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).

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