Most of my formative years were sans pere – no dad to call my own, no sleepy pop to wake up on Father’s Day with an ugly tie clumsily picked out from Macy’s sale section. Essentially, I became my own de facto father: I taught myself how to tie my own tie, throw a ball, fix the toilet, and walk with the arrogant swagger that only men are allowed to have (this was the most difficult lesson – de-genderification is a bitch). I think I’ve grown up ok. So, on Sunday, I took myself out to brunch to thank myself for doing a decent job. Happy Fatherless Day, iDad!
I wasn’t really sure where I was going when I left my house. Somehow I ended up on La Brea, briefly idling in front of Campanile. Outside, well-to-do sons in Sunday golf shirts were waiting with their proud dads. I haven’t done that great of job with myself (I still can’t kill spiders with nothing more than three squares of toilet paper and calm resolve) (my girly technique involves bunched up paper towels and frantic, breathless indecisiveness). I continued past Pink’s, site of our infamous Hot Dog Death March. It was early, but a few families already were congregating. Um, no. I didn’t do a great job with myself, but I didn’t do a bad one, either. So up I went. Ultimately, I ended up at The Farmer’s Kitchen in Hollywood, nestled quietly near Selma and Vine, right in front of the Hollywood’s Farmer’s Market.