The Blogfathers

Even though I’m only one-eighth Italian, I look closer to a full blooded paisan than any other of my five western-European descents. Now being adopted, I have no idea what part of the boot that my predecessors begun their journey to America’s golden streets from, but I do know that my father’s (adopted father - for point of clarification) family emigrated here from Sicily. In fact, when I was in Italy this past summer, people just assumed from my surname and looks that I was Sicilian (yes, McDad, is not actually my name).

I was only six when the Godfather was released, so I imagine I did not see it in the theater. And I don’t remember when I first saw the film or read the book (both events happened at fairly young ages, though). But ever since I’ve been hooked on Don Vito and familia. And though I love movies like A Bronx Tale and Goodfellas, I’m not a mobster freak. In fact, I’ve only seen the Sopranos once or twice, and not even full episodes—though I have been to Satin Dolls (the real name of the Bada Bing strip club, or at least it used to be) on a few occasions. It’s mostly just Godfather that invigorates my inner Dago—and really just I and II, III’s not in the same league.

All that being said, I’ve never had the appetite or the disposition to be a criminal or a cold-blooded killer. And now that I have two daughters, the thought of having them smuggle me gab-buh-GOOL into the joint is unpleasant at best.

So to be made a Capo here at the BlogFathers serves two purposes. It validates my endless drivel about my testicles, and my uncomfortable male problems, and my sad, pitiful sex life, and my gushings over my two little monkeys. And it also allows me to be one of those guys. A part of that thing that doesn’t really exist. I’ve noticed my neighbors whispering as I walk down the street. The people at Safeway give my wife fresh fruit and the best bracioles. And they won’t take her money. “Just tell your husband it was a gift,” they say. The kids at daycare give my girls first run at the toys, and extra apple juice in the afternoon. And my boss at my “real job,” has stopped bugging me for my TPS reports.

I’ve never felt so energized and powerful. I feel like whacking someone just for the hell of it, or maybe at least banging my goumada upstairs while my wife chases the kids around the wedding reception. Maybe send my brother fishing the next time he doesn’t tip me off to a hit on my life, where my wife sleeps, where my children play with their toys. Maybe have a meeting of the five Dads that I met at Lamaze class to settle this senseless germ spreading with the kids and their runny noses.

OK. That’s enough of that. I have to remember that I’m just a regular Dad living in suburban Denver, about as far away from any real goombahs as you can get. And about as far away from a good piece of bread and some nice gravy for my Sunday Ziti and sausites, ’cause Macaroni Grill just ain’t cuttin’ it.

So, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your blog, on the day of your daughter’s wedding. And I hope that their first blog is a masculine blog. I pledge my dutiful service to the family.

And now for some name-dropping. I have a friend in LA that is a slightly removed member of the Coppola family. While a Florida vacation was being wiped out from Hurricane Non-refundable-plane-tickets, MRS and I scrambled to think of alternate destinations. We decided on Napa but got shut out of hotels, as it was high season. I put a call into my boy to see if he could do anything and voilà, he got us hooked up at Francis Ford’s guest house for the weekend. Right on the Coppola vineyard, just a couple hundred yards from the main estate. Needless to say, I was in awe. And though Francis was not there, we did get a private tour of the winery. Ever since, I like to drink more wine than I used to. But it’s good for me. Anyway, I’m drinking more wine. This painting of Vito sits in the great room of the guest house. Well, it used to. (I’m pulling my lower eyelid down with one finger.)

Movies, Capos