Not all daddies are the same

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby. Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are blue and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.

My dad and I watched The Wizard of Oz every free moment we had when I was a child. He would sneak in chocolate bars that I was not allowed to eat because I was hyper as a child, an unfortunate disgrace that carried on into adulthood. He was also still very much a child, like me. He was my playmate; he was “good cop.” He let me eat funny things and encouraged me to watch Dynasty and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. We counted the steps of the staircases we climbed and made up songs. He said he never trusted anyone who said anything bad to say about Frank Sinatra. I mistook him many times for Frank Drilon as a child. Much of my childhood memories were those of my father in the autumn of his years finding a way back from a stimulating adulthood winding down to a more infantile state. I loved being with my dad.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star and Wake up where the clouds are far behind me, where troubles melt like lemon drops away above the chimney tops, that’s where you’ll find me.

My father taught me many things about the world. Once sheltered from the glare of reality by my grandfather, he showed me what was underneath the perfected canvas without much irony or care. If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, then extraordinary men are from Pluto: they don’t exist anymore. My dad was definitely from Pluto. He was interesting, and held up the bar to make sure I always had equally spirited escorts on my arm. The first time he busted me with a boy and spied that I had paid for the pizza, he simply said, “Imagine that for the rest of your life. Hope he makes you laugh.”

Somewhere, over the rainbow,

Bluebirds fly.

Birds fly over the rainbow

Why then — oh, why can’t I?

If happy little bluebirds

Fly beyond the rainbow,

Why, oh, why can’t I?

Now my dad is turning 76 and our roles have reversed. I am now the adult, bribing waiters to fill his martinis with water and grabbing cocktails from his hands in parties. I stress over his ardor for baby-back ribs especially when he orders it in Italian restaurants. And A1 sauce at Alain Ducasse. He shamelessly eats his prime rib with Maggi at Prince Albert, a charming gourmand tip I took quite seriously. We sit back during parties and I listen to his witty commentary on both the fading stars of society and the bright young things and their inevitable demise. No one entertains me more than my dad. My friends are often enthralled by his bravado and nonchalance in the hierarchy of things. “Do they feed me?” he often says. His dry wit and eff-you humor has encouraged me to be brave. The arrogance mitigated by my mother’s influence. He allowed me to be myself.

With no irony he told me once, “Well, at the end of the day, no matter who you’re with you sleep with yourself, so you better like it.”

No daddies are the same and thank heaven for that.