Read Dear Dad for Free Online

are getting bigger along with our wallets and its sick. .
     
    PART TWO
     
     
    The town I lived in was very small. By the time I was twenty five, I had worked at most of the restaurants and construction companies. To blow off steam and forget about my meek existence and dwindling future, I drank and began to go crazy.

    ENTER BIZARRO
    I awoke in the middle of the night, perplexed with jaw aching from ruminating ruminations. There was a figure in the dark and there was Absinthe on my night stand, already cloudy with uninhibited spirits. I opened my mind and delved in like Kafka. How could Humanity forget about this weird pastime, creating configurations of mind and matter to reveal an answer never thought out? What?! The clock melted from the wall and my childhood was in my face, laughing loudly and disappearing behind the swing set in my favorite park, next to the Bay, where the tugboats spiraled their pretty deadly exhaust fumes into the sky.
     
     
    THE BLUE-COLLAR HERO
     
     
    I normally flipped burgers for a living, but during the Summer of 01', I was a Carpenter's Helper. I worked with a buddy of mine who I became friends with because we had a common thirst. The other guy was his drinking buddy. We worked  hard six hours a day pounding nails, telling jokes and sneaking tokes off the pipe in the SaniCan. I was prideful, hanging out with real men, who wore Carharts and clunky boots. It took a lot of strength to pound nails and carry lumber all day. So, at the end of the day, it felt especially rewarding to begin drinking a hoppy, malty microbrew. There was this pub right on the waterfront. We sat on the upper deck and looked down at the cars that parked and watched the people, other blue-collars, get out of their vans and trucks and file into the backdoor of the bar, where a customer could get half-gallon jugs of beer to go. It was a great setup and reminded me of some sort of lost illegal operation that I couldn't place a finger on. After a few beers and the dinner crowd settled in for a few courses, my co-workers and I would stroll past the conservative patrons eating and laugh at their food and their sweaters as we went to the bathroom. We were in our Twenties, and being cocky and intoxicated were what we did best when not pounding nails and carrying lumber.
     
    Finally, it was late enough that the married one, my drinking friend's drinking friend, had to drive home. His truck ran on propane and it farted this strong popcorn smell as he drove away. My other buddy motioned for me to go outside, back to his van, where He could sneak a toke. We ran into some guy who looked like a skipper. He had an accent. He attached himself to us. We were soon best friends, speaking of foreign lands and getting his ship ready to sail: THAT NIGHT!  But, what I want to tell you, which is so alarming, is that while frantic, enchanting words of future adventure was being spoken, I had completely blacked-out. In fact, I don't remember talking to this guy at all, let alone run into him! And, the most scary thing? Is how coherent I look in this picture: ( i'm in the middle).

    I was not even there, in my mind, or at least my mental tape recorder was wet with alcohol and wasn't tracking the information to turn to memory. It was mind blowing when I saw this picture when it was developed a week later.
     
    My friend and I decided to go to the married guy's house and sweet talk his wife into handing over the husband for some Light beer out in the wood shop. It seemed so innocent when we told her our proposal. She turned around without a word and went into the bedroom. We knew our married friend would be dead by morning, so we went outside quickly and grabbed the beer from the van. We thought a fire would be appropriate for the occasion. So, we got all the leftover wood from construction sites we had worked at and threw into a big pile and lit it. We kept throwing things on the fire. The flames got so big that we were all standing there,