Gotta get hold of my old pal Kipling soon. He's been my primary source of the weed 'o wisdom for years. By God, we used to share the sacrament whilst still in our teens.
Kipling has had an extraordinary life, and probably the most extraordinary thing about it is that he's still living it!
Somebody should write a book about him.
He's a grampa now, and apparently that little fact eclipses all prior relationships with folks who have come to depend on his primo organic weed to deal with the ebb and flow of life's many challenges.
But I digress...
My dear daughter called me today. She lives in Thornhill. She's got it all going on. She hardly ever calls her dear Daddy. She wants to know what I'd like for Father's Day.
Oh ya... that's when I call my dad and say happy father's day...
Never in my life has a child or a near child or a step-child called and inquired as to what I might like for Father's Day.
She was wondering if I might appreciate a subscription to the New Yorker Magazine as a Father's Day gift.
Get the fuck outta here!
You mean it's gonna come right to the local post office?
All the time?
I vaguely hinted I might prefer The Atlantic, but whatever.
A couple hours later I was rooting through the junk file on my Outlook account, and there was the New Yorker wishing me happy reading on my gift subscription.
Thank you, dear daughter!