"Never watch a woman doing yoga. You'll lose all sexual interest in her."
That's the only advice my dad ever gave me.
And he was serious about it, too.
"I mean, you like to think that when you're ... making love, that she's pulling all those moves for your benefit. That you're somehow getting her to be all flexible and sexy. Then you see her on a purple yoga mat in her PETA-inspired outfit and you realise it's all for her benefit. All of it."
Perhaps you could turn it into something metaphorical; perhaps it could prove to be a profound statement on the ways in which women blind men. Forget Dame Margaret and her iron handbag; here we have a new and more effective model – a petite little thing like a music box ballerina, distracting you with her shapely legs and pink tutu while she seizes control of the toy box. A pacifist, a PETA-junkie, a woman who makes you believe in world peace and whirled peas and thus implements a coup the likes of which has never been seen in Africa. Women use pantyhose and eyeliner as camouflage more effective than battle scars and war paint. Femininity, which draws us in, masks the true purpose and cruelty of women – muscles strengthened through yoga are perfectly poised for a proper kick in the pants.
Or maybe my dad was just drunk and trying to indulge in a little belated father-son bonding.
I'm more inclined toward the latter.
Apart from a few riffs in a David Bowie song, we never really got along that well. We had a bit of a personality mismatch, you might say. He was the perfect Californian Beach Boy, happy with the sun and the surf and the love of Sasha. I was East Coast angst personified, down to the scruffy leather jacket and the scowl. He was trying to make amends for his mistakes and I was running away from them. He was Michael rowing the boat ashore and I was intent on rocking the boat (and the Kasbah).
It doesn't make him a bad father or me a bad kid. It just means that, unlike most fathers and sons who have their differences, we never really got the chance to reconcile them. My showing up unannounced at his Californian doorstep was, in retrospect, not the best way of trying to get to know him. Going for a cup of coffee or a quick walk around the block would have worked more magic. And in the atmosphere of Sasha's polite, seething acceptance of my existence and his tearing himself in two, it never really as going to work. Most fathers and sons have memories of camping trips, weekends in the mountains and holidays at the beach to bear them through the rough times; most fathers can remember when the son was a trusting toddler and most sons can remember when the father was the authority on all things. Most fathers and sons have a relationship of love, trust and respect, binding ties since birth.
For me and Jimmy, our days on the beach came a little too late.
It might have gotten better if we were given time. Then again, everything gets better given time and not everything should be given time. Perhaps he would always have felt ashamed when he looked at me; perhaps I would always have been resentful when I looked at him. Perhaps the past would prevent us from creating any sort of meaningful future.
It sounds flippant to say – too bad we'll never know.
But it is too bad.
And we'll never know.
