Paternal Disappointment and Disappointing Podcast Platforms

Well, now, here I sit on this fine Father’s Day morning, contemplating the peculiar nature of familial obligations, or rather, the complete and utter lack thereof on my dear offspring’s part. The calendar declares this a day for honoring fathers, but my mailbox remains as empty as a politician’s promise, and my phone has been quieter than a library in a graveyard.

I, in my infinite paternal wisdom, saw fit to dispatch a package to my progeny for his birthday celebration on the 17th of this month, wrapped with care, posted with haste, and sent with all the love a father can muster for a child who apparently regards reciprocity as optional, still, the boy couldn’t be troubled to purchase a simple card, those cardboard rectangles that cost less than a decent meal and require but a moment of effort, and send it posthaste to his old man who, I might add, contributed significantly to his very existence. No, that would be too much to ask.

I find myself pondering his deficiency, and if it arises from frugality so extreme that it borders on the pathological, or laziness so profound that it has generated a gravitational pull, drawing all motivation into its inescapable void. Perhaps both conditions coexist in a symbiotic relationship, each feeding the other like two parasites sharing the same host.

These one-sided relationships have begun to wear upon me like an ill-fitting boot after a long day’s march. I haven’t the time, nor the inclination, to continue investing my emotional currency in ventures that yield such paltry returns.

I find myself contemplating a most satisfying digital exodus, either removing myself entirely from these social media platforms where connection is promised but seldom delivered, or employing the block feature with the enthusiasm of a man swatting mosquitoes in a swamp. The digital cleansing shall extend beyond mere social platforms to include telephone numbers and other such conduits of disappointment.

Speaking of platforms that promise much but deliver little, my podcasting endeavors continue to encounter obstacles that would frustrate a saint. Spotify, that behemoth of digital music streaming, apparently cannot be bothered with the likes of me, a humble content creator who fails to line their coffers with sufficient gold.

When I sought assistance for technical difficulties, their solution was to remove entirely my ability to record podcasts, which strikes me as rather like curing a headache by decapitation. Podbean proves no better, restricting me to a mere three postings per day, a rule so arbitrary it could only have been conceived by someone with the business acumen of a turnip. Yet, should I open my purse strings and shower them with currency, these limitations would miraculously vanish, allowing me to record and download with abandon.

So to all you fathers out there blessed with offspring who remember your existence without prompting from calendar manufacturers, I offer my genuine congratulations. Your children apparently inherited the decency gene that mine somehow misplaced.

As for the rest of us, the forgotten fathers, the unacknowledged patriarchs, we are apparently expected to content ourselves with the knowledge that our contributions to the gene pool have been noted and then promptly forgotten. So here’s to us, the invisible men of Father’s Day, may we find solace in our own company, for it seems to be the only company we can reliably count upon these days.