It's been awhile, and this time of year it's always on my mind, so I've decided it's time to share another one of my father's misadventures with you all. To brush you up, remember Anamosa Iowa's prodigal son died five years ago about this time of year. I like to remember him for his completely off the wall, over the top absurd sense of humor and keen spirit for adventure. He had that in fucking spades. He was only 48 years old when he passed, but the man packed enough maniacal treachery into those 48 years to last five lifetimes. So, with all that said, it's time to talk about my pappy and his rooster
It was sometime during the summer of 2005. I was 19. Living with two other room mates, and for the sake of anonymity, they shall remain nameless. They are good friends of mine to this day. We lived in a big blue house in my hometown. None of us were of legal age to drink, yet we always had a fridge stocked with beer and various other nefarious concoctions and potions. We were a raucous crew. Anyone who knew us would tell you that. Parties every weekend. Sometimes during the week. A constant cycle of death/thrash metal being pumped through the stereo. We were unruly 19 year olds working entry level jobs and living without a care in the world. None of us had girlfriends yet. Much simpler times. I look back at those times with great fondness. Friendships were forged, solidified. Memories were made about every weekend. One day during that feel good summer, a few of my cronies and I were gathered in the living room. We were taking turns passing around a large, fancy looking bong. The stereo pumping out the requisite extreme metal. Sitting around cackling, doubling over and laughing about whatever ridiculous things that a group of 19 year old hessians would typically be laughing about. All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. Not a subtle knock. A loud, abrupt rapping. Now, when something like this happens under these circumstances, panic sets in and it sets in fast. The first thing that comes to mind is COPS!!
Now, it should be noted that while a good majority of my friends knew my father and his eccentric ways, another contingent of them did not know him that well. So, I went to the door, with great trepidation and uneasiness, expecting the police to be waiting to bust us all or demand entry to the home. Much to my surprise(and relief), it was not the cops. It was my father. And boy, was he shitfaced. He was not alone. Under his arm, was a rooster. A live rooster. I called to my friends in the living room, who were all cowering in fear. I said, "Hey dudes, come on out it's just my dad". They all slowly shuffled their way to the front door and we all went outside to see what he wanted, or why he was there. He explained that he just happened to be in the neighborhood, and he wanted us to meet his new pet. This rooster. I wish I could recall it's name, but I can't quite remember back that far(probably that dastardly bong). Not only did he have this rooster, but he claimed his rooster could do "tricks". He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dog food. Which he promptly fed to his rooster pal. My friends, all blasted out of their gourds, howled with laughter. This pleased my father. He was always keenly aware of his ridiculous sense of humor and penchant for the absurd. He got a real kick out of making people laugh like that. He stuck around for a bit, fed his chicken more dog food, talked a bit with my friends and I, and then shambled off on his way. Walking to who knows where. He just showed up on a Saturday afternoon. With a live chicken under his arm, and a pocket full of dog food. Straight up Jeff Tjaden shit. That is the dad that I miss. He may have not been a "role model" or one of those dad's that was going to teach you how to throw a proper curve ball or give you advice on how to feed your 401K, but he taught me plenty about life without ever really being all that aware of what he was teaching. The man lived, and he lived fucking hard.
You get one life. Live that motherfucker hard
