy and finished my second. In earnest midwestern fashion he said he'd try it this evening.

That advice to cultivate cheap tastes echoed back to me over the bad classic rock and chatter. I imagined my father, who is very much alive, along side Yoda, Obiwan Kinobi and Anekin Skywalker beaming on as I tilted my head back to work on my can of beer. The music almost changed to Ewok celebration. I was really enjoying Pabst Blue Ribbon to the core of my being; not out of any sense of self-sacrifice, but as something that I'd choose above most plasuible alternatives, taking price out of the equation. I had really cultivated a cheap taste. It isn't the only one.