[lbo-talk] Second sunrise of the day

Bitch | Lab info at pulpculture.org
Wed Dec 21 10:02:14 PST 2005


merry dead-guy-on-a-stick almost birthday!

They were not-dad-men-not-boy-kids.

Boy kids were boisterous. There was never that silent time of alone-togetherness under a black yellow moon sky to be broken by the breaking of wind. And dad men? Dad men were quiet.

When they drove the car on a trip, they didn't talk much. Dads would roll down a window and light cigarettes. Dads coughed that smokers' cough. Dads cleared throats. Dad heaved big sighs which took up a space and made a presence in girl kid space just as surely had they bellowed. Dads also smiled.

Dad men were quiet. Dad men lounged back in an easy chair and read the newspaper, the noise of a radio in the background, airing early evening news. Dad men didn't watch television in our world. They slept television. Sometimes they snored the television. Sometimes they even snorted television. Some dads were especially good at mumbling television. Dad men never really watched television­unless Mom women wanted them to watch an old movie together or gather 'round for a family viewing of a special show.

On weekends, dad men slept, snored, and sometimes even snorted or mumbled television. Which is to say, dads lounged out on the sofa or floor and slept-snored-mumbled-snorted. When the sleeping and snoring became deep and rhythmic we'd sneak up with our girl kid space and quietly, carefully turn the dial. Quiet as mice. We didn't even shush each other.

Thlich.

"I was watching that," a deep sonorous voice would say.

"No you weren't daddy. You were sleeping."

"I was resting my eyes. After work all week, my eyes need to rest so I rest them while the television is on. Put it back on the game (WWII movie) (Hogan's Heroes re-run.)"

A collective sigh, a collective sagging of shoulders: foiled again by Dad men who snored television. Sometimes Dad men rested their eyes, snoring television, while a newspaper fanned across a gently heaving chest. Sometimes a book balanced precariously on a beer belly that would occasionally erupt with irregular respiratory leaps when they mumbled or snorted television, resting their work-weary eyes.

Dad men were quiet. They'd stand at the edges of their property, looking over to the field where we'd play ball, looking away now and then to ponder the setting sun or survey the neighborhood. They'd stand there quietly as Dad men did, sometimes moving to weed grass around a lamppost or mailbox or pick up fallen branches from the tall, swaying pines and maples.

http://blog.pulpculture.org/2005/12/21/the-second-sunrise-of-the-day/



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