My pop makes a mighty fine meatloaf, which I enjoyed for many years, before falling into vegetarianism. When I talked to him the other night, he seemed so desperate to make food that would make me happy and food that he was craving. And he remembered that after the infamous beef hot dog incident, I said I�d eat meat monthly, just to ensure that I could enjoy a beef hot dog again, if I so desired. And so he thought meatloaf would fit the bill.

But I didn�t mean it. Well, I meant it, but only briefly. Or only when I focused intently upon some sort of roasted pork product. You know it�s true.

But I ate it. I wanted desperately to make the old man happy. He�s leaving tomorrow for 2 months on the road.

Since he started driving charter coaches, I dreamed of him someday driving a band I liked on a tour. I never dreamed he�d take a drum and bugle corps on their summer tour.

He seemed so old and tired last night, and I hate the thought of him sleeping in dorm rooms all around the country, of him hauling bedding and towels and sundries around for two months, doing laundry in the basement of half-empty dorms across the country. It�s like summer camp, but worse. Yet he�ll see a few new states (um, he collects magnets from the states through which he�s driven his bus�we like to think it�s cute) and make a good chunk o� dough.

And so, I ate meatloaf, even though I didn�t want it. I promised to check in on my mother and to deliver weekly lectures about fiscal responsibility. I promised to help her select a lawnmower, based on something other than what her wealthy friend from church told her to buy.

Bon voyage, Father.

Sigh.

It�s been an odd day. We received strange things in the mail, like an advance CD and press kit for Nick Lachey, formerly of 98 Degrees, who I am willing to assert sounds like a new George Michael. Or really the old one, actually. Vintage GM. His press kit wasn�t nearly as funny as the one received for Godsmack. Better writing, fewer mentions of �pitch black riffage� and �riff-tastic sorcery.� Obviously fewer �dark, churning super-riffs.� That should go without saying.

I received a new DVD of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Yes, a new DVD of a 12-yr-old movie. With 12 new minutes of material or some such excuse. Yep. But I shouldn�t look a gift horse in the mouth. I send no extra gifts in packages I mail in my professional capacity.

But tonight? Tonight is Wayne Hancock at the High Dive. An early show for the aging hipsters, so I�ll have just enough time to shop for Father�s Day cards and a new no tip dog bowl for the Fuzzy Pantsman. (Anyone know of a summer military camp for cats? Dude is seriously pushing me over the edge. Bein� pretty just isn�t enough these days.) The downstairs neighbors are expected, and I reckon� they�ll do some swing dancing. Lord have mercy, don�t let me drink too much. I can�t be responsible for heckling. But hey, they�ll fit right in with Wayne�s loyal townie following.

And they�re not the ones with (slightly more unruly) Martha Stewart hair.