dadsville - Ward Cleaver's Prozac Fever

meet the cleavers

It ain't easy doing the Ward Cleaver

thing here at the end of the millennium.

With Damoclean mortgages

hanging over our dadly heads,

the requisite kowtowing or hustle

to keep or create a revenue stream so

the Beav can get teeth straightened or

one-up silver-spoon cronies with some

video game hardware coup, and the

ceaseless demands on diminishing free time,

dads in the '90s are expected to shut up,

toe the line, bring home a paycheck with

measurable regularity, and be damn happy

about it. Any deviations and we find

ourselves tagged as having a

"mid-life crisis," or worse, our ass

winds up in some 12-step thang.

Enough is enough.

We're gonna vent on the Web, and it starts

right here today, with the

inaugural issue of "".

Find me a dad doing face-time in some corporate

gym with an issue of some insipid parenting

publication tucked in his duffel, learning how

"to parent." Find me a place on the Web without

saccharine-soaked drivel about the joys of parenting

and little Bippy's crayon-smeared vision turned

jpeg and dangled like a pee-stained sheet on the

'Net for the whole web world to see.

It's not that these sorts of things are totally

without value, they're just not anywhere close

to the reality of reality. They don't talk about

your 140,000-mile car giving up the ghost to abject

systems failure and body cancer and

being reduced to a one-car family in a

two-minivan world. They don't tell you when your

dog is old and sick, that you wind up with the

happy job of executioner, driving doggy to its

greater reward. They don't help you deal

with bodily fluids of every conceivable texture

and hue spewing on you, from child and pet alike.

But likewise, they make you too analytical to give

yourself over to those supreme moments of pride and

of love, when your kids pull something off that brings

that lumpy thing up in your throat and

makes you bawl like a girly-man

(hopefully when no one is looking).

This is the stuff that is all about.

Like it or lump it.

If you want smarmy succor,

go linking to bleeding-heart-land on the Web.

You know and I know that we all have to make it

all up as we go along anyway.

And so, we'll commiserate

in the pathetic wilds of Yeah, it's tough

out here in Ward Cleaver's land-o-the-middle-class-dads.

But sometimes, when you get lucky, the headaches

go bliss, and you get your Warhol-fame-time, even

if it's just somewhere in your head.

NEXT TIME: cars from hell, and something for the kiddies --
all here on, ward cleaver's prozac fever.


(c) 2003 Arhythmiacs

Special thanks for the bandwidth
to the fine folks @

Graphics courtesy Christine Penko

Design appropriation with apologies and gratitude to