I’m all about holidays that celebrate me, directly or indirectly.

My boys purchased (or at least helped wrap) a couple of outfits for me, including a shirt with “Superdad” emblazoned across it like the Superman comic book logo.

In the “it pays to invest in people” department, my adopted “daughters” conspired to get me a Teddy Bear from the Build-A-Bear Workshop.

His birth certificate reads:

Date of Birth: 06/10/2005
Full Name: Mr. Mitty
Height: 16 inches
Weight: 15 ounces
Fur Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Belongs to: Maurice Broaddus

Yes, I’m a sucker for this kind of stuff.

I make one comment about trying to make over my image (because the nice guy thing doesn’t quite go with my horror writer vocation), and I get a Teddy Bear with a leather jacket. He’s not even an angry bear. Maybe it’s the glasses: I can’t pull off angry and have glasses.

I would have written about life with my father, but that would have left many of you scarred for days. What did I get him? I may or may not have gotten him a program to help him rip tracks from CDs for his personal enjoyment. We’ve been working on a project (along with my sister) of him collecting all of his favorite songs from his formative years. Which means the hunting down of obscure doo-wop tracks. It’s been a fun bonding time for us (I think he underestimated my knowledge of arcane music groups. Then I reminded him that he was the one to taught me about them).

Comment on this bit of rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading it from) or just do so at my message board.