I’m an absolute sucker for wise father figures.
Sandy Cohen. Johnathan Kent. Doctor Morgenes. Shaun Maguire. Few things hit me harder than moral, compassionate, middle-aged men with wisdom to burn and shithead kids who just won’t listen … until they do.
When I was a teenager my father wasn’t really around to teach me much of anything. You’d think this would explain my predilection* for paternal wisdom, but that theory falls apart pretty quickly when you consider what an unstoppable geyser of folksy insight my step-father was (albeit on matters of fishing, forestry, the Titanic, and surviving the damp winters of Eastern Canada in little more than a t-shirt and sandals). He delivered one of his children by himself as a 19-year-old, and might be the most self-sustaining person I know.
*Sidenote: why does “predilection” sound like such a gross word? More at 11.*
My attraction to gentleman sages like John Steinbeck may, in fact, be me making up for lost time, given how persistently I ignored my step-father’s step-fatherly advice when I was a shithead kid, myself.
I bring this up because not only is John Hodgman’s Vacationland an (admittedly) early contender for my 2018 Book of the Year, it features a wonderful addition to the Annals of Fatherly Wisdom.